Open Wounds: The Boxed Set

by Michelle Frost

  He could see Dagen’s throat work from where he stood across the kitchen. “I, uh, like to try spicy things…but they generally don’t like me.” There was a spark in Dagen’s eyes, timid, but there and Ollie’s heart started to thud in his chest.

  Holy shit. Is he really flirting with me?

  Testing, he walked back to the island and let his tongue run over his bottom lip. Dagen’s eyes tracked the move before snapping back up to hold his and the air in the room charged. Ollie needed to be careful. Dagen seemed like a genuinely decent guy, even if he could probably break Ollie with one hand, but he shouldn’t be getting himself tangled up with someone new or with anyone period.

  He took breath and let it out slow, reaching for the hot sauce and turned his back on the big man still watching his every move. For some reason, he didn’t want to see Dagen’s face when he uttered his next words.

  “Probably best to stay away from them then.”

  Chapter Three

  Dagen heaved out a sigh and rolled to his other side, punching the pillow under his head into a more comfortable lump. Only he wasn't comfortable. His room was cool and quiet, the only noise coming from the rain tapping lightly at the window beside his bed and that alone was usually enough to help him drift off, but not tonight. He'd barely managed to sleep last night either.

  It was strange having someone else in the apartment. Giving up fighting with his pillow, he flopped onto his back and rolled his eyes at himself for skirting the truth even in his own head. Having someone else in the apartment wasn't the problem. Rory and Harbor crashed there all the time. Having Oliver in the apartment was a problem.

  Their conversation in the kitchen flashed through his mind. He’d been embarrassed when Oliver had caught him checking out his ass. While he was certainly attracted to his new roommate, it was more than an average case of lust. Dagen wanted to talk to him, wanted to know him. Wanted to know what had driven him from a tattoo shop in Las Vegas to a suburb of Cincinnati with barely a handful of boxes in a rusted old Jeep.

  Jesus, I sound like a creeper.

  Dagen sighed. The last thing he needed was to be lusting after this man. Or anyone really. The only thing that should be on his mind was lifting in his first competition since his injury and getting to the state lifting competition, so he could qualify for Nationals. He'd finally been released by the doctor to train the way he needed to and had so little time to get back up to speed. Getting to Nationals meant the chance to move from amateur lifting shows to professional ones. A pro card would give him the chance to land some sponsors, train full time, and finally pay Vidar back for everything his brother had done for him. Dagen knew Vidar wouldn't accept money, not that he could put a sum on all the ways his family had supported him, but placing at state and getting to Nationals could bring not only sponsors and the chance to compete professionally, but exposure. For the gym. For the tattoo shop. More than anything, he wanted to be able to contribute, in a real way.

  He took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out slow. Despite his attempt to steer his thoughts in another direction, an image of Oliver from yesterday, sun-kissed and standing in the parking lot with something like hope in his dark eyes, flashed through Dagen's mind. He ran one hand down through the coarse hair on his chest and over his stomach to cup himself through his black boxer briefs, wondering if a jerk would help put him out, when he heard a grunt from the room down the hall. He stilled instantly, breath trapped in his chest, and listened for any other sounds. A quick glance at his bedside clock told him it was almost two in the morning. He'd have thought Oliver would be asleep by now.

  Seconds ticked by before he heard another grunt and what sounded like a muffled curse. Heat swarmed his body, his mind conjuring up an image of what could have Oliver making those kinds of sounds. Dark hair thrashing against a white pillow. Teeth buried in a plump bottom lip. Long, slim fingers moving frantically beneath soft material. Dagen stifled a groan with his free hand while the other palmed his dick.

  The sound of a door opening had him freezing in place. Footsteps whispered down the hall, and he expected to hear the bathroom door open. Instead, a gasped whimper filtered through the door and more steps heading in the direction of the kitchen. A moment later, dim light filtered in from under his closed door, and he knew it was from the light over the stove. The subtle sound of a chair scraping and another small gasp had him sitting up in bed. Concern had his erection wilting, and he slipped out of bed before pulling on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

  He opened his door and walked through the dimly lit apartment. Just as he thought, the light over the stove was turned to its low setting, casting a yellow glow over the dark kitchen.

