“On my back. I bandaged it myself. I’m not helpless.”
She left the couch, stepped behind him, and yanked his shirt up to look at the wound.
“You know,” he said, “the way you keep undressing me is becoming a bad habit for—Ouch!” She’d ripped off the bandage.
“This is deep,” she said. “You need stitches.”
He glanced over his shoulder to check her expression. “Are you just saying that because you want to jab me with a needle multiple times?”
She gestured to the couch. “Lay face down and try not to bleed on anything.” Without another word, she flounced off to the bathroom.
Was he supposed to leave his shirt on or off? He took it off. No point in getting it bloody. He laid down on the couch and waited. This would probably be painful.
And today was only the first day of his captivity.
23
Enzo lay waiting and wondered if he was bleeding on anything.
Charity came back with the first aid kit for the second time that day. She filled a glass of water and sat down beside him. “Since we weren’t able to buy any numbing agent at Speedy’s, I’m giving you a fast-acting opiate so you don’t squirm while I’m sewing you up.” She handed him the glass and a pill. “It should take about five minutes to kick in.”
He eyed the pill with suspicion. “Will it make me loopy?”
She pulled items out of the kit. “Only for about a half an hour. You’ll just feel like you’re drunk.”
He didn’t take the pill. “I never get drunk.”
“You don’t have to have anesthesia,” she said. “I’m happy to sew you up without it.”
He popped the pill into his mouth and washed it down with water. If she wanted to drug him, she could put something in his food easily enough during the next two weeks. He might as well not forgo the painkiller.
Enzo laid back down on his stomach, his hands propped under his chin.
“Why don’t you ever get drunk?” Charity asked. Probably making small talk while she set about disinfecting her hands.
“When you’re drunk, you say things you shouldn’t and do things you regret later.”
“Ah,” she opened a bottle and wiped an iodine mixture across his back. “You’re worried you’ll give away classified information to the wrong people.”
It was more than that. He didn’t like feeling he wasn’t in complete control of himself. Being drunk made people slow, stupid, and happy for no reason.
Charity took a needle from the kit and wiped it with alcohol. The edges of the bottle blurred. Enzo shut his eyes. His head felt light, as though it drifted above his head. The painkillerwasfast-acting.
He listened to the sound of her rustling supplies. No other noise penetrated the room. It was so quiet here. Underground bunkers were probably always that way—silent as the tomb.
Charity prodded his back. He’d lost track of time. He opened his eyes to see what she was doing. Her blonde hair hung down her shoulders in soft waves. Such shiny hair. Such a pretty woman. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in her movements now like there’d been when they’d kissed earlier. She’d been so nervous then. So sweet. And he’d hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
“For what?” she asked.
“For all of it. Or at least most of it.” He thought of the way he’d kissed her. “There are a few things I might do again. Those parts, not as sorry.”
“I’m glad to know the painkiller is working.”
“I didn’t reject you,” he said.
“You did,” she said, matter of fact. “I was there and remember it.”