Very carefully, I shed my jacket then my cut, hang that on the back of her bathroom door before I peel my shirt up over my head and get the first good look at my gut.
Eh, it’s not that bad. Four or five stitches tops, and I can do that myself. Easy. My head may be another story though. I’ve gotten good at stitching myself up over the years but if my head is bad enough, I won’t be able to do it. One functioning eye definitely makes it tricky.
I lean my ass against the counter and start rummaging through this woman’s industrial size first aid kit—evidence of someone who is always prepared or really just a huge klutz—and find what I need to suture myself up.
Another scar to add to my collection.
“Did you decide to let me—holy million muscles, Batman.”
My eyes flick to the doorway mid-stitch and I can’t help but grin.
Blondie is standing there with an ice pack and towel, her jaw slack, amber eyes wide as they roam over my shirtless torso. This time I’ll definitely own the way it makes me feel to have Blondie devour me with her gaze, a heat and hunger I can practically feel on every inch of my exposed skin. I’ll own that prideful shit all day long.
“Did I decide what now, honey?” I smirk and thread the needle through my wound.
She blinks repeatedly, licks her lips then seems to gather herself and clears her throat. “Did you decide to... wow. You have a lot of muscles.” Blondie’s eyes snap to mine. “I mean tattoos. You have a lot of muscle tattoos. Tattoos! Just a lot of nice tattoos.”
I chuckle. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to let me look at your muscles? I mean head! Are you going to let me look at your head?” Her shoulders sag. “Jesus.”
“My head will be fine until I get back home, but you can look at my muscles all you want until I’m finished.”
“Oh my god.” Blondie tries to bury her face in her hands but ends up clocking herself with the ice pack instead.
Man, I really like this woman.
I finish fixing the hole in my gut, but when I go to stand, I get really dizzy and end up planting back on the counter.
Fuck.
“You are being ridiculous, Cy.” Blondie marches over, pushes me off the counter and onto the toilet lid, lifts her hand but stops with her fingers on the bill of my cap. “I’m not sure what you’re afraid of, but you need to get over it so I can make sure your brain isn’t hanging out.”
I really don’t want her to see my face, that’s what this boils down to.
It ain’t pretty, not even close, and if I’m afraid of anything, it’s having someone as pure and sweet as Blondie looking at it and thinking less of me. I don’t want her pity, don’t want her questions. And I definitely don’t want to see the look of disgust on her face when she sees my dead eye and scars. I just want to keep pretending I’m a whole man who might have a shot with this incredible woman, no matter how absurd that seems. Once she sees what I’m hiding, everything will change, and while I know it’s inevitable, I still don’t want it to.
But I blow out a breath and nod because she’s right. My brain probably isn’t hanging out, but someone needs to look at my head right now and it’ll make for a clean break when I storm out of here, pissed off at myself for entertaining ridiculous fantasies over something meaningful with Blondie.
Carefully, she lifts my hat and sets it on the counter. I hold my breath while her fingers comb through my hair and feel around the back and top of my head.
“Two lumps,” Blondie sighs. “Maybe the size of golf balls.” Then her tiny digits are sliding to the front of my head where she gently lifts the hair in my face and pushes it back. “Aha.”
I frown.
Aha?
That’s a first.
Usually, it’sew grossoroh my god what happened? No one has ever seen the left side of my face and saidahabefore. Whatever, though. I’m sure the shock and disgust will set in soon enough.
“I think I can close this up with a few butterfly bandages. It’s not that deep, just the surface really, which is probably why it bled so much.” She smiles down at me when I chance a look at her. “It’s like when wrestlers get hit in the forehead with a steel chair. The skin splits easily and bleeds like the dickens but doesn’t require a ton of medical attention.”
“Ok...” Once again, there’s a lot to unpack there. Her smile, for starters. It isn’t full of pity or sympathy. It’s genuine and prettier than I’ve ever seen before. The fact that she’s familiar with this kind of wound is something else too. Makes me wonder how many times she’s split her head open herself. And a wrestling reference? Did Blondie seriously just compare my noggin to a wrestler’s because she’s seen this shit on TV? This chick is an enigma.
“I should wash your hair before I close your head.”
Now I’m looking directly at her, dead eye and scars right in her face, but Blondie is either too nice to show me how grossed out she is or she’s really good at pretending she doesn’t notice the mangled mess I am.
