“You won’t need that,” he said. “The wrap should be fine for now.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” He didn’t question whether I was sober enough, but I wasn’t stumbling anymore, and my shoes were back on, tied laces and all. “How did you get cut?”
He leaned against his car beside me as I started opening the packets of gauze. “A shard of glass was next to you, and when you…jerked yourself up, I moved it away from you.”When I put my hands on his chest.
“Hmm. Well, thank you.” I held out my hand. “Ready?” He shuffled closer to me before giving me his hand. The cut was deep and it took several minutes of dabbing and pressing into it with the gauze before the blood relented enough to continue.
“Where did you learn to do this?” He motioned at the bag of sutures that I kept nearby because I was still torn between needing to use them or not.
“What, use a bandage and some gauze?” I laughed and his eyes narrowed on me.
“No, Rose. The sutures you’re thinking about using.”
I shrugged. “My grandfather works on cars a lot, and his hands aren’t always steady. He taught me how to treat his injuries because my grandmother hates the sight of blood, and my grandfather hates going to the doctor.” I started placing the butterflies along the cut, and he hissed through his teeth. There were surely more bottles of some kind of liquor back at the bonfire, something that would numb the pain he was finally showing signs of having.
I glanced over his shoulder. “If you want to go back, you can.” Briggs’ emerald eyes darkened under his furrowed brows, the light of the moon still pooling around him like it was aware my only interest was him. His hand rocked slightly against where my hand was cradling it when I didn’t reply right away.
“No, it's not that. I was just thinking—well…”
“What?” His voice was softer this time, less demanding.
“I was wondering if you’d want more liquor to distract you from…I might…”
“Rose. Tell me.” Even the way he said my name made tingles spread along my arms that effused sweet, tangy citrus. I swallowed as I remembered asking if he showered with oranges, and a heat spread across my cheeks at the thought of him in the shower. With oranges, of course.
“I might have to stitch you up next. Just like, one or two stitches, right—” I let my finger slide down next to the length of his cut, to the spot where it dipped between two of his fingers. “Here.”
“Okay. Do it.”
I hesitated. “Seriously? You trust me?”
He looked me over. “You said you knew what you were doing.”
I straightened. “I do.”
Briggs’ rigid shoulders relaxed. “Then I don’t see what the problem is. And no, I don’t need the liquor. I’m a big boy,” he taunted, throwing my phrase back at me. But I wasn’t as focused on the taunt as much as I was on the words. I was just thinking of him in the shower, and hearing he was a big boy, well, it wasn’t exactly helping the situation.
I pushed the thoughts away—or tried to—as I got the needle ready. “You don’t need…umm…any distractions?”
“You’re starting to sound rather unsure of your talents,” he said pointedly.
“I’m not. But normally, this part kind of hurts.”
His eyes fell to my lips, then flashed just over my shoulder. “Well, you can talk to me, if you’d like.”
And because I suck at keeping my thoughts as just that, I said, “You’re pretty.” Right as the needle dipped into his flesh.
His body went rigid instead of flinching back. I looked him over, letting the needle sit still for a moment before I tugged it through. Still, no flinch. Not even a hint of pain.
“Pretty?” He smirked, the moonlight playing games with the shadows casting over his dimpled cheek.Prettywasn’t the right word. But I settled on it and nodded. “There’s not a single pretty thing about me, Rose.” My name came out like a purr as it vibrated from his throat and I felt like a kitten wanton for pats along my back.
I shrugged as a faint, distant laugh erupted from the area where the bonfire was turning into a drunken dance party. But that was all too easily ignored. “From where I’m standing, you are.”
“We should move, then.” He started rising from his propped position against the opened trunk. I pushed him back down gently, placing my unencumbered hand over his chest while my other hand supported his hand, the needle still buried in his wound. He settled back against the car and I wedged myself between his spread legs, preventing him from trying to move again.
“I’m busy, and you shouldn’t be moving, no matter how beautiful you are.” I pulled the needle up, arching a brow at him while showing him just how busy I was.
“Don’t call me that.” His voice was husky and low and full of warning. I liked it.
