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She makes a sound and rolls, almost falling off the couch. I catch her, tuck bandages and antiseptic into my pocket and scoop her up in my arms.
“Let’s go, sweetheart.”
She opens her eyes, reaches one hand to my shoulder.
“What’s happening?”
“I’m going to clean up your cuts then put you to bed.”
“I can do it.” She wriggles in my arms.
“No, you can’t. You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Were you swimming alone?”
“I just dipped my feet in.”
“Then why’s your hair wet?” I ask as I maneuver her to open my bedroom door.
“This isn’t my room,” she says, again trying to get out of my arms.
“It’s my room,” I say. I close the door and carry her to my bed, draw the covers back and lay her down.
“Your bed,” she says, turning her face into a pillow and inhaling.
“Yes. Now answer my question. Why is your hair wet?”
“I dipped my head under.”
Which explains why it’s all coming forward and sticking to her forehead funny. I imagine her standing in the middle of the pool doing that and have to smile.
I walk into the bathroom to get a washcloth. When I get back, she’s pushing herself to a seat on the bed and struggling to do so.
“Can you swim, Gabriela?”
“Of course,” she says as I help her sit up. She slaps my hand away once she’s upright but when I start to clean her knees, she lets me.
“But you don’t like to?”
“My mom drowned,” she says.
I know this.
I look at her but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking somewhere beyond me and I see her pupils working to focus.
“And you’re scared you’ll drown?”
She meets my eyes then and shakes her head. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Surprised, I stop. I study her but a moment later, she tries to lie back down.
“Let me just wrap these up,” I say.
“So I don’t get blood on your sheets?” she pauses, then gives a nervous laugh. “I will anyway.”
“It’s not blood on the sheets I’m worried about.” As I say it, I realize it’s not blood from her cuts she means.
But is that even possible?
I shake my head. I have other questions for now. If she’s a virgin, I’ll find out soon enough.
“This is going to sting,” I say as I put the antiseptic on her cuts.
She sucks in a breath and tries to pull away. I stop her.
“Almost done.” I do the same to her other knee then bandage them both before taking first one hand, then the other.
She manages to lie down as I do that and turns onto her side to watch me.
“What do you mean your mom’s drowning wasn’t an accident, Gabriela?” I ask as I bandage each hand.
“You have a lot of questions, Stefan,” she says, managing to point one finger at me before her arm drops to her side. “I’m tired.” She starts to get up. Or tries to.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“My room.” She points to the balcony.
I smile and sit her up.
She flops against me, arms at her sides, and rests her head in the crook of my neck. She sighs deeply and for a long moment, I just hold her like that and feel her relax against me. Feel her cool, soft skin on me.
“You smell good,” she says.
“And you’re sweet when you’re drunk.”
“Better than that first night,” she continues as if she hasn’t heard me.
I remember that first night I met her in her bedroom on her sixteenth birthday. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
I work quickly to untie the bikini straps and I don’t know if she notices when I pull it off as I lay her back down. I try not to look at her but fail. She’s so beautiful, even when she’s a mess.
She makes a sound, looks from the strip of yellow cloth in my hand, to my face, then down at herself.
Her eyes widen.
I lean down to take the bottom of the suit off her and she tries to wriggle away.
“You said we wouldn’t—”
“They’re wet. That’s all.”
But is that all? I ask myself as I drag my gaze over her, over the small round breasts, those hard nipples, down over her flat belly to the tiny triangle of neatly trimmed dark hair. To the delicate slit of her sex.
I swallow, feeling myself harden.
She rolls onto her side away from me, bending one knee, inadvertently giving me a glimpse of her ass.
I should sleep on the chair. Or maybe take her to her room. But what if she gets sick at night?
I have to laugh at myself for that load of bullshit because I know the truth.
I want her in my bed.
And I want her in my bed naked.
She moves, rolling onto her stomach. I see those marks again, the seven scars beneath her shoulder blade. But that’s not all. There are more.
I crouch down, touch another spot. This is from a knife. I know. I have a matching one. Hers is shallow though.
