“I didn’t hit my head. I’m sure you gave me a pretty new scar right through my lily tattoo, though, and I’m going to need an apology for that.”
“Right. Okay,” he breathes. “I’ve seen too many people get bad concussions or worse, and I… fuck, I’m sorry. I have gauze inside. Come on.”
I hum, looking over the long cut now that it’s out of the water. “I’m fine, Weston. It’ll stop bleeding. Eventually.”
“Get the fuck inside. I’m wrapping it up. Don’t need you getting an infection.”
He finally lets me go but watches me like a hawk as I step out of the pool, holding up my bleeding arm.
I scan the backyard around us. A few groups of people are watching in shock, pointing out how much blood got into the pool, but after I get out of the water, most people seem to be back in their own little worlds now that they know I’m not dead.
I don’t see the guy I punched.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the fucker ran away from the house the moment Wes conveniently shoved me in the pool.
After what I heard him say about my cousin, he better be fuckingfaraway from here. I was by the pool talking with a girl who was thinking of majoring in mechanical engineering when I overheard some stranger saying something homophobic about Niko. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to let that go unpunished.
“Come on,” Wes is barking at me, ushering me into the house. “I’m going to wrap that up, and you’re going to explain to me why thefuckyou were starting yet another fight in my house.”
“Wes, you would have punched the guy, too. Guarantee it.”
“I don’t get my rocks off with violence.”
He shoves open one of the back doors and both of us drip water as we walk through the house. Naturally, Wes is concernedabout that, and he pauses at the linen closet to put down a few beach towels on the water we left behind.
The pain isn’t bothering me anymore.
Instead, I’m observing Wes like I’m watching an animal in the wild, filming a documentary.
He looks like he’s completing each task like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done, focused and intense. He isn’t smiling, but there’s still something serene about his face, even in the face of chaos.
Like he needs to keep his emotions under complete control at all times.
They’re all right there, though, if you look closely enough. His true feelings always make their way into his expression, through the small furrow at the center of his brow or a flush on his face.
Your walls aren’t as ironclad as you think they are.
He brings me down the hallway to one of the first-floor bathrooms. There’s a full first aid kit there, and after pulling my arm down into the sink and giving it another rinse, he absolutely blasts it with antiseptic.
I hiss as it hits the wound.
It’s not as deep as it looked at first, but alcohol always stings. It doesn’t go far down, but it’s definitely going to leave a scar.
“Stay still.”
“Frat Dad,” I mutter.
He coats the edges of the wound with a petroleum salve. He takes care to wrap it slowly and deliberately, first with cotton padding and then with gauze.
His lashes are still a little wet from the water.
His face relaxes, finally, as he works on wrapping me up, and he gently bites his lower lip, focusing like it’s rocket science getting the gauze fastened properly.
Fuck.
That mouth. Those lips.
God, it’s like you were made to suck my cock. And I need it again.