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Out of the corner of my eye, I see him walking away. “Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’m going to change.”
“No, you need to call someone to stitch you up—you can’t just walk around with a hole in your body.”
He looks around, obviously trying to come up with something smart to reply with, but instead he sighs and mumbles, “All right.” He tilts his head for me to follow him, and I do. We walk near the front door into a smaller bathroom.
Flipping on the light, I watch him lean to the ground and rummage through a bunch of things in a disorganized pile under the sink.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, growing curious.
“Medical kit,” he answers. Then, looking back at me, his eyes suggest he’s about to make me do something Ireally don’twant to do. “You’re going to stitch me up.”
A white container falls out of the cabinet, and he picks it up. Reaching for my hand, he leads us back into the living room.
“I can’t do this,” I say while I shake my head and stumble over my feet.
He leans his weight on the arm of the couch and begins to unbutton his shirt. My teeth clench down when I watch him undress.
Now is not the time, Sloane.
Even though he has a gunshot wound, he still looks undefeated. “Just stick me with the sharp end and make sure the string holds my skin together.”
I could full-on laugh right now. “This is unbelievably unsanitary. Why can’t you just get someone like Knox to help you like you had him help me?”
“Because you needed the best care I could provide for you. This is just a simple fix.”
His chest is bare, and blood is everywhere. The shot wound doesn’t look bad, but I can see the tears in his skin where he most likely dug a knife into the wound to retrieve the bullet.
“How are you not bleeding out?” I ask, avoiding his sweet comment.
“A lot of it isn’t mine. Do you take me for an amateur?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m sure you’ve searched the top one hundred ways to die and you’re testing out which one works the best.”
“I can’t lie to you, I’ve searched it more than once.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am.” He smirks. “Next on my list is using an icicle as a weapon. No fingerprints to track.”
My eyes flutter as I realize I’m sharing a bed with a psychopath. “You’re the worst.”
“Ah, well, I think you’re the best. Now stitch me up, Slo.”
I take the needle and thread from his hands and take a deep breath. I swallow, trying to gather myself. Feeling queasy, I ask, “Do you have any rubbing alcohol?”
He points to the table, where I see a bottle of vodka.
“Of course,” I say and reach to grab it. Looking at him in anticipation, I bring the mouth of the bottle to my lips and take a couple of gulps before dumping the rest on him. I expect him to jump from the burn, but he lies on the couch perfectly still with a smile painted clearly on his face. Now I come to think of it, I didn’t even see him flinch with pain when he got up from the couch—only when I pushed my finger into the hole.
It’s strange how accustomed his body has become to pain—which only makes me think about all the terrible wounds he’s endured.
Seeing blood makes me nervous. I don’t know how he expects me to do this. A part of me wants to wait for the vodka to kick in, but this needs to be done.
“How many times have you been shot?” I ask, trying to distract him, just in case.
“Not my first rodeo.”
