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“Do it here.”
“No. Come on.”
“Dammit.” With a sigh, he unlocks his knees and we’re moving again. the door is half-open, the kitchen aromas wafting out to the street, mingling with a sourness of the trash stashed right outside and a fainter whiff of petrol fumes.
Yet as we enter and I pull him toward a stool by the counter to sit, all I can smell is him. Dropping the bag I’m carrying on a stretch of free counter, I wrestle the other bag from his hold, and I’m close, so close, wrapped up in the spice of male sweat and that undercurrent of sweetness that’s not all blood, as I’m starting to realize, but part of him. A touch of sugar. An unexpected thread of gold.
“So...” I lift up his T-shirt again and almost hiss at the angry cuts—then try not to get distracted by a set of impressive, hard abs—and the tattoos. A swan on a river, wings like sails, a moon behind. I hadn’t paid so much attention before, shocked by the blood, but good Lord, the boy’s ripped. “Will you tell me who did this to you?”
All I get in reply is a sneer, or a snarl, not sure which. He has his teeth bared like a wolf, hands balled into fists. His nails are filthy with dirt and car oil.
Why would a guy like him have a swan inked on his ribs? I’m dying to ask, but instead, I grab a paper towel and dab at the wounds, wiping away blood. I uncap the antiseptic cream I got from the drugstore. “What if you need stitches? You’ve bled a lot.”
“I’ll survive. Don’t need no stitches.”
“Okay, tough guy. Someone came at you with a knife. You have to report this.”
“Didn’t you hear a fucking word I said? I can’t.”
“But surely—”
“What the hell, woman, are you a fucking retard? I said no.” He’s on his feet, towering over me, and I’m not that short. Instinctively I flinch and back away.
But he’s not moving, and once my instinctive panic has faded, I lift my chin at him. “You won’t talk to me like that ever again, do you hear, Ross Jones?”
I’m not taking any more of this, not from him or anyone.
He’s silent for a few beats, breathing hard, sweat beading his brow. He’s scowling but his gaze is faraway. “Sure,” he grunts. “Okay.”
“Calling someone that is just wrong.”
“Fuck. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he nods. Shrugs. “That’s what Dad always called me. Well, and some other choice words, but I’m not calling you those, am I?”
And he’s doing it again. I want to be upset with him, but how can I, when he says things like that, looking earnest and confused?
A deep sadness wells up inside me. Damn you, Ross. Damn you for hitting below the belt and twisting my heart into knots, for bringing back all those thoughts about your dad and how he raised you and how close you were all those years and yet how far.
“Your dad isn’t a good example,” I choke out.
“Fuck me, I know. You kidding me? He’s the world’s biggest jackhole.” His gaze meets mine, wary, tired, eyes lined with pain. “Look, I’m... I’m sorry, okay?”
I can’t believe my ears. Knock me over with a feather.
Ross just apologized.
“Okay. Duly noted.” I try to sound nonchalant even as I cling to that word of apology, hope and relief warring inside me. “But saying you’re sorry isn’t enough.”
I’m not only talking about now. Does he get it? Does he understand that I’m referring to the past?
“What do you mean? Dad would’ve knocked my teeth out if I apologized to anyone.”
I have a sudden, fierce urge to go find his dad and punch him in the face.
“What I mean is that actions trump words. That’s what my dad taught me.” And I grab the gauze and tape I bought and start tearing the packages open. “Now sit back down so I can wrap those cuts before they get infected. Then I got to run home. Dad and Josh are waiting for me to have dinner. Dad’s making his famous stew.”
And why am I telling him this, about my private life, my family, my one safe place? When did my mind decide to start trusting him without consulting with me?
Chapter Twelve
