I really don’t, and that’s what sucks. I don’t want any of what’s happening right now—not thewayit’s happening—because I know Jake is in pain no matter how much he’ll keep trying to hide it from me. Holding out my hand to help him stand again is the best I can do until he stops with his jeans somewhere around mid-thigh, and I realize the denim is too sticky from the ugly gash there for him to do anything else.
“Sit.”
The sharp edges of my command do their job, or Jake’s become resigned to his fate, and he’s back on the desk when I carefullyslide one hand under his jeans and pull them down with the other, keeping everything from dragging against him on the way. Neither of us says a word when I leave the jeans bunched around his ankles, an alcohol wipe unwrapped before I start to clean up the blood that seems to be everywhere, but on its way to drying. Even while I’m grateful for that much, I need a new wipe almost immediately, and once I’ve thrown the old one away, I give myself a minute to think. Then I spot a half-empty water bottle V must have left behind, and I nod to myself, taking the rainbow bandana from around my neck and wetting it before Jake’s fingers close around my wrist.
“Darren.”
“Jake,” I start, leveling him with a cautious stare. “Let me do this. Please. I need to know how bad it is.”
I linger on the blue-gray eyes I think must match my own, and when he lets me go, my gaze falls to his lap and the thighs made strong by years of riding his Harley. There are easy jokes to make about it all—the innuendo tempting on the tip of my tongue—but while I’m not against the break they might provide, my timing matters more than ever. I kneel between his legs and bring the wet cloth to the wound, too quiet again when I check in with him.
“Any nausea? Blurred vision?”
“I can see you just fine.”
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “Do you think you might have a concussion?”
“I forgot your mom’s a nurse. Guess you get this from her.”
“How to give a shit about someone who’s hurt?” I snort. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The bandana has done its job well, Jake’s leg mostly clean, and I push my hand toward the hem of his boxers, nudging them out of the way so I can get a good look at the jagged cut. He hisses, and as much as I’m sorry for however that might’ve stung, I forget to apologize when I swear under my breath instead.
“Am I bleeding out?” he asks, his voice still strained.
“No, but it’s not great. You need stitches.”
“I’m not going to urgent care to get them, so put a bandage on my leg and take me home.”
I roll my eyes and toss the bloody bandana into the nearby trash, then open another alcohol wipe for one more sweep of his thigh before I do as he’s asked. One of my hands is splayed up high, holding him still while I finish cleaning, but for the second time tonight, his fingers wrap around my wrist, and it surprises me enough that I stop to glance up at him.
Head injury or no, his eyes are blazing when they lock with mine, and then I blink and take in everything else at once—the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand has moved over mine, and the boxers that hide less than they did a minute ago—and I ease away from Jake just so I can smile again.
“Been a long time since you’ve had a man on his knees for you, huh?”
Unconcerned about his actual answer, and unsure I’d get one anyway, I grab the first aid kit and fumble through it for everything I’ll need next. I take longer than necessary, for his good ormine, and just for the chance to distract myself from thoughts I didn’t expect to have, I go on.
“Tell me what happened tonight.”
“I was feeling restless after dinner, so I went for a ride. Angeles Crest.” He clears his throat, and I keep my head down as I prep the butterfly bandages. “Just relaxed there for a while, then headed home. Got off at Vineland and—I don’t know. A possum or something ran across the road, and I swerved too hard. I slid. The bike ended up on top of me.”
With my pulse settled, I focus on the wound and how to close it as neatly as possible. “Since you didn’t call, I’m guessing your phone didn’t survive the landing?”
“Maybe I just wanted to surprise you.”
“Congrats on doing exactly that.” I chuckle and place one strip across the cut, then another, before something else occurs to me. “You think you were limping because your thigh got ripped open, or did you fuck something else up?”
“Just this. I’ll be fine.”
“Your body’s gonna hate you tomorrow.”
“Pretty sure that still counts as ‘fine.’”
I stand once I’ve got his leg looking like it’s something that might heal, and I spend time cleaning the smaller scrapes on his arm and the residual mess on his hands. There are goosebumps covering his skin, but I let us assume he’s cold, even if I’m the one without a shirt. Then after another minute or so, I reach for his beard and the blood dried there. Jake’s jeans are still around his ankles—I don’t want him to have to feel bloodydenim pressed against his skin until absolutely necessary—so I’m careful to stay closer to his side when I wipe his jaw with a damp piece of gauze.
As I’d suspected, Jake isn’t cut anywhere on his face, and when I move to his neck, I think he’s fine there, too. By the time he’d removed his helmet after the crash, he’d probably had blood on his hands from everything else, so I take my time finding all the traces left behind now, and we’re both quiet when he lets me guide his head from side to side. There’s something about the way he’s baring his throat to me when I want a better look, each moment drawing me nearer to him, and I fall into the ease of it all, forgetting to think when my mouth lands next to his ear.
Then it becomes too easy to speak. “You smell like wine and chlorine.”