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Rory goes to rummage in the downstairs bathroom, coming back with the first-aid kit that they probably keep on hand for this exact thing. It’s not like they can just stroll up to a hospital with their guns out and explain what happened. He lays it out on the island and starts pulling together the things he needs to take care of Sloan’s wound.
Levi pulls a bottle of whiskey from the bar cart and hands it to Sloan, who makes a face and then takes a long pull from the mouth of the bottle.
“Okay, hold still,” Rory orders.
With his face set in concentration, he uses some gauze to clean the immediate area of the wound before he brandishes a needle and starts stitching Sloan up.
Even from where I’m standing, I can see that Rory isn’t doing a great job. His hands aren’t steady enough, and his stitches are sloppy. At best, it’ll leave a jagged scar. At worst, it’ll get infected. I watch for another second, but then I can’t take it anymore.
“Move,” I say, stepping closer and pushing him out of the way. “Let me do it.”
Within seconds, my hands are slippery with Sloan’s blood, but I don’t flinch. My eyes are narrowed as I work the needle through his skin, making sure the edges of the wound meet in a neat line. Rory and Levi just stand back and let me work, and I can feel Sloan’s eyes on me as he looks down, watching.
“How do you know how to do that?” he asks, and he sounds like he’s impressed. It’s a different tone of voice than I’m used to with him, and I force myself not to dwell on it.
“I’ve done this a bunch before.” I keep my tone neutral, my attention focused on the needle as it slides in and out of his skin, closing the bullet wound up. “For my dad after his fights.”
Talking about Dad, especially like this, makes a lump form in my throat. I can remember being fourteen or fifteen and stitching closed a head wound he got in a particularly brutal fight.
He teased me and praised me for my steady hands and for not throwing up at the sight of blood. I remember telling him it took more than blood to rattle me, and him laughing and ruffling my hair before getting us both ice cream while I washed my hands.
I’m whisked out of that memory by the feeling of fingers on my cheek.
My whole body stiffens.
They’re Sloan’s, stroking over my skin in a tender gesture I definitely would not have thought he was capable of even five minutes ago.
I glance up, surprised, and he looks down at me, holding my gaze. For the first time, there’s no anger or heat in the connection between us, but I’m not quite sure what there is. Whatever this thing is that’s passing between us, it’s soft and gentle… and fucking terrifying.
My hands shake just a bit, and I use that as an excuse to tear my gaze away from him, refocusing on the task at hand. It’s simple work to finish the last few stitches and tie it off, using the scissors Rory set out to snip the thread.
“There,” I say, quickly standing up and trying to put distance between me and Sloan. My hands are slick with blood, bright and shiny, and my stomach is churning, although I don’t quite know why. “It’ll probably scar, but it shouldn’t get infected or anything. You’ll just need to keep it clean and—yeah.”
I clear my throat. If my voice sounds a little shaky, hopefully they’ll think it’s because of the blood on my hands and because I’m freaked out about the shooting or whatever. I need to clean up and get a closed door or something between the two of us, but before I can leave, Sloan reaches out and puts a hand on my arm.
I turn back, and he’s looking at me again with that same intent expression on his face from just a minute ago, except it’s clearer now. There’s pain in his eyes, and the usually piercing steel-gray is dulled a bit by that and the whiskey. There’s something else there too, lurking around the edges. Something that looks maybe like guilt, and it seems out of place on Sloan of all people.
“Thank you, Hurricane,” he murmurs quietly.
Hearing that name from his lips is a surprise. That’s usually a Rory thing, and Sloan hardly ever calls me by my name at all, let alone a nickname.
The nickname paired with the look in his eyes is too much. The lump is back in my throat, and it feels almost like it’s trying to suffocate me as I stand in front of him.
It’s all I can do to nod in response before I hurry out, taking the stairs two at a time, heart reeling. I can still feel the phantom sensation of his fingers on my cheek, and I ease my bedroom door closed as quietly as possible before going to the bathroom, trying not to touch anything until I can run water over my hands.
I flip the tap on and stick my red-slicked hands beneath the hot stream. As the blood begins to wash down the drain, tinting the water pink, I clench my jaw. Confusion is still ricocheting through me, but on top of that, there’s an overwhelming feeling of disappointment in myself.
Sloan is my enemy, and right now, his blood is on my hands.
But it’s not from hurting him.
It’s from helping him.
9
We’re all supposed to go to the street race on Saturday night, but as the evening rolls around, I’m pretty much expecting Sloan to bail, considering he was shot last night and all.
To my shock, though, he comes downstairs at ten, dressed and ready to go.
