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I wish I could thank him.
Hell, I wish I could love him.
He looks like such a good man.
After he’s done cleaning me, he motions for me to drink some more. I take another sip, but this time he shakes his head. “The whole thing.”
“Are you serious?” I choke on my saliva. He nods, his face void of emotion.
“I’m going to stitch you up. You might not wanna be completely present when that happens, if you know what I mean.”
Reluctantly, I drink the rest of the alcohol. He asks me where my sawing kit is, and I tell him. Despite his best efforts to numb the pain, I feel it. Every time he inserts the needle, which he burnt beforehand with his zippo, I let out a soft cry and he strokes my hair with his free hand. After he stitches me up, he tears one of my shirts and wraps it around my stomach tightly. I feel myself tear up because even through the pain, I note that I’ve never felt so… cared for before. I pretend for a while that I’m normal, and that Carter is mine and I am his. What would it be like to be cherished by someone like him?
“I’ll ask Graham to send someone to watch over you while I go clean up the mess,” he tells me without looking into my eyes. I nod.
“They’ll have to break into your apartment because I’m going to lock it behind me.”
I nod again.
“You can keep the key,” I say.
“I intend to, from now on,” he cocks an eyebrow, but there’s nothing flirty and playful about what he says. It occurs to me that it’s the most we’ve ever spoken to each other.
“Thank you, Carter,” I tell him before he leaves. I can’t pretend to be that girl he sees in the club. The flirty and careless and crazy, sexy bitch everyone likes. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but can you please not tell anyone about it?”
“Not a soul,” he promises, then I hear my door slamming shut and I fall into hard, well-deserved sleep.
I hope I never wake up.