  The little table in the breakfast nook was shadowed enough that Dagen thought he'd misheard the sound of a chair scraping, but as he got closer, Oliver's huddled form became clearer. He'd pulled one of the chairs back from the table and was sitting hunched over with his head resting on his arms, like he was in grade school and the teacher had told him to put his head down.

  When Oliver didn't move as he approached, Dagen shuffled his feet so he wouldn't startle the man. It didn't work. Oliver jerked up from his hunched position and immediately hissed through his teeth, his right hand reaching down to hold his side.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Dagen said, quickly and quietly, something about the darkness making him keep his voice low.

  "Shit," Oliver gasped, just as quietly, pain evident in his voice. He blew out a shuddery breath, then looked over his shoulder to where Dagen was still standing at the edge of the kitchen. "It's alright. Sorry if I woke you."

  "Oliver, what's going on? Are you sick?"

  For some reason that punched a laugh out of him, even though there was no amusement in it. "No. Not sick." With another deep breath, he pushed himself up out of the chair and turned like he would head back to his room. "I'll get out of your hair."

  "Oliver, stop, please," Dagen said, stepping into his path. Oliver was still holding his side, and Dagen was getting seriously worried now. Dagen held his gaze and felt his heart clench at the pain and exhaustion radiating from the him. Gently, he lifted his hand to Oliver's elbow and turned him so the light hit the side he was still holding. "Can I?"

  Oliver's shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded.

  Dagen reached for the hem of Oliver's shirt and lifted. Then immediately wished he hadn't. Ugly, dark bruises littered Oliver's skin from above his hip, over his kidney, to under his right pec. A million different things slammed through Dagen at the sight: questions, concern, rage. When he found his voice, he was surprised at the low growl that came out of him. "What the hell? Oliver, who did this?" Oliver stepped back at the questions, forcing Dagen to release the shirt or tear it off him, but Dagen didn't back down. Dagen worked in a fight gym, he knew bruises made by fists and kicks when he saw them, and he saw them all the time. So, why were the ones discoloring Oliver's skin the only ones that had ever made him want to put his fist through a wall?

  "It doesn't matter," Oliver said. "I'm sorry I bothered you, but I can't get comfortable enough to sleep."

  "It doesn't matter?" Dagen asked, incredulous. "Of course it matters! Oliver, you need to go to the hospi—"

  "I already did," Oliver snapped, taking another step back. "I stopped on my way out of Vegas. Nothing is broken, but it was kind of hard to ice it on the road. Time is the only thing that will help now." Oliver gusted out a breath and winced.

  Dagen gritted his teeth until he thought his jaw might crack but forced himself to rein in his outrage. Three days Oliver had had these bruises, and whoever gave them to him had him running fast enough he didn't even take the time to treat them properly. Dagen realized if he pushed now, Oliver might close off completely, maybe even run. "Not the only thing. I can help if you'll let me."

  Oliver stayed where he'd retreated, hand still cradling his side. His eyes tracked from Dagen's face down to his still-fisted hands, and Dagen forced himself to relax hi
s fingers and his voice.

  "Look, I know we don't know each other. Not really, but I would never—"

  "I know," Oliver interrupted, causing Dagen to meet his eyes again. "That's not…" Oliver huffed out a deep breath. "It's just nobody's business. Okay? It's done."

  Dagen nodded. He didn't like it, but Oliver was right, it wasn't anyone's business unless Oliver decided it needed to be or if there was more trouble to come. "Okay, I understand. Can I go grab a couple things for you?"

  Oliver deflated. "Sure."

  It only took Dagen a moment to grab what he needed from his first aid supplies. When he made it back to the kitchen, Oliver had resumed his spot at the table, only he'd turned the chair around so that he was straddling it with his folded arms leaning on the back. Wanting to keep the tentative peace they seemed to have entered into, Dagen turned the light over the stove to its high setting and ignored the switch for the larger overhead light.

  "Can you take off your shirt?"

  Oliver hesitated for only a moment before reaching behind his head and gripping his collar to pull the white t-shirt covering his lean torso over his head. Dagen moved to stand behind him and winced all over again at the deep purple splotches. He laid his supplies on the table and went to the cabinet by the sink for a glass. Over his shoulder he said, "Have you taken any pain relievers recently?"

