CHAPTER 29

Josh

“Shit!” The saw blade slices through my hand and in seconds I’ve got blood soaking my pants where I’m pressing down on it with the palm of my other hand. I’m not good with blood. In fact, I am absolutely horrible when it comes to blood, so this situation pretty much sucks for me.

I sink down to the ground and lean against the cabinets. I need to stop the bleeding, but sitting is taking priority because I think I might pass out.

“What the hell, Josh?” Nastya is picking up my hand and I want to tell her to stop because there’s so much blood, but I just end up cursing again.

“Here.” She’s got pressure on the cut now and I’m trying to reach up with my right arm to grab the towel that’s on the counter. She shoves it away.

“That’s covered with grease and sawdust. Crap!” she says as my blood starts running down her arm while her hand stays clamped over the gash. “Hold this!” She grabs my right hand back and presses it over the blood-gushing split across my left palm.

I make the mistake of looking before she presses my hand down over it again, and I get seriously lightheaded. Blood is my kryptonite. Massive amounts of puke I can handle, but I can’t do blood. Especially my own.

“A lot of blood,” I breathe out.

“No, it’s not,” she says, pressing her hand down on top of mine.

“Yes, it is,” I manage, because I’m right on this one. If I’m sitting on the floor like a pu**y because of some blood, then I’m going to insist that it’s an awful lot of blood.

“No,” she says emphatically, and there’s no room left for discussion when she looks right in my eyes, forcing me to focus on her. “It’s really not.”

She keeps glancing around for something to stop the bleeding.

“Can you get up?” she asks.

Fuck. I’m gonna pass out in front of her if she makes me stand right now. Before I can fully absorb the humiliation of that thought, she diverts my attention. By taking off her shirt. She has it off in one motion and is wrapping it around my hand before I can ask her what the hell she’s doing. It’s almost more impressive than the bra maneuver.

“Shouldn’t I be the one taking off my shirt?” I ask to lighten the moment. At least for me. She doesn’t seem at all affected.

“If I thought you could get it off before you lost another pint of blood, believe me, I would have gone that route.” She pulls the shirt tight around my hand and holds it down. “Besides, I have to focus, and looking at you shirtless might cause me to hyperventilate. Then we’d both be passed out.” Sarcastic smartass.

“I haven’t passed out.” Yet.

“Yet,” she smiles, lifting my hand and checking out her work. “Now at least you won’t bleed all over the carpet. Inside,” she commands, but I’m too busy staring at her chest in a pink lace bra. I’m not sure if I’m more shocked by the fact that I’m staring at her tits or by the fact that it’s pink, not black, but at least it’s got my mind off of the blood. And then, before I can even move to stand, my traitorous dick jerks. I’m bleeding out in the middle of my garage. Ten seconds ago, my worst fear was that I would pass out in front of her. That’s not my worst fear anymore. It does it again and I’m in the midst of an undeniable hard-on. Now I try to think about the blood, but she’s right in front of me, offering to help me up and it’s far too late for that. She glances down. Of course she glances down.

“You’re kidding me, right?” She looks back to my face, and if I had any blood to spare, it would probably turn red. Fortunately, between my dick and my hand, all of my blood is spoken for right now. “Seriously? Right now? At this moment? Seriously?” She shakes her head and laughs and it’s almost worth all of the embarrassment. “It must so suck to be a guy.”

“Your fault. You’re the one who took off your shirt.”

“If you get your ass into the house, I can put on another one.” She’s gently pulling on my upper arm.

I push myself up as slowly as possible. Thankfully the shirt is knotted tight enough around my hand that the bleeding is under control and I’m able to make it inside without sacrificing what’s left of my Y chromosome.

A few minutes later, she comes out of my bedroom wearing one of my t-shirts, and it might almost be worse than seeing her in no shirt at all. She sets the first aid kit on the table in front of us.

“Is this the only thing you have? I think I’m going to need more.”

“Guest bathroom. Under the sink.”

Now we have a huge bottle of peroxide and extra gauze and she looks at me nervously before unwrapping the shirt.

“Don’t watch. Okay?”

“I thought it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not. But I think a paper cut might do you in, so just close your eyes or look over there or something.”

I pick or something. I reach out with my good hand and lift up the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing and trace my thumb up one of the scars on her abdomen that I was too busy staring at her chest earlier to really study. Her breath hitches almost imperceptibly at the contact, before she swats my hand away and I drop the shirt.

“You haven’t lost so much blood that I’m above hitting you. And if I hit you, it will hurt.”

I don’t doubt that for a second. “What’s it from? The scar?”

“Surgery.”

“No shit, Sunshine. What about the one by your hair?” I’ve wanted to ask about this one for ages. The other one, I just discovered tonight, along with a pink lace bra and a set of abs that is just insane.

“Catfight.”

“That I can believe.”

“Good. Quit talking. I’m afraid you’re going to pass out as it is.”

