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/> He’d gone down hard when the trail gave way and would’ve fallen farther had the tree not stopped him. It was a difficult climb out, and by the time he reported the slide to the ranger’s station and got back to his car, he was more angry than winded.
He hadn’t been that badly distracted by a woman since his early twenties and then it had been women in general and the magic of ready sex on tap. Flick had been more than ready, but the distraction of her might’ve killed him.
For once he’d hoped there was a sign she was home. A bag or a brush, a pair of shoes, a tangle of power cords, or a book left out. A bra tossed over the lampshade in a fuck-you gesture would’ve been perfect. Her bedroom door was closed and there was no response when he called out. She’d have answered, even if she wanted to carve his eyes out with a hair fork. He was the petulant one.
Another mouthful of whiskey. He looked out of the balcony doors at the last of the sun, clouds gathered, heavy and dark; it was going to rain again. Spider-Man and keys under pots. Flick didn’t always tell you what she was thinking. He might not have been able to cope if she did. Her honesty had a brutal quality about it that most people left for their rivals.
He spied the blue thread and found the needle, and moved the operation to the kitchen counter where the lighting was stronger. He was poking at his arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball when she came in.
“Oh hell, what happened to you?”
“Argument with a tree.”
She put her purse on the hall table and came toward him. “Tree won?”
“I’d call it a tie.” He was shirtless, shoeless, wearing old sweatpants, and no doubt the bruise on his cheek was starting to take on rainbow color now. His eye might go black.
She took all that in and said, “Victory looks like a beat-down on you.”
“Sometimes that’s the way it goes.”
“Are you seriously trying to stitch yourself up?”
He shifted to show her his arm. “Trying to get these out.”
She held her hand out for the needle and then laughed when he gave it over. That laugh was ominous.
“Do your worst, I deserve it.”
“Because you went out into the wilderness and wrestled with poor, defenseless nature?” She stepped close and smoothed a warm hand down his arm, from shoulder to elbow, her eyes on the mass of scratches and gouges that scored his bicep.
“Because I’m a total shit for how I reacted last night.”
She scraped the flat edge of the needle down his skin. “Before or after you let me rub one out on you and made me feel like a greedy whore?”
“Before.” Her hand stopped. “After. All of it.”
“And yet you’re going to let me stick a needle in you.”
“Least I can do.”
She worked a splinter loose, caught it in a tissue and then moved on to the next one.
“You’re not a whore.”
Her hands were gentle. Nothing hesitant in her movements. “Thank you for that very fine endorsement. Perhaps I can get some likes for it.”
He took a sip of the whiskey to mask his frustration. He had to stop screwing up with her. Flick worked efficiently, the prick of the needle in her hand easier to take than in his own.
“This one—” she tapped the deepest, widest splinter with her finger “—no way I won’t hurt you taking that out.”
He’d hurt her last night and it’d been unnecessary.
“It had to hurt going in.”
He hadn’t felt the injuries till later—adrenaline. He’d felt the weight of what he did to Flick all day. “Wait.”
Her hands came away and she looked up. “It needs to come out.”