  Oliver shook his head. "No, I took so much Tylenol that first day, I didn't want to keep taking it."

  "Okay." Dagen filled the glass with water and set it in front of Oliver. He pointed to one of the bottles he'd set on the table. "Ibuprofen. Take two now. It'll help ease it enough for you to sleep. I'm going to put some of this salve on it and then wrap it up."

  Oliver took the pills and drank his water while Dagen screwed off the lid to a mason jar filled halfway with a white substance. Oliver sniffed.

  "What is that?"

  Dagen smiled. "It's a homemade bruise remedy my mom makes for all of us. Don't ask me what's in it because I have no clue." He stepped behind Oliver again and squatted down before scooping some of the salve out of the jar with his fingers. "It's gonna be cold."

  Even with the warning, Oliver tensed when Dagen made contact. He kept his touch light to not cause any more discomfort as he rubbed the ointment onto Oliver's abused skin.

  "What's it do?"

  Oliver's voice was low, and Dagen was struck with the intimacy that had wrapped around them in the quiet of the dim kitchen. "It, uh, is supposed to make bruises disappear faster, but mom said it's good for any light abrasions or skin irritation. I honestly don't know if it really works, but it feels nice." Dagen chuckled and Oliver looked over his shoulder at him.

  "What?"

  "Rory swears by it, puts it on all the time. Vidar always gives him shit for having the softest hands in the gym. I think he's just trying to stay in my mom's good graces."

  "Must be nice you're all so close." There was something painfully wistful in Oliver's quiet reply, and Dagen frowned to himself. Everywhere he stepped with Oliver, it seemed to land them on a sore subject.

  He stood up and asked Oliver to do the same. Oliver pushed himself out of the chair with only a minor wince and turned to face Dagen. Stepping in close, he finished covering all the bruises. Quiet tension stretched between them with Oliver's face so close to his. He cleared his throat and set the jar on the table before reaching for the ace bandage. "Let's try compression, if it's not comfortable, you can take it off." He unrolled the wrap and stepped back to Oliver who lifted his arms away from his sides. Dagen began to gently wrap the bandage around him and had to force himself to focus on his task instead of the lean contours of Oliver's body, or the way it brushed against his, or how he could imagine Oliver fitting so perfectly in his arms when he passed the bandage around his back.

  It only got worse when Oliver rested his hands on Dagen's shoulders to keep his arms out of the way and let Dagen work. With Dagen's head bent down, their foreheads were scant centimeters apart, and Dagen tried not to even breathe as he secured the bandage with the lightest possible touch.

  "Thank you, Dagen." Oliver looked up at him, their faces nearly brushing, and gave Dagen's shoulders a tiny squeeze before lowering his hands back to his sides and taking a step back.

  Dagen cleared his throat. "Anytime. Now come on, let's get you settled."

  Chapter Four

  "Hey, Ollie, got a question for you," Kayla's voice called from her tattoo room down the hall.

  It was Wednesday afternoon and his second week at Open Wounds. Ollie had finished with his third walk-in tattoo of the day, some script set over the muscular oblique of one of the gym regulars. The man hadn't seemed to mind Ollie's hands on him at all, and Ollie mused that, if he were looking, he'd landed himself smack in the middle of eye-candy central. He hadn't really spent any time in the gym, but a few quick glances through the glass door emblazoned with Rourke MMA that led from the lobby of the tattoo shop into the gym told him it was glorious, half-naked, muscular heaven.

  Ollie rolled his eyes at himself because he wasn't looking. And wasn't willing to let himself get entangled with someone right now. Maybe never again or at least not while the marks from his last "relationship" hadn't completely faded from his body. The memory of the gentle glide of Dagen's hands over his mistreated skin stole through his mind, and he barely suppressed a shiver. Every night that first week, Dagen had tended to his bruises, checking to make sure none were darkening or spreading, and applying his mom's homemade bruise remedy. Ollie admitted it did make his skin feel nice, and he liked the clean scent.

