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I’m vaguely aware that I’m bleeding. Christ, I hope no photographers are hanging around the house today. All I need to make this shitastic day complete is a picture of me shirtless, barefoot, and limping after my girlfriend splashed all over L.A. Weekly.
“Mallory, don’t.”
She stops at her car, resting her hand on the hood. Her head falls down, all her beautiful hair hiding her face.
Afraid she’ll somehow slip out of my grasp, I tackle her around the waist, burying my face against her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Please don’t go. I love you so much.”
The sobs that shake her body wreck me.
“I love you too,” she whispers. In a stronger voice, she adds, “But I think I’m going to stay at a hotel tonight.”
“Please don’t.”
Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
I let my father’s idiotic warning smolder in my brain until Pamela’s phone call lit the fuse and now we’re paying the price.
The fucking roses sure as shit didn’t help.
“I don’t trust you.”
“What?” Slowly, still scared she’ll run, I turn her to face me but keep my hands around her waist. “Why?”
“Why would you believe anything Pamela said about me?”
I shake my head, not having any good reason except a gut feeling. Saying that will only make her want to leave me more. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She snorts. “What? You thought accusing me of…whatever you were implying back there would make me happy?”
“I’m sorry.”
She gasps and pulls away. “Chaser! What did you do? You’re bleeding.”
Her gaze skips over my shoulder and I turn, surprised at the bloody trail staining the concrete. I stare down at my feet. That’s when the ribbons of pain slicing through my tender flesh hit me.
“Fuck,” I breathe out.
“Oh my God.” She chants the words over and over. “Let me see. Oh my God, I’m going to throw up.”
“It’s nothing.” I pick up my left foot and yank out a jagged chunk of glass. “Fuck, that’s bad.” I pluck a few thorns out of my heel and smaller shards of glass lodged between my toes.
She reaches for me with shaky hands. “Chaser, we should go to the hospital.”
“No thanks.”
“We need to clean that gash. It is bad. You probably need stitches.”
“I’ll wash it and take another look.”
“Let me grab your shoes so you don’t get more cuts.”
“I’m fine.” As much as I try to stay off my injured foot on the walk up to the house, waves of pain jar my body with every step. Even so, when we reach the door, I sweep Mallory into my arms.
“Chaser, put me down. You can’t carry me.”
“I don’t need you getting sliced up too.”
“I’m wearing shoes.” She zips her lips. Arguing is pointless since I’m already past the mess. I set her down outside the bathroom and limp my way over to the tub.
“Shit.” I twist the taps and nearly scream when I stick my foot under the running water.
“Chaser, it looks bad.” Her voice quivers. When I glance back she’s wide-eyed and pale.
“Call Thom. He knows someone who’ll come to the house.”
“Okay,” she whispers, turning and running away.
After a few minutes, I ease my foot into the water and slowly start washing dirt and blood away. Over the rush of water, I catch snippets of Mallory’s anxiety-laced voice speaking on the phone. I hiss out a pained breath and twist off the tap.
Glass tinkles from the living room. “Leave it, Mallory! I’ll clean it up. I don’t want you cutting your hands.”
“I’m fine,” she yells back.
God fucking dammit. I wrap a towel around my foot, trying not to notice the huge circle of red seeping through. “Mal, leave it.”
The only answer I get is the vacuum humming to life. I hobble out and find her finishing the cleanup.
“You should’ve let me do it,” I say when she shuts off the vacuum.
“I’m fine. Doctor West should be here within the hour.”
“Thanks.”
We stare at each other from across the room. The space isn’t that big but the distance between us might as well be an ocean.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mallory
“Please sit down.” My voice breaks. “I don’t want to think about all the damage you’re doing to your foot.”
“I’m fine.” The grimace slashing across his face says otherwise. At least he finally drops his heavy frame into a chair.
Nervous, I can’t sit still. All my fury from our fight has twisted into shame and fear.
But maybe a little bit of anger still lingers. I can’t seem to find the words to apologize.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask.
“Do we have a bottle of whiskey or two laying around?”
“No.” I jump up and scurry into the kitchen. My nose wrinkles as a fishy scent wafts over from the stove. “Were you…cooking?”
“I was making us dinner.” He pauses and adds in a much more sarcastic tone, “Until your special delivery showed up.”
I toss the fish in the trash, pour two glasses of water, and return to the living room.
“Can you grab my shirt?” He points to the arm of the couch.
The soft pile of worn cotton smells like Chaser. I have the urge to bury my nose in the fabric until it washes all this ugliness away.
“Tell me nothing happened,” he rasps.
I drop the shirt in his lap. “Please, can we take care of your foot, right now?”
“Mallory—”
Finally, a knock at the front door rescues us from this misery. I run for the door like my ass is on fire and there’s a bucket of water waiting for me on the other side.
“Hi! Doctor West. Thank you so much for stopping by.” The doctor’s older, with gray hair and beard. Distinguished and professional. I’d been worried about what type of doctor made house calls at this hour but he’s sharp and quick to let me know what he needs as soon as I explain the situation.
“Bring another lamp over here.” He points to the floor next to Chaser’s chair. “Hurry.”
I gag and almost faint when I get a glimpse of the gash on Chaser’s foot.
“Bring me a bowl. You have a big bowl? Hot water.” He barks a bunch of orders at me and I run to find the items requested.
“I already washed it,” Chaser argues.
The doctor grumbles at him and gets to work.
Except for a few hisses of pain and a wince here and there, Chaser’s stoic. Unable to take it, I reach down and curl my fingers around his. He tips his head back and peers up at me with an unreadable expression.
“You need stitches,” the doctor warns.
Chaser grits his teeth. “Do what you gotta do. I’m fine.”
“I’ll give you an injection to numb the area but it’s not going to feel good.”
Chaser pulls me down so I’m sitting on the edge of the chair and curls his arm around my waist, resting his head against my side. “Do it. Sew me up, Doc.”
He squeezes his eyes shut as the first needle slides into his foot.
A soft sob escapes me. My punishment should be to watch every excruciating second of the doctor’s handiwork, but I’m too squeamish. Instead, I wrap my arms around Chaser, wishing I could absorb his pain.
We stay that way—awkwardly clinging to each other, until the doctor declares he’s finished. He wraps thick gauze around Chaser’s foot and gives him a list of instructions to follow. “I brought a cane. It’s in my car. I’ll go grab it.”
“I don’t need it.”
The doctor ignores Chaser.
After the front door shuts, Chaser gestures toward the bedroom. “Go grab my wallet, babe. He give you any idea what he charges?”
“No, Thom said he’d take care of it.”
“What?
?d you tell him?”
“That you had an accident and hurt your foot. He wanted to know why you weren’t in Vancouver.”
“And?”