“Then you talk to me.” I lean my head back and close my eyes while she starts on my hand.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Anything other than blood. Tell me a story.”

“What kind of story would you like?” she cajoles me like a five-year old which is exactly what I’m acting like right now. I blame blood loss.

“The real one.”

“You said you didn’t want to hear about blood.”

I don’t know what that means, but I know it means something. It’s just another piece of the puzzle she is. But the more she gives me, the more abstract she gets. It’s like pieces to three different puzzles. You try to put them together but they never fit, and when you force them, the picture comes out all wrong.

She’s got my hand unwrapped at this point, and I watch her face while she’s cleaning it. She doesn’t look bothered at all. Once some of the blood is gone, I can’t help checking it out. The gash runs from the base of my thumb diagonally across my palm towards my wrist. It hurts like a bitch. She covers it with some antibiotic crap and wraps it with gauze because there aren’t any bandages big enough to cover it.

She disappears into the kitchen and I hear her open the fridge and dig through the cabinets. When she comes back, she hands me a can of soda and a chocolate bar. In addition to the ice cream, she has taken to stashing candy here, too. I wonder how long it’ll be before she has a shelf in the medicine cabinet and a drawer in my dresser. And once that happens, I wonder how long it’ll be before she’s gone.

“Am I dying?” I ask.

“I think you’ll live. Why?” She’s amused.

“Because giving up your sugar is like giving up your life’s blood. I figure I must be dying.”

“Consider it a transfusion. You’re as pale as me right now. It’s scary.”

“I didn’t think anything scared you.”

“Not the sight of blood. Unlike some people.” She smirks at me.

“I owe you a shirt. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You were bleeding like a son of a bitch. I didn’t have time to fight with yours. Besides, you know how many people have seen me without my clothes? Doesn’t bother me.”

I’m not touching that last part. I like thinking about her without her clothes, but I don’t like thinking about anybody else seeing it. “I thought you said it wasn’t that much blood.”

She tightens the gauze and puts my hand back on the table. “Relatively speaking, it wasn’t.”

“Relative to what? Being shanked?”

“You should probably still get stitches.” The look I give her tells her that is not happening. “It’ll heal faster. Plus, you need to get it looked at to see if you sliced a tendon or something.”

I wince at the sliced a tendon comment and I catch her smirk at me again. She’s getting to do a lot of smirking at my expense tonight.

“The longer it takes to heal, the longer you won’t be able to play with your tools,” she sing-songs. I’m not oblivious to the double entendre and I could probably make some lame comeback about still having my right hand, but she knows she’s hitting home right now and I’m listening. “Compromise,” she says, grabbing her phone and shooting off a text. “Margot’s off tonight. If she’s home, you let her look.” The phone beeps a few seconds later and she holds it up. Come on over.

An hour later, we’re back at my house. My hand is treated and wrapped and I’ve been sworn off tools for at least a week, depending on how it heals.

“Your left hand sucks now, too.” She picks up my bandaged hand and turns it over in hers. “You’re going to go crazy aren’t you?”

“High probability.” The thought of a week or more of not being able to work is more depressing than I want to admit.

“You won’t even be able to wash the dishes.” She’s loving this.

“We’ll use paper plates,” I respond dryly.

“I sit with you for your therapy,” she says, and it takes me a minute to realize what she’s talking about. The garage, the tools, the wood, the work. My therapy. The thing that keeps me sane. “Want to come along for mine?”

Her therapy turns out to be nightly running. Not jogging. Not a leisurely stroll. Hard ass running. She’s been kicking my ass for three days in a row like a tiny, porcelain drill instructor. It’s miserable and exhausting. I’ve thrown up every time. I wish I could say I hate it.

I haven’t been able to keep up with her, at least not for any real distance. My legs are longer and I can take her in a sprint, but I have no stamina. She can go hard for miles, but the way she does it, nothing about it is for exercise. She runs like something is chasing her.

“It gets easier,” she says, standing several feet away while I purge in the bushes at some unfortunate stranger’s house.

“Only if I keep doing it,” I respond, thinking I should start running with a bottle of mouthwash. Or at least gum.

“You’re not going to?” Not surprised or curious. Disappointed.

I don’t do well with disappointment. Especially not hers. If she wants me to run with her, I will. Maybe she’ll eventually get tired of waiting for me to keep up and she’ll send me home where I can hide in my garage. Running away is her thing. Hiding is mine.

When we get back to my house, I jump in the shower immediately and offer to drive her home when I get out. I have to yank myself out of the water because I could probably stay in there all night. Every part of my body aches.

When I get out to the family room, there’s a note on the coffee table.

Had to run – no pun intended. Couldn’t trust myself knowing you were wet and na**d in the next room. Didn’t want to tempt fate. See you tomorrow.

P.S. I folded your laundry. Don’t worry. I didn’t touch your panties.