  That night in the kitchen, Ollie had hit a low point, hurting and frustrated, and he hadn't wanted to trust Dagen. He barely knew him, but even though Dagen could probably crush him with one hand, the giant of a man had been so gentle with him, applying the salve and wrapping his torso. After that, he'd brought him one of the king-sized pillows from his own bed and told Ollie to sleep spooning the pillow while lying on his uninjured side. It had worked. Maybe he was just that exhausted, but he hadn't slept as well as he had the past two weeks in years. He refused to believe it had anything to do with his nose being tucked against soft fabric saturated in Dagen's scent or the sleeping giant’s presence right down the hall.

  Liar.

  It certainly wasn't because of the way Dagen stopped by a couple times a day just to say hello and ask if Ollie had eaten lunch. Apparently, doing the kind of weight lifting Dagen did meant he had to eat five or six meals a day, and he thought he needed to offer Ollie sustenance just as often. Ollie shook his head at himself. He needed to keep his head out of the clouds and off his gorgeous and stupidly caring roommate. And that was the real problem, wasn't it? Dagen was beautiful, unequivocally so, but Ollie didn't lump him in with the other beefcake sauntering around here. Because even though Ollie’s dick woke up and took notice every time Dagen walked into a room, that wasn't what kept Ollie's thoughts hostage, and it absolutely wasn't the reason that after less than a month, Ollie was beginning to trust the man. It was because he felt cared for. Like Dagen actually cared about him. Maybe that was stupid, but nobody had really cared about Ollie for anything other than what he could do for them in such a long time that he was having trouble defending against it. And if he was being honest with himself, he knew the real problem was that he just didn't want to.

  Dagen may be faking it. He may have an ulterior motive, and maybe Ollie was too tired to give it the kind of fear it deserved, but his gut was telling him that he didn't have to. That with Dagen, maybe there wasn't anything to fear. And that...that was the most terrifying bit of all.

  "Ollie?"

  "Yeah, I'm coming, sorry." He snapped himself out of his thoughts and tossed the sanitizing towel he'd been using to wipe down his tattoo chair into the trash before walking the short distance down the hall to Kayla's room.

  "What's up?"

  Kayla looked up from the phone in her hand. "I just got off the phone with a potential customer. He's some kind of ancient
Japan enthusiast and is looking for someone to sketch him a custom samurai tattoo. You've done some work like that, haven't you?"

  "Yeah, I've actually got some sketched, if we want to send him some examples. I haven't unpacked all my sketchbooks so it may take me a minute to find them, but they're right upstairs."

  "That would be great Ollie, thanks." She shot him a grin, and he felt himself grin back. Even if things were weird with Dagen, it was nice to finally feel like maybe there was someplace he belonged.

  It was awkward. There was no other way to describe it. It had been almost two weeks and other than those first few nights, they'd barely spent any time together at all. Dagen had tried inviting Oliver to eat with him. To watch a movie. Anything to make the obviously uncomfortable man feel more at ease. He'd been racking his brain trying to figure out what he said when they met that Oliver had taken to mean Dagen didn't want him there.

  Admittedly, Dagen hadn't wanted him there, but, if Dagen was honest, one look at Oliver had changed that. And not just because the man was gorgeous. Which he was. Smooth tan skin, coal black hair, and chocolate eyes that Dagen was prepared to drown in given half the chance. No, it was the dark circles under those eyes that had first pinged some protective instinct in Dagen. Oliver was exhausted. The kind that came from more than lack of sleep. There was a wariness in his eyes and posture that would have had Dagen concerned even if he hadn't seen the busted knuckles on Oliver's right hand or the bruises on his torso.

  When he'd lifted Oliver's shirt in the kitchen that night, Dagen's blood had boiled seeing the mottled splotches of purple and red covering Oliver's side. Now, he wanted to know what the hell had happened to the quiet man he was sharing space with.

  Planning to invite Oliver to eat dinner with him again and somehow talk him into accepting the invitation, Dagen took the stairs from the back room up to the apartment for a shower. He'd need to go to the grocery store before he started dinner, and he didn't want to smell like he'd been sweating in a gym all morning. This had been his last hard lifting day before Saturday’s competition. His training was getting back to normal even though he was still struggling with his deadlift. Rory kept telling him to take it easy, to do what he could, but he felt the hooks of failure sinking in and trying to drag him back down to the depression he'd sunk into after his injury. Before he tore his hamstring, he hadn't had an episode that severe in several years and would do everything he could to keep it from getting that bad again.