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"Almost done," I whisper.
I clip the hook. Brennan meets my eyes to say he’s ready, and I hold Ezra’s hand in place as tight as I can.
Brennan starts to pull the hook out. Ezra’s hand shakes as he does it, which forces Bren to re-grip the hook when it’s halfway out and blood is dripping all down Ezra’s hand. Ezra’s body jerks—and then it’s out.
He draws the hand up to his chest and makes this soft noise in his throat that makes my stomach go all weird and topsy turvy.
"Got a Band-Aid?" he asks quietly.
Brennan gives a low laugh. The finger is dripping at a pretty brisk pace.
"Can I see?" I ask him.
Ezra leans back, his shoulders drawn up like he doesn't want me too close.
"It's okay." I stand up on knees that wobble. "Let's go home. I'm driving."
His eyes open. "You don’t have to. I can just—"
"Naw, man!" Marcel is back in the game. He’s got a hand held up to block Ezra’s hand from his view. "Go home, boy. Let your mama—Miller’s mama—patch that shit up. That or get your ass to the hospital, have it sewed shut."
"What's going on?" My dad arrives on the scene looking confused. "Oh no," he says, frowning deeply.
"It was my fault." Brennan sighs. "I gave him that long pole I use on the pier."
Ezra stands up, holding the arm to his chest as blood drips onto the dock. "It's okay." He gives Bren a weak smile. It's small and strained, and I'm surprised he's putting in the effort. "Screwed up getting bait on the hook. Hand was sweaty, just slipped."
"Go with Josh,” my dad says in a reassuring fatherly tone. “He’ll get you some antibiotic cream and gauze and all that. Go on, Josh." My dad waves at the lawn.
I nod, and start walking. I’m surprised when Ezra follows.
“It’s okay,” he says, when we’re a little ways away from everybody. The words are thick, and his eyes look heavy-lidded. Gotta figure he’s still half-drunk off that bourbon.
“Is it?”
He nods.
I’m painfully aware of everything about him as we walk across the lawn. How his strides are slightly longer than mine. The way his hat presses that surfer flop of hair into his eyes as he walks with his shoulders slightly drawn in. He’s still got his arm folded to his chest, the good hand curved around it protectively.
“Can I see?”
After a second, he holds the hand out. I get a good view of the pad of his finger, marred by two deep, vertical gashes. Both of them are still oozing.
"Fuck, man. I think that needs stitches."
He laughs. It’s a low, rough sound that I feel in my stomach. "Like hell it does."
"It could get infected pretty easily. If we poured alcohol on it or something, like to sanitize, that would fucking kill."
"Nah. Do it." He smiles, crooked, and time trips on its seconds. His sharp-boned face is all bourbon and irreverence.
"You say that because you're drunk."
He grins, looking looser than I’ve ever seen him. Almost like a normal person. "Hit me when it won't hurt, DG. Pour it on. It'll quit stinging. Then it's over."
"You’re gonna piss yourself," I mutter.
"That what you'd do?" He smirk-smiles again.
"Always gotta be a dick."
"I'm not a dick." His eyes have almost shut. Those soft lips—his whole damn, weird, avenging angel face—is gorgeous, even pale and drunk and sweaty.
We’re at the open mouth of the garage. I wave him in. “Be my guest. I know Dad’s got alcohol up in there.”
When he walks into the garage—a lion in a coffee shop—he holds the finger up, reminding me it’s bleeding.
“Ah.” I grab a Shrek beach towel from a basket on one of the shelves and hand it to him. “Blood doesn’t matter on the towel. That one’s mine.”
I can’t look at him as I open the door from garage to laundry room. Somehow, something’s thrown off—like a record with a scratch, things keep on skipping. I fill my lungs with the first deep breath I’ve taken in the last half hour. When I glance over my shoulder, I find him looking slightly dreamy.
“What does DG mean?” If he’s going to stand in Dad’s laundry room obviously drunk, I should take advantage.
His lips twitch upward at the corners. “It means Do Gooder.”
“Why am I a do gooder?”
His smile fades. “You know why.” I see him swallow. He looks at his hand, and I say, “Take off your shoes. Please.”
They’re black Nikes—the running kind. He toes them off and looks at me, his face unreadable. Maybe a little thoughtful.
“Whatcha thinking about, AA?” I say.
His brows draw together, the look skeptical—but still drunk. “You think you wouldn’t be drunk off that twenty-ounce flask?” he asks with a huff of a laugh.
That makes me laugh, because it really was a huge flask.
“That’s not what AA means.” I lead him out of the laundry room into the kitchen, through the dining room and living room and to the stairs, which lead to my loft. “Wait a second.” He blinks, and I leave him standing there while I hurry into the kitchen for some first aid stuff.
