Shit. They gave their word. If they read this stuff, they deserve what they get.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told them.
Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
Anyway, now that I’ve rested and shot off my mouth to the ladies, I’m ready to knock out the conclusion of last night’s events.
I left off when we were on our way back to the camping area.
Okay.
We got into the firelight, and the gals suddenly noticed my wounds. They seemed pretty concerned—even Connie. In fact, she’s the one who insisted on tending to me. She told her mother and Kimberly that they should try to get some sleep. She would fix me up, then she and I would stand watch for the next few hours.
I urged them to go along with it. I mean, they both seemed worn out and hurting.
While Billie and Kimberly settled into their sleeping places, Connie grabbed a couple of rags. She went to the stream, dipped them in, and came over to where I was sitting by the fire. She made me turn so the firelight would shine on the wounded side of my face—the right. Then she knelt in front of me.
The firelight lit up the swollen left side of her jaw.
Where I’d punched her.
“I’m sorry about that,” I told her. “It wasn’t supposed to connect.”
“Wasn’t, huh?”
“I swear.”
She started dabbing at the raw trench that Thelma’s rock had torn in my face and ear. She was gentle about it, but every touch ignited pain. “I had it coming,” she said. “I got in my shots, you got in yours.”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure.”
“I never would’ve hit you on purpose.”
She smirked. “If you say so.”
“It’s the truth.”
“What’d Thelma get you with, anyway? It sure fucked up your face.”
“A rock.”
“Look at this.” She pulled back the rag and showed it to me. It was red with my blood. The other cloth was still clean. She used it to mop off the blood that had run down my face and neck and right shoulder and arm. Then she wrung out both the rags, squeezing and twisting them. Bloody water spilled onto the sand between us.
She scowled at my lower wound.
Thelma’s broken spear had gouged me just above my belly button. The hole wasn’t deep, but it had bled a lot. The front of my swimming trunks was soaked, and trickles had even made their way down my thighs.
Connie shook her head. “We’d better just go over to the stream.”
She took the rags with her. I carried the ax.
Gaining possession of the ax was the best thing to come out of our disastrous ambush. Next to a gun, you couldn’t ask for a better weapon. Now it was ours, not Wesley’s. I planned to keep it close by.
Connie led the way to the stream. We stepped down its shallow, sandy bank and waded in. The water felt great—slightly cooler than the night air.
The stream is basically so narrow that, during most of its course from the jungle to the inlet, you can jump across it without much trouble. It is also fairly shallow. Ankle-deep in many places, knee-deep in a few.
Connie and I entered one of the deeper areas. She faced me. We were out of range of the firelight. “You can put down the ax,” she said.
I swung it underhand, and let go. The heavy, steel head thumped onto dry sand near the shore. The haft dropped toward me, and splashed into the stream where it would be easy to grab in case of an emergency.
Crouching in front of me, Connie rinsed the bloody rags. She stayed down. After draping one of the cloths over her knee, she reached up with the other and began to wash my wound. To hold herself steady, she clutched the waist of my trunks with her left hand, over near my hip.
I couldn’t help but feel the backs of her fingers in there.
Couldn’t help noticing how she’d tugged my trunks down a good inch—just by virtue of hanging onto them.
Not to mention, her face was straight in front.of my groin.
I tried not to let these things affect me.
They affected me quickly and obviously.
“Not again,” she said when my trunks started sticking out.
“Sorry,” I told her.
She stopped patting the wet cloth against my wound. She lowered that hand, but the other stayed. “Don’t apologize, make it go away.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. I’m trying to help you, and here you’ve got your thing in my face.”
“I don’t have a lot of control over it. You know? It just… responds. To things like you.”
“Things like me.”
“Yeah, you. The way you look. Your hand there. The water. It all… adds up.”
“So then, it’s my fault?”
I smiled. “Pretty much.”
“I’m supposed to be flattered, or something?”
“Maybe,” I said.
She looked up at me and didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then she said, “You had one when we were fighting, too.”
“Yeah. When I was on top of you.”
She dipped the rag in the stream, then lifted it and began mopping the blood off the area between my wound and the top of my trunks. “And when I took my top off,” she said.
“You noticed that?”
“Of course.”
“Thought maybe you were too busy slapping me,” I said.
“Ha ha, very funny.”
She dipped the rag again. As it came up soaked, her left hand plucked the waist of my trunks away from my belly. She mashed the sopping cloth against my skin, and a flood washed down. It drenched my works, then spilled out through the leg holes of my trunks and streamed down my legs.
Keeping my trunks pulled out, she dunked the rag into the stream again. She swished it around. “Would you like me to take my top off again?” she asked. “I could do it, you know. Right here, right now. You want me to?”
“Sure.”
“Or would you rather have me pull your trunks down?”
All I could think of to say was, “You’re kidding.”
“Take your pick.”
“How about both?”
“One or the other.”
It wasn’t a very difficult decision. “My trunks,” I said.
“Why?”
“Sort of tight in there.”
“I’ll bet. Why else?”
I thought about that for a second, then said, “It’ll make it easier for washing the blood off me.”
“Lousy reason. Give me another.”
I shrugged. “Well, I’ve already seen… you know, seen you topless.”
“And once was enough, huh?”
Woops.
“No,” I protested. “But it’s too dark here. I wouldn’t be able to see.”
