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“Glad I was around.” He’s sorting through the kit and setting aside items to use.
“Me too.”
“What was Kelly doing here?” He looks at me as he uses his teeth to tear open a box of gauze.
“You know him? He said I owed him money.”
“Do you?”
“My uncle might have. This was… is his bakery.”
“Ah.” He glances behind him as if expecting to see my uncle. “Where is he?”
“He went missing. It’s been a few days.”
“I see.” Understanding spreads across his face and I’m afraid what it means.
“Who was that guy? Kelly?”
“Irish Mafia. This is their territory—for now.”
“And who are you?”
“Raf Colucci.” He holds out his hand.
That’s not exactly what I was asking, but I shake his hand anyway. “Caroline Quinn.”
“Could you help me?” He gestures to the stab wound in his left arm.
“Uh, yeah. Just tell me what to do.”
“I’ve got to get this shirt off.” He starts trying to unbutton his shirt with one hand. His big fingers fumble on the buttons.
“Here, let me.” I unbutton his shirt for him, and I can’t help noticing how good he smells, like whiskey and cloves, and something… less definable. When I get to the lower buttons on the shirt, he helps me pull it untucked from his pants. I’m very aware of how close I am to him. With the shirt unbuttoned, he shakes his right arm out and then I slowly work it off his left arm. Some of the blood has already dried and is sticking, so I have to be gentle. Finally, I get it off.
He’s wearing a white sleeveless undershirt, spattered with his blood. I see numerous black tattoos and the contour of some serious muscle through the fabric. His physique would put the models in LA to shame, but I can’t picture him caring about that.
Following his directions, I clean the wound on his massive bicep and dress it using the bandages he pulled out.
He peeks under the apron tied around his leg. “The bleeding has slowed, but I still need to clean it. You okay to keep going?”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to let my voice give me away. It’s the least I can do to repay him for his help with Kelly, but I’m not sure if I do or don’t want to see what happens next.
He pulls himself off the table, standing on his good leg. He unbuckles his belt with one hand, but then the button on his waistband gives him some trouble.
“Do you need a hand?”
He gives me a sheepish grin. It makes me a bit more comfortable that he also feels a little awkward. I’m more eager to help him.
I unbutton his pants for him, then I unzip his fly. It’s a weird sensation. The only time I’ve ever unzipped someone else’s pants, the next step was always to reach my hand inside. I have to concentrate hard to make sure that my hand doesn’t follow that muscle memory.
I untie the apron from around his thigh. Then I grab the sides of his pants and start to wiggle them down over his hips. I try to position my head so that it’s not right in front of his crotch, but there are very few ways of doing that. There are very few ways to pull a man’s pants off without getting too familiar.
His pants pass over his underwear, and I’m very aware of his bulge. It doesn’t look like he’s aroused. Not visibly, at least. It just looks like he’s got a bit to work with. I try to focus on my task and ease the pants off around his thigh wound. Like his shirt, the blood on his pants has dried to his leg, making me go slowly and carefully.
I glance up at him to make sure I’m not causing him pain. He looks shocked when our eyes meet. I can feel myself blush. I quickly look back down to concentrate on the wound. Looking up at him was a mistake.
Finally, I get his pants down to his ankles. He kicks off his shoes and steps out of his pants.
