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“I didn’t hear you, too busy looking for a nut or maybe a bolt. I don't know the difference. Anyway, if you’re here for the flat, you can’t have it.”
That was it that was my interview? Hell no, I was not taking that as a final answer.
“Why not?” I stepped forward, hands on my hips.
“You’re far too good looking, I can’t get distracted by a handsome man.”
She turned back around, brushed the stray blonde hairs from her face again and ducked her head back down, reaching her hand under the shelf again. She turned her head to keep an eye on me at the same time. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, she was beautiful, feisty, and she thought I was handsome.
“Thank you but what has looks got to do with my ability to pay the rent on time. I’ll pay in advance for a few months if that helps?”
“Great. You’re wealthy and good looking, twice as bad. No way are you having the flat across the hall from mine. All wealthy, good-looking men are bastards.” She turned her head, breaking the staring competition and looked under the shelf.
“For fuck’s sake,” she said and yanked her hand back and examined the blood trickling down the side of her finger. Her hand was black with dirt.
“There are so many things I want to discuss, but first, we need to clean that hand. You could get an infection or bleed to death. What did you do to cut your finger? When was the last time you had a tetanus jab?”
She’d sat herself up and leant against the shelves, examining her finger, turning it left and right watching the blood trickle down her hand. It was then that her bottom lip quivered, and she looked up at me. I wanted to pick her up and take her to somewhere clean and safe from harm, but I thought I would get a slap.
I did it anyway.
Scooping her up, she rested her hands in her lap, staring at the gushing cut that was staining her white t-shirt. Setting her down on her feet, I steadied her balance, holding firm to her shoulders.
“Which way to the nearest sink?” I asked her.
She didn’t answer me, so I gently shook her, she looked up, and I repeated the question. Adaline directed me to the back of the shop and to a small bathroom. The cracked sink had seen better days. The blood flow had not lessened. Placing her on her feet, she leant against the sink and examined the cut. Taking the wrist with her cut finger, I pushed it under the cold tap to clean it as much of the cut as I could. She tried to resist for a minute but relented when I wouldn’t let her pull away.
“You need to get this bandaged up. Do you have a first aid kit?” I asked her while we stared at our reflections in the mirror. I thought we made a stunning couple.
“Yes, it’s upstairs, I’ll get it. You’re overreacting, it’s just a cut.”
She huffed her irritation and pushed past me in the confined space. Feeling her body next to mine, sent a jolt of excitement to my ever needy cock. Trying my best to rearrange my shorts while she was out of sight was difficult. Hiding my erection was impossible. I pressed the tip of my cock down as much as I could and thought of cold custard. I hated cold custard. With a shiver of revulsion, I got my libido to relax, just in time for her return. She carried the green plastic pouch and handed it over.
“I’ve no idea what’s in there, I’ve never had to use it. My friend Steph gave it to me when I got my bike.” I unzipped the bag and emptied the contents onto the counter next to the sink. “My finger has stopped bleeding, I can fix it myself.” She said and tried to take the plasters before I could lay my hand on them.
Damn, her feisty, independent side had returned. I preferred the vulnerable side that let me pick her up and take care of her.
“Let me, I can do a better job with both my hands than you can with one. I promise I won’t think any less of you because you accepted help.”
“Fine,” she said and attempted to look at the ceiling while she held her hand out.
I cheered silently for the small triumph. The only bandage in the pack would be perfect to keep the pressure on the cut. Adaline had sliced down the side of her middle finger. She should have stitches, but I doubted she would go to the hospital.
“You need to have a few stitches on this cut, or you’ll get a scar,” I muttered, concentrating on cleaning the wound. I alternated from watching her reaction to my comment and cleaning the wound with an antiseptic wipe. She was avoiding eye contact and ignoring my comment. She’d stopped looking at the broken ceiling tiles and observed what I was doing. Cutting thin strips of the plasters, I made temporary stitches and bound her finger. Once I applied the final plaster, I wrapped her finger tight in a gauze bandage.
Lifting her chin with my finger, I wanted her to concentrate on what I was trying to tell her. Her pale green eyes were full of curiosity.
“If that finger becomes painful you need to get to a doctor or a chemist to get it looked at. Keep it clean until it’s healed.” I told her.
“Yes, I know, it’s not my first cut, I’ve had plenty before I met you and survived. I have had a tetanus injection, doesn’t expire for a few years.”
“Are you safe to be alone?”
I tried to make a joke of it, but her eyes clouded and she turned away, heading for the main part of the shop. I followed and stood by as she crouched down again to grab whatever she had lost under the shelf. Hauling her to her feet, I took her place. Using the pencil torch on my key ring, I took a look at the shelf to locate the bike part she’d lost. There was nothing but old bits of wood, plenty of cobwebs and pieces of paper.
“What am I looking for?” I said, staring up at her as she stood with her hands on her hips.
“The top thingy that goes on the air hole you use to pump the tyres. I don’t know what the proper name is for it, but it looks like this.” She pointed to the one on her other tyre, it was the cap that went on the air valve. By the looks of the holes in the floor under the shelf, it was long gone.
