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“This is why I get cranky with you,” I said lightly, and ignoring her protests, I shifted her back to the edge of the bathtub and spun her around, so her feet dangled in the tub. “You make harebrained decisions that make no sense.”
She looked down at herself, and I could see the “loading circle” swoop around in her head. “Wait. Does that need stitches?”
“Mhm,” I said. I unzipped her dress for her and slid the strap off her good shoulder.
She whipped around and glared. “Andhoware you planning on getting the paint off my legs?”
“Water,” I said placidly. “And soap.”
“Death first,” she said, and tried to slide away from the tub.
I hooked my arm around her left side and pinned her back in place. “Relax. We’re just washing the paint off your legs. I don’t want to mess with the clotting your wound has already done, so I’ll leave it alone for now.” I peeled her dress down her torso, exposing her black lace bra and, not surprisingly, more paint. It was everywhere, dry now and cracking like packed desert dirt. I tried not to think about how mouthwatering she looked in the underwear I’d bought for her this morning, but it was an impossible feat. She looked absolutely delicious.
“For now,” she mocked, but she helped me with her dress and stood so she could shimmy it down her hips where it pooled at her feet. “I know what ‘for now’ means. It means poking and scrubbing and sewing.”
“I don’t know what I need a medical license for,” I said dryly. “You clearly know what to do.” I removed her dress, and because I’d somehow convinced this gorgeous creature to like me, I dropped a kiss on her neck for good measure.
“Shut up, Brady,” June muttered, but there was no heat in it. “My arm hurts and my legs hurt, and you turned me on and left me with blue balls.”
“You keep saying that, but last Ithoroughlychecked, you don’t have testicles.” I rotated the bath handle to a lukewarm setting, and June squeaked, shifting her feet out of the way.
“That’s because society doesn’t care about sexually frustrated women, so they didn’t give us a term for it. So, I stole yours,” she said primly.
I knelt behind her and reached my arms around her soft hips, steeling myself against how erotic every touch felt when I was near her. Never in my life had I been attracted to a patient I had to care for, but I’d had to do it for June twice now. I didn’t think I’d survive another experience without spontaneous combustion. As the water poured out of the faucet, I gently splashed it on her legs and reached for the bar of unscented soap to my right, lathering it between my hands.
June craned her neck to peer down at me. “I can wash my own legs.”
I knew she could. I wanted to do it. “I’m more careful than you are,” I said, leaving no room for argument in my tone. I rinsed the paint off her legs, and because she was bleeding through the gauze anyway, I peeled off the tape so I could wash around it. Truthfully, I was grateful it was her leg. If she’d taken the brunt of her fall on her shoulder and her legs, then it had spared her head. Her slight concussion was nothing compared to what it could have been.
When I felt confident that her legs were clean, I kissed her good shoulder and murmured, “Okay this next part is up to you. Do you want to wash the rest of the paint off now, or do you want to sponge it off later? Once I stitch your leg, I want you to keep it dry for a few days.”
“Definitely now,” she said, although I heard the strain in her voice. She had to be in a whole world of hurt right now. But I helped her sit in the tub and remove her underwear, and then, careful of her contusions and most painful spots, I helped her rinse off the paint and wash her hair without fully submerging the gash in the bath.
Toweled-off and cleaned, I told her to lie down on the bed, and I tidied up the bathroom. As I did, I thought about all the ways this scenario could have gone worse. What if the wifehadbeen in the mood for “games?” What if June had hit her head harder? Would those monsters have called her an ambulance, or would June have ended up a picture on a documentary about the crazy fairytale murderers from South Salt Lake City? I tried to banish those thoughts because they weren’t logical or practical. But despite my best efforts, fury and fear mixed in my blood like noxious ammonia and creatinine.
By the time I made it back to June with the supplies I’d need to suture her wound, June was asleep in my bed. She’d wrapped her bath towel loosely around her leg, and with the sheets haphazardly draped over her body, she’d fallen into a deep sleep on her back. I couldn’t delay her stitches any longer than I already had. Blood had already seeped through the towel.
Suddenly, June sat up with a gasp, first bringing her hands to her chest, and then crying out in pain as the sudden movement jerked her injured shoulder. Not knowing I was in the room behind her, she curled forward, and a broken sob shook her shoulders. As she held herself together, I knew what had woken her.
And I was going to fuck up that nightmare until he begged for death.
Twenty Three
June
If I thought the shoulder thing was bad, it was nothing compared to Brady stitching up my leg. Apparently, paint had dried on the inside of the “tissue” and had to be “debrided.” Also, the word “tissue” was disgusting, and I would be happy if it never came out of his mouth again.
Although Amos applied topical anesthetic all over the tender area (ouch) and injected local anesthetic under the skin (double ouch), I still writhed in agony while he flushed the wound and literallyscrubbedpaint off my bleeding hunk of flesh. It was 2023. We didn’t have a better method of getting paint off a nasty wound than a sponge?
Actually, the stitching part was a relief, and I found myself able to relax again while he worked steadily, threading a curved needle through my numb skin and tying tight, precise knots along the jagged edges. I fell back into a fitful sleep, but I almost dreaded it. My dreams were uneasy and full of sharp anxiety, teetering on the cusp of adrenaline so that when I woke to darkness sometime later, I felt like I hadn’t gotten any sleep at all.
I stared at the dark room, disoriented and fighting against the feeling that my eyes were permanently crossed. My head pulsed with slow waves of intense pain like I’d cinched it between a vice, and my shoulder screamed in agony. Amos had propped me upright on a mountain of pillows, and at some point, he’d secured my arm in a sling, but the pain medicine he had given me earlier must have worn off.
I looked around for him, but then I heard his voice, muted and talking to someone in his cavernous living room. I sat up gingerly, listening as his voice grew louder. “… isn’t like it will help anyone if she has to testify about it in court.” He paused, and I realized he must be on the phone with someone else. “That’s what I’m saying. It’s hearsay.” He stopped again. Then, “Az, I don’t care howlegalit is, can you fix it, or not?”
Az must be Azura, his sister. I remembered him saying she was a lawyer, and suddenly, I wanted to catapult myself from the bed and stop him from doing whatever it was he was planning. I didn’t want to prosecute the mother… ducker. I wanted to forget it had ever happened. I wasn’t even going to go back for my stuff. I was done with art for a while, anyway. It wasn’t worth it. Amos had been right.
I struggled to sit up all the way, fighting the stiffness in my shoulder, and I threw the comforter aside so I could slide off the side of the bed.
