the back, where they’d entered.
Casey stepped forward and stumbled over a cable. Eric grabbed her arm and she gasped, reaching up to hold her shoulder.
“Sorry,” Eric said.
She swallowed. “Where’s that first aid kit Becca used?”
“Back here.” He led her slowly toward the backstage bathroom, where the kit hung on the wall. He took it down and opened it on the toilet tank.
“Painkiller,” Casey said.
Eric popped open a bottle of ibuprofen and offered her a couple. She washed them down with rusty water from the sink.
She grabbed one of Eric’s wrists and turned it over to look at his hands. “You need to get those stones out.”
“Not until we work on your shoulder.”
She sagged onto the toilet seat, feeling suddenly weak.
Eric pulled his dark turtleneck over his head and tossed it aside, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead in the tiny, airless bathroom. He squatted in front of Casey, his back pressed against the sink, and helped her pull off her sweater. Once it was off he started unbuttoning her shirt.
“Eric!” She swatted his hand away.
He reached back up. “No time for modesty, Casey. I need to work on your arm.”
He was right, of course, and she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth when he slid her shirt off and peeled away the bloodied ace bandage. Without a word he wet a wad of paper towels and swabbed the mess, the towels coming away red. He kept at it until he’d cleaned it all.
“You need stitches,” he said.
“Yeah, like I need a hole in the head. You know what will happen if I go anywhere for that.”
He shook his head. “Then sit still.”
“You are not going to sew me up with costume thread.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He rummaged around in the kit and came up with a tube of antibiotic cream, which he spread liberally on the cut. The bandage box held several butterfly strips, which he used to close the wound, and he covered them with sterile gauze pads. There were no ace bandages this time, but he found several extra large Band-Aids, which he placed side by side over the gauze.
He sat back. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you.” She shrugged the shirt back on and buttoned it up, her right hand working slowly, the injury to her forearm swelling her wrist, causing her fingers to stiffen. “Now you.”
With the tweezers in the kit she was able to pick out most of the stones from his palms—only a couple were too deeply embedded to reach. When she’d finished, he washed his hands with soap before Casey poured peroxide over the wounds.
He grimaced, but kept his hands under the stream of antiseptic. “What now?”
“Now?” Casey screwed the top back onto the bottle and tossed it into the box of supplies. Her head swam and she leaned forward onto the sink.
“You need to rest,” Eric said.
“I can’t rest. They’ll be coming here eventually.”
“The Nesting Place. Mom and Rosie will hide you.”
“No. I won’t do that to them.” Besides, the Pegasus folks had compromised their home.
“There’s got to be someone we can call…”
“But who, Eric? Who do you trust?”
He clasped his hands together and pushed their sides against his forehead. “I don’t know.”
“There’s no one, Eric. We have to keep moving.” She stood, but the movement sent her spinning, and she fell against the wall.
Eric grabbed her waist and held her upright. “Come on.”
She lurched out of the bathroom, his arm around her. “Where are we going?”
“You know those Equity cots the union requires theaters to put backstage for weary actors?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“This theater may not be Equity, but I insisted on the bed.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” He guided her to another room, where he unlocked the door and pulled the string on a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Props, costumes, and a cot. What more could you want?”
She could think of a few things, but had to admit the mattress looked inviting. “Just for a few minutes,” she said. “We can’t stay long.”
He closed the door and pushed the lock on the knob. “You have to rest.”
She sat on the cot. Not a very comfortable one, but better than the floor. She studied the room—shelves of old props, a treasure chest at the foot of the bed, a rack of varied costumes. She lay down, struggling to find a comfortable way to lie. Nothing worked. And she was starting to shiver. “Eric, is there a blanket or anything?”
He grabbed an old army blanket from a shelf—probably from a production of South Pacific—and spread it over her. She continued to shiver. He stood looking down at her, then reached up to turn off the light. Without a word, he scooted onto the cot and under the blanket, wrapping his arms gently around her, her arms up between them, trying to conserve what body heat she had.
“Eric…”
“Shh. Just rest.” He placed his hand over her mouth, then slid her hat off of her head, pulled her hair out of its knot, and ran his hand over her scalp, rubbing from her temples to the back of her neck. Casey let her head drop back, her nerves tingling as he kneaded her sore muscles. She groaned, twisting her head into his hand, her body arching toward him as his hands brought her closer.
“Casey,” he said.
Casey’s breath caught in her throat. Oh. Oh, yes.
Casey pulled her hands out from where they were trapped between her body and Eric’s, and turned them around, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, desperate suddenly to feel his skin, to feel his heat against her. When the buttons wouldn’t cooperate, she yanked his shirt from his jeans, skimming her hand up along his stomach and chest. He rose up just enough she could pull the shirt over his head. The buttons caught at the ends of the sleeves and she jerked the shirt, ripping the buttons from the fabric and forcing the shirt over his wrists. His back was warm, and she flattened her hands against it, pulling him against her.
His hand slid up the back of her shirt, and she shivered, a moan coming from deep in her throat. Eric unclasped her bra one-handed and forced her shirt up, his hand closing over her breast. She reached down to his jeans, unbuttoning the fly and wrenching down the zipper.
He groaned and leaned in to kiss her, stopping at the first touch of her swollen lips, kissing instead her chin, her eyes, the hollow of her throat. Casey moved her hand down to her own fly, undoing the button and zipper, pushing her jeans down over her hips. Eric rose above her, reaching down to free himself from his clothes.
“Reuben,” Casey whispered.
Eric froze.
Eric rolled away and off of the cot, up onto his feet.
“Eric,” Casey said.
Eric picked up his shirt and left the room.
Chapter Forty-Five
Casey was dressed in a black sweatshirt from the costume rack, her back against the wall, when he returned. “Eric, I’m sor—”
He shook his head. “Don’t say it. It was…” He wiped his hand over his face. “What are we going to do?”
