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“Yeah,” I whispered. His back was nothing but one gigantic scar, the flesh rippled, puckered, and pink in some spots while pale white in others. Some parts were much redder. One section sort of resembled strips of mangled flesh instead of muscle. “I’m sorry. Did that happen overseas?”
“Took the blast as I blocked the doorway while four of my Marine brothers escaped from the hut that we were in.” His voice was low, full of pain. “They were murdered anyway. Took me a long time to realize there wasn’t anything else I could have done to save them.”
“I understand what you’re saying.” Moving closer, I lifted a hand and brushed a fingertip over his skin. “Is that okay?”
Patriot nodded.
My palm brushed slowly over his scars as I swallowed hard. His muscles bunched slightly with my touch. “You’re still strong. I bet you’re just as strong as you were before it happened.”
“No,” he replied, turning back around. “I’m stronger. You will be too.”
“Patriot?”
“Yeah, sunshine?”
“You should go into therapy or something. You’re way too wise to ride a motorcycle all day long.”
The intended joke found its mark and he grinned wide. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
My stomach grumbled loudly, and I blushed.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember,” I answered honestly.
“Well, that’s just not acceptable. How about I rustle up some grub?”
Rustle up? He sounded like a cowboy. “Sure. Something gentle. Chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese?”
“I’ve got you covered.” Patriot strutted to the door and opened it, hollering for someone named Shadow.
“What ya need?”
“My patient wants chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese. Hop to it, prospect.”
“Yes, sir.”
Patriot closed the door, walking over to his dresser where he pulled out a locked case and inserted a key from a set that was clipped to his belt. I heard the rustling around of pill bottles. “Got some strong painkillers and an antibiotic. You’ll need them both.” He was like one-man drug store.
“Okay.” I took the pills with a bottle of water that was sitting on a nightstand within reach.
“You know something?”
I lay down on the bed, wrapping up in the blanket as tightly as I could. “No.”
“You’re healing well.”
“How do you know?”
He was watching me closely, sinking into a thick leather chair that he tugged closer to the bed. “It hurt when I was cleaning your arm, right?”
I nodded.
“How did it feel right after it happened?”
“Wasn’t as painful as I would have thought. It wasn’t my arm that was hurting the most.” I glanced downward, betraying the focus of my thoughts. Residual or actual pain, did it matter? I was still forced against my will. “I suppose you’re right. The pain means the nerves are repairing.”
“Yep.” He swallowed hard. “Are you healing,” he paused, and his eyes dipped lower for a second before rising again, “down lower?”
