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Brand glances up. “Yeah, I was lucky. Right after I discharged, they changed the rules. Said that officers can’t have tattoos from their elbows to their wrists. I would’ve been screwed.”
“I like them,” I tell him softly, which is the biggest understatement in the history of the world. I fricking love them. They reveal so much about this man, more than I bet he wants people to know.
Honor. Bravery. Strength. Loyalty.
God. My nether-regions are tingling again.
“Thanks,” Brand answers. He twists away to gather his things on the bed table and I realize that I had still been holding his arm as I pondered his many sexy traits.
Embarrassing.
A nurse comes to help transfer Brand to a wheelchair, and I watch how she does it, filing it away for future use. She also explains to him once again how to clean the wound on his thigh and lectures him one more time about not over-doing it.
“Now don’t put any weight on that leg,” she tells him sternly. “I don’t want a repeat of last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Last night?”
She shakes her head. “Mr. Killien is stubborn. He got up in the night by himself to go to the bathroom. Apparently, he didn’t want to use his bedpan.”
He snorts. “No one wants to use a bedpan.”
She scowls at him. “No weight on that leg. Period. You can’t break open your artery again, and you don’t want to put weight on your knee and ankle.” She looks at me. “You’ll make sure, right?”
I nod quickly. To be honest, I’m a bit afraid of the stern old woman.
She wheels him down to the first floor and I trail behind with his sack of belongings. Glancing inside, I just find his pants that they cut off, his wallet and a phone.
I wonder if anyone has called him? If anyone has thought to look for him or check on him?
Because he seems so alone.
It tugs on the maternal place in my heart, the place that wants to keep him safe. He’s obviously seen so much shit, so much terrible shit, all while ‘standing on a wall’ to protect me and everyone else in this country. Taking care of him now would be the least I could do.
And God, I want to be near him.
I want to breathe him in.
I want his goodness to fix me.
Please, God.
We slide the passenger seat of my car all the way back, and between the nurse, Brand and me, we get him situated. His long leg, encased in a knee brace, barely fits.
As I get in, I glance at him. “Just tell me where to go.”
He nods. “Sure. We’re headed to my friend’s cottage out by the lake. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Okay.” I head for the exit and Brand runs his finger along the leather-bound dashboard.
“Nice car,” he tells me casually as I turn onto the highway.
I roll my eyes. “Thanks. I wanted a convertible, but my father thought that was too tacky.”
“A Jaguar XJ isn’t anything to sneeze at,” he answers. “Although they’re mechanical pieces of shit.”
I snort back laughter. “Tell that to my father. He gave it to me as a graduation gift. I know, it’s a grandma car.”
“It is a little….geriatric,” Brand grins. “But it’s still nice.”
