crotch, hoping to hide evidence of the direction in which my thoughts are wandering.
She doesn’t seem to notice. She reaches out and takes my hand, lifting it. “That’s a deep cut.”
“I’m okay.” But I don’t pull my hand away. “It’s nothing.”
She appears about to say something more, but then she glances outside and presses the button for her stop.
I get up and help her hobble to the exit. “Come up,” she says. “I’ll bandage that cut for you.”
I open my mouth and close it. She’s asking me up, to her apartment. I want to pinch myself; I must be dreaming. “All right.”
All right. The two little words are too small for such an event, one I wouldn’t have foreseen in a thousand years. But I’ll take it. Goddamn, I’ll take it. She’s finally talking to me, and maybe I’ll have a chance to explain, to apologize. If only I can find the right words...
She leans on me as we make our slow way to her building, and gasps but says nothing when I lift her to my chest once more and climb up the stairs. I love her weight in my arms, the way she curls her hand behind my neck. It’s taking everything I have not to kiss her. She’s letting me touch her, hold her, but all I can hope for right now is her friendship. She’s already let me much closer than I ever hoped.
I put her down so she can unlock her door, and help her inside. She turns on a light and it floods her living room. Cozy. Soft colors. Not the pink, flowery affair I expected.
Audrey’s is done in brown and gray, and her carpet is a lush red. I feel at ease here. Some drawings are spread over the dining table, but I barely glance at them as I lead her to the beige couch.
She sinks down with a sigh of relief. I kneel at her feet and take off her boot to check her ankle. She makes a small noise that has me glancing up, afraid I’ve overstepped some boundary, but she says nothing. Her green eyes are unreadable.
I clench my jaw and focus on the task at hand. Her ankle is a bit swollen, but not too bad. I have to ice it down.
“I’ll be right back,” I say and hurry to her kitchenette. I get a bag of frozen peas from her freezer and wrap it up in a towel.
When I return to the room, I find her studying her ankle, a crease between her brows. I see her every curve outlined under her sweater and pants, her pursed mouth, and desire hits me full force. I freeze, all my blood rushing south so fast I get light-headed.
“Ash?”
Her voice breaks through the trance and I make myself walk back to the couch. I go back down on my knees—where I want to be with her, and damn that’s a line of thinking I should stop right now—and lift her foot onto the couch, then place the wrapped bag on top of her ankle.
“Keep it there,” I say, aware my voice’s hoarse as if I’ve smoked a pack of cigarettes. “It should take down the swelling. It doesn’t look like a bad sprain.”
She reaches for my hand again and fuck, I’ve smeared blood on my clothes, her clothes, her towel and her couch.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’ll go wash it.”
“No, wait.” She looks at my hand, her brows knitting. I’m starting to dig her focused expression. It’s cute. “There’s a first aid kit under my sink in the bathroom. Would you get it?”
She’s really going to patch me up? I get to my feet and go to find the kit before she changes her mind and realizes who she’s been talking to. A good for nothing. A school dropout. Her father’s killer’s son.
I get the kit and when I return, she motions for me to sit beside her. I obey, a bit dazed, and she takes my hand again, examining my knuckles.
I can’t feel any pain. All I can feel is her small hand, the weight of her concerned gaze, her attention turned on me.
Someone should take care of you , Zane had said, his words flashing in my mind and making my throat tight.
She puts my hand down on her leg and I stare at it, entranced. My hand. On her body. I have to be in shock,