He’s still a mangled mess of injuries, but after cleaning the blood and bandaging him up, he looks much better. The only thing taking him to the hospital would confirm is if he needs surgery for his rib or has internal bleeding.
My thumb strokes the pulse on the side of his neck; it’s a little erratic, but nothing too crazy. It beats steadily under my thumb, probably heightened from the booze and his most recent freak out.
His hair is still matted with blood, my fingers getting stuck in the strands as I comb my fingers through it. My hand finds the bump again. I should probably check him for a concussion.
“Grayson,” I whisper against his forehead, rousing him. His eyes slowly peel open one at a time, as much as they can with how swollen they are. “We need to get you clean. Can I help you to the shower?”
He nods numbly, probably ready to go along with anything I say at this point. He’s not here with me right now, still lost in his head. I need to make sure he’s dissociating and not concussed. Neither are ideal, but one of them, I can work him out of.
I help him sit, and, surprisingly, he holds himself up while I get to my feet. I grab him under his arms, making sure not tosqueeze his ribs too hard, and lift with my legs. It isn’t pretty, but he helps me halfway, slumping up to his full height.
He towers over me, so I sling his arm around my shoulders to stabilize him. “You’re doing so good,” I praise him, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He nods groggily, leaning into me. “Can you show me where your room is?”
“This way, honey.” That little nickname used to be a taunt, but now, it feels like a promise. A promise of tenderness and understanding. Seeing pain to pain.
He leads me down the hallway and fumbles with a closed door. I grab it for him and push it open. His room is gorgeous, rugged in a sophisticated way, like a fancy log cabin, full of deep woods and polished furniture.
There's an ensuite bathroom he leads us towards. I carefully lower him to the toilet so I can assess him better under the lights. I grip his chin in my palm, lifting his gaze up to mine.
“I’m going to ask you some questions to make sure you’re not hurt, okay? Can you answer them honestly for me?” He nods, nuzzling further into my palm. I check his eyes first, making sure they aren’t dilated. They appear to be normal, and I thank my lucky stars.
I begin with my questions. “Do you have a headache?”
He nods a little but corrects himself. “Only a little from the alcohol,” he chokes out.
Good. I can work with that.
“What about dizziness?” He shakes his head. “Nausea?” He shakes his head again, which I don’t buy. “Are you sure? I thought I smelled puke on you earlier?”
“It…it was from before. From something else,” he says, his eyes distant.
I nod along. I’m not sure what he’s referencing, but he seems coherent enough that I believe him. So no dilated eyes, no dizziness, nocurrentnausea, and a minor headache.
I point up at the bright lightbulb above my head. “Does the light hurt to look at?”
His only reply is, “It always does.”
I sigh. I’m pretty confident he doesn’t have a concussion, but the booze could be numbing all the symptoms. I just need to keep an eye on him and see if any of the symptoms progress tomorrow.
I drag a hand down my face, letting out a slow breath, hoping my nerves flee with it. “Alright, good, that’s good.Yeah. Let’s get you cleaned up and to bed.”
Research Notes: cowboys can break too.
maisie
. . .
TWENTY-THREE
Grayson finally holdshis head up without my help, staring at me intently. “I’d rather just go to bed. It’s…it’s too much.”
“I’m not letting you go to bed like this. I…I can help. If you want,” I tack on at the end, not wanting to push his boundaries.
His head dips in answer, and I swipe my palms down my pants to wipe the sweat away. I start with his shirt, since it’s already half unbuttoned. I finish off the rest of the buttons, gently slipping his arms out. He’s so bruised, I can’t even make out his tattoos anymore.
“Pants?” I ask next. He nods, fumbling with his belt buckle. Once he’s gotten it undone, I pull it from the loops and throw it on the floor. He’s fumbling with his pants button, but his fingers keep slipping from the tape around his hand.
“Here, let me.” I slowly reach forward, waiting for him to tell me to stop. He doesn’t, instead watching my every move with rapt attention. He swallows deeply when my fingers slip beneath his waistband, pushing the button through the hole. “Do you think you can?—”
