I worked for Devin for years; he’d had his hands over every inch of my body for reasons both sexual and practical, from pulling my clothes off to bandaging a wound. In all those years, he’d never kissed me with so much urgency or such a feeling of need. I found myself responding despite my injuries, first returning the kiss, then sliding down off the couch to kneel beside him. His stitches were good. They didn’t even pull as I knelt.
Devin was the one to break away, releasing the hand he was holding as he said, “I need to look at your shoulder.”
“Wow,” I said, dizzy now for reasons that had nothing to do with blood loss. “Way to kill the mood.”
He smirked. “No, darling. The amount of blood you’ve decided to accessorize with could do that quite admirably without my help.”
I glanced down at myself as I slid back onto the couch. The robe I’d borrowed from Lily wasn’t pink anymore. Dried blood had turned it a mottled shade of brown, with a brighter streak of red over my left shoulder where exertion had reopened the gunshot wound.
“I need a shower,” I said.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Devin said, reaching up to peel away my robe.
Lily’s carefully constructed poultice had pulled away during the fight and was dangling loose against my collarbone. Devin tugged the last of the bindings away, dropping the whole bundle onto the floor. “She does good work,” he admitted, almost grudgingly. “It looks like she even managed to wash most of the iron out before it could really work its way into your body. That probably explains why you’re still conscious.”
“You really are a happy little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?” I was looking at the exit wound, and the visible damage still looked about half as bad as my thigh, despite having been made with the same caliber bullet. “Does it need stitches?”
“To be on the safe side? Yes.” Devin picked up the cloth he’d used to clean the blood off my leg. “I don’t think I need to worry about disinfecting this.” More quietly, he added, “It’s going to scar, you know.”
“Iron always does.” I watched him wash the blood away, considering the severity of the damage. Lily really did an amazing job. My arm wouldn’t be up to my normal standards for a while—probably several weeks, if ever— but it wouldn’t be useless, as long as I could take things easy.
As if that’s ever been an option.
Devin closed the front with three stitches, and the back with only two. “There.” He returned the needle and surgical thread to the first aid kit before standing, offering me his hands. I raised my eyebrows, and he nodded toward the bathroom. “Didn’t you want a shower?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m a little naked here.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that the best state in which to
“If you insist.” Taking his hands, I let him pull me off the couch. I stumbled slightly as I put my weight on my injured leg, relieved when it didn’t buckle. I probably couldn’t run, but I could walk, at least for now. Depending on the infection, well, we’d see how long that lasted.
Devin didn’t comment on the way I leaned on him as we walked to the bathroom. I appreciated that, almost as much as I appreciated his steadying arm around my waist. “You still like your showers hot, don’t you?” he asked, letting go at the bathroom door.
“The hotter, the better,” I said, before the mirror caught my attention. “Oh.”
“Yes,” said Devin grimly. Sitting down on the edge of the tub, he turned on the taps. Hot steam began to fill the room. “You see why I was a trifle concerned.”
“Uh, yeah. I do.” Muck had plastered my hair almost flat against my head, and there was a distinct gray undertone to my complexion. I’ve seen corpses that looked like they had more life left in them. Considering the way I looked, I shouldn’t have been doing anything but calling Danny and requesting a ride to the nearest emergency room—do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
“You look better than you did.”
“This is
Devin looked up, saying simply, “Yes.”
That was a sobering thought. I was still standing there contemplating it, when he walked over, put his hands around my waist, and lifted me off the floor. “Hey!” I protested.
“Shower now,” he said. “And then, I’ll put you to bed with a nice hot drink to make you feel better.”
“Is that all you’ll put me to bed with?” I asked.
Devin smiled and lowered me into the bathtub.
Hot water on fresh wounds may be medicinally helpful, but it hurts like hell. I gasped as the spray from the showerhead hit me, fighting the urge to scream. Devin watched, holding the shower curtain open, before he asked, “Will you be all right?”
Iron poisoning, two gunshot wounds, and he was asking if I’d be all right? I forced a smile, reaching for the curtain. “If I can’t take a shower by myself, you can go ahead and bury me,” I said, and pulled it closed.
He laughed, saying, “Have it your way,” as he left the bathroom. I waited for the sound of the door closing, and turned myself to the serious business of getting clean.
You never realize how wonderful it is to be clean until you’ve been dirty for days. I stayed in the shower for almost half an hour, glorying in the hot water and the fact that no one was trying to kill me. When the water started to cool I turned it off, wringing as much as I could out of my hair before grabbing a towel off the rack and stepping gingerly out of the stall.
Devin was waiting for me in the hall. He pressed a mug of thick yellow liquid into my hands. “Drink this.”
I sniffed. It was warm and smelled like gingerbread. “This is . . . ?”
“Good for you.”
“Right,” I said, and sipped. It was bitter. I grimaced. “How good for me are we talking? Because this tastes —”
“Good enough.”
“Right,” I repeated. Devin watched intently as I finished the mug.
When I was done, he took it away from me, setting it on the hallway table. “There’s another cup in your coffeepot,” he said. “Drink it in the morning. You’ll feel better.”
“Promise?” I asked, with a small smile.
Devin put his arms around my waist again, nearly dislodging my towel. “Would I lie to you?” he asked, bending toward me.
“All the time,” I said, and leaned in to meet him.
His first kiss was careful, all too aware of my recent injuries. I pressed closer, putting my arms around his neck, lacing my fingers into his hair. That seemed to be the signal he’d been waiting for; his second kiss was more assertive, more the Devin I knew, the one who took my virginity on the roof of Home, with the fog blocking out everything else in the world.
When my bad leg buckled, he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, kissing me all the way.
We left the towel behind.
EIGHTEEN
DEVIN’S VOICE IN MY EAR, as I was drifting toward a safe, comfortable slumber: “Let this go, October. Just . . . just let her go.”
“I can’t,” I mumbled.
He sighed. The bedsprings creaked as he stood. “My kids will be here in the morning,” he said, and that was the last thing I knew before the sun slanting through my bedroom window hit my face and brought me slowly back to consciousness.
I peeled my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Not dead. That was a start. The inside of my mouth tasted terrible, and my head felt like it had been the ball in the all-Summerlands soccer finals. Adding this to the pain in my shoulder and thigh, I figured I should just stay asleep until sometime in, say, March. I’d already managed to sleep
