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I find him leaning one of his shoulders against the wall, looking tired and blond and faintly badass, with the blood and his black shirt, his ball cap tucked into the waistband of his shorts. His arms are tanned more darkly now. So is his throat, and those cheekbones.
“You’re staring.” He says it husky.
“You’re being an AA.”
“Lemme guess,” he says as I lead the way up. “Second word or maybe the first word is asshole.”
I’m pleased to tell him, “Nope.”
I step up into the loft, holding his gaze as he steps up behind me. I watch him frown around the space, his eyes zeroing in on the twin bed. “Is this a bedroom?”
“Study-bedroom.”
“You come here to study?”
“No, dude. It’s my dad’s study. When I’m here, I use it as a bedroom.”
“That’d be what we call a study.” His dark brows pinch. “Is your dad an asshole?”
“What? No.”
His lips stretch into a big, drunk grin. He holds a finger out, his right hand in a gun-like shape. “You’re a liar, DG.”
“Did he seem like an asshole?” I try.
“Maybe,” he says.
I scoff. “Why?” Actually, we shouldn’t go there. I wave at the bed. “Sit down. You’re gonna hold the towel in your lap and I’ll pour a capful of alcohol or maybe peroxide on that thing. I don’t know which one yet. Need to consult my phone.”
“Just throw some alcohol on it. I know it’ll hurt. But then it’ll be over,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Then it’ll be over? I mean, at some point everything will be over. What matters is how much it hurts first.”
He leans back on his good arm, tipping his head back, his eyes closed. “Disagree.”
How does he disagree, I wonder as I set the first aid kit on the duvet beside him. Does he not mind pain? Or is he saying everything hurts, which is why his focus is on the fact that it will, at some point, be over? Is the angry angel a nihilist?
I mock myself internally as I line up the rubbing alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and some gauze plus gauze tape. Angry angel. It’s a stupid nickname, but he’ll never know. Besides, he really does look like some kind of angel sent to level cities or some shit. Bonus points that the anacronym is “AA.”
I glance up, finding his eyes on me. He looks serious, those dark brows notched again. There’s a little wrinkle in his forehead.
“What’re you looking at?” I scoff.
“You.” His eyes narrow like he’s thinking about something, but he offers nothing more.
I tell myself not to ask, “What about me?” I would be walking right into whatever bullshit he’s got for me.
I say, “Let’s do this fast. Before the bourbon wears off.”
He turns his hand palm up. As he does, I notice something on the back of it.
“Turn it back over.”
He hesitates a second but he does it, giving me a second look at—
“Chicken pox,” he says.
Right under his middle finger’s bottom knuckle, there’s a bunch of small, circular scars—the smallest ones no bigger than a fine-print Sharpie’s tip, the biggest ones no larger than a pencil eraser. All the dots are right over one of his veins. His hands have a lot of veins. They’re all popped out right now, probably because he’s hot from being outside.
“That hand had a lot of them. I don’t know why,” he offers.
He shows me his other hand—his throwing hand. There’s some in the same spot on it.
“Weird.”
He shrugs. He holds his left hand up. “Do it.”
“You wanna lay down, so when it hurts like shit, you can roll around and moan and all that?” I’m half teasing.
He frowns down his nose at me. “I’m not gonna moan, Do Gooder. And it’s lie.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. You a grammar geek?”
“No, but I do know grammar.”
I snort, but then I’m smirking at how grumpy he looks. He would be a grumpy drunk. “You learn that fancy stuff up at your fancy private school?”
His face hardens. “No.” He inhales deeply, exhales, and says, “Well.” There’s a note of impatience in his voice, and I feel bad for not getting to it sooner. He’s probably nervous.
“By the way, you really can lie down if you want.”
He blinks, his face expressionless, and I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
He inhales deeply again, and I say, “Okay,” and squirt some alcohol on the wound. His whole body jerks, and his eyes shut. He sucks air in through his nose, but he doesn’t moan, just like he said he wouldn’t.
A second later, he opens his eyes and says, “Finish it up, DG. I’m good.”
He’s breathing a little too fast as I put the ointment on and wrap it up. I wrap the whole finger with gauze, and then around the width of his palm, hoping that’ll keep it in place. When I glance back up, he looks drained.
