by Hazel Grace
She needs her bandage changed.
Fuck, her leg.
It's probably infected, and then she's really going to have to go to the hospital.
Jostling the door open like I’m partaking in a drug deal, I’m awarded with my narcotic of choice lately. Stormi sits upright in the middle of the bed, wearing the same tee from before with her chin dug into her chest. Her blonde hair curtains around her face and shoulders, blocking my full view of her.
It's possible because she hasn't eaten, but she looks smaller—weaker.
"Stormi," I repeat more softly as I approach the bed. Sluggishly, she pulls her head up, eyes bloodshot, and sweat masking her face like she just ran a 5k. "What the fuck."
I’m on her within a second, grabbing her clammy hand and resting the back of my palm along her forehead.
She’s fucking burning up.
“C’mon,” I urge, rearranging my arms to lift her off the bed. “We need to get you in the shower.”
She doesn't protest like I expect her to; instead, she goes limp as I carry her out of the bedroom and to the other side of the hallway.
She needs a fucking doctor. I need to call Lucien and get his ass up here. He's our twenty-four hour, seven days a week physician. We hit him up when we're in a jam, he sews up gunshot wounds, stabbings, cuts and whatever else we need him for.
Stormi appears like she's on the right side of death.
“Can you sit on the toilet for me?” I kneel, still holding on to her while her blue eyes click to mine.
And I’m going to take that as a yes.
Gently I place her down, let her go, and wait to make sure she can sit up on her own. When she does, I start up the water, getting it to a warm temperature before turning back to her.
"I know you're not going to like this, but I have to take off some of your clothes." I think I preferred the silence when she more than likely wanted to tell me to get fucked by a broken beer bottle.
Her chin doesn't pry from her chest, light locks of her hair curtain around her face.
I broke this woman.
I ripped her from her home, shoved her in the trunk of my car, and chased her around an abandoned warehouse when she ran from me. I poured gallons of water over her clothed face to choke her out and hint that I wasn't fucking around.
Stormi lets out a small groan, cowering over more and jerking me from my thoughts.
My hands grip her biceps as I squat down to hold her steady. "Stormi, I—"
I don't know what to do.
Reaching behind me, I pull out my phone. Dialing Lucien, he picks up on the second ring.
"Emric, the gloomy, dark cloud of death," he greets cheerily. "What can I do for you today?"
"Need you up at the cabin ASAP."
"Mhm, no can do right now," he drawls. 'I have—"
"I have a bullet with your name on it if you don't get your ass up here."
"Is it Reagan?" His voice suddenly turns from teasing to solemn. That's one of the things about B723, we take care of family. We take care of each other's shit. "Did something happen to her?"
I shake my head mindlessly. "No, she's fine. I'll give you the details when you get here, but I need you like yesterday."
"I have a surgery scheduled in the morning." He lets out a heavy sigh with my absence of a response that follows. "Fuck...I'll see you in an hour."
He hangs up, a small twinge of hope filters through me that she'll be okay once he gets here.
"Listen," I tell Stormi, as I start to peel off her shirt. "You made it this far, sweetheart. I'm going to get you help, and everything is going to be alright."
Stormi begins to move, to where I’m not sure, probably to get the fuck away from me and my assistance.
I can't say that I blame her, I wouldn't want me around either.
I grip her chin gently to look up at me. "Shirt on?" She gives me a weak nod that I wouldn't see if I wasn't holding her already. "Okay, but the pants...they have to go."
I don't get a reaction this time, so I take it as the green light to go ahead. As I slowly strip off her bottoms, purple and blue bruising wraps around the bloody bandage.
My other concern is the graze of the gunshot wound.
"I'm just going to peek, okay?" My fingers grip the hem of her shirt again. I don't wait for her to give me permission because it's a question that I'm not going to take "no" for as an answer.
The gauze is bloody, caked around the edges, and—fuck me, if this girl dies from infection...
"I need to get you in this bathtub and clean this laceration. You just rest, got it?" Cupping my hands under her armpits, I lift her up to stand. "Can you step inside for me?" She lifts her good leg, but it barely comes off the ground, and she lets out a frustrated grunt.
I pull her closer so that I don't drop her on her ass, and she bangs her head against the bathroom counter.
She’s too fucking small.
She hasn't eaten in more than two days, I don't remember her drinking anything, and I'm a shitty babysitter/hostess. I should've force-fed her, it wouldn't be the most horrible thing I've done.
Stepping into the warm water with one foot, I hoist her up by her ass and into the tub with me. As delicately as I can, it's when her forehead hits mine, that I pause from placing her down. When her shallow breaths brush along my lips, she gives me something I thought I'd never see from her.
Trust.
Something I undoubtedly don't deserve.
If she has an older brother, I'd hand my ass over for him to beat for the atrocities I've rendered onto her. I let blind rage and hostility take over everything, she never stood a damn chance.
And things could be so much worse.
I could've discovered the real blonde behind the attack and then had to live with the anguish and guilt that I murdered—not killed—my first innocent for the rest of my life. That I didn't do all the research.
I did none.
I followed Hollis's truck, saw a woman that resembled her, and waited impatiently for Bishop and my guys. When they showed up, the rest is prejudiced history between us. We burst into that house with zero fucks and one mission.
The woman in my arms.
The beautiful blonde who weakly lets me hold and take care of her.
She didn’t deserve me.
'd hand her off to Mills, but I don't fucking like how he gawks at her. Bishop is as cold as me, and I don't know if he'd be an upgrade or if she'd be worse off.
"I'm going to lay you down," I mutter, the warm liquid in the tub already reaching my ankles. "I'll make quick work of it and get you back in bed."
Doing what I said, I unhurriedly recline her frame in the water to soak and soothe away any aches and pains. Once I know she’s not going to slip, I remove myself out of it because it’s too damn tiny for the both of us.
On my knees, I reach for the bar soap and shampoo, keeping the water on to keep it warm at all times. I cup water into my hand, letting it cascade down her hair and keeping my eyes glued to her blonde locks.
And nowhere else.
This is far past the time to be checking her out when she probably feels like jumping off a cliff just to end things already.
My current mission is bathing this woman without drowning or hurting her.
I focus on what I've given myself to accomplish and squeeze my shampoo into my palm, massaging it into her scalp. I concentrate on clean skin and not how my fingertips are grazing and smoothing over her forearms, her creamy thighs, and calves.
I glance at her chest through her, now soaked shirt to make sure she’s still breathing, which is important. What I need to make sure she’s doing and not how my cock is reveling with excitement at how we can stroke her without her flinching away.
Fucking idiot.
Her eyes are closed, and if she has fallen asleep, that's fine, I just need to make sure her heart still beats. She needs to eat, but I'll worry about that later.
Bed, cleaning and rebandaging her wound, and then foo
d.
Nodding to myself, I continue my objective, applying more suds to her slim legs, her torso, and around the bandage to her side.
Tipping my eyes to her face, she looks peaceful and unconcerned with the world, so I take my opportunity to start working off the sticky tape clotted by days’ old blood.
She doesn’t stir as I gingerly begin scraping it away with my nail until I’m left with one option—ripping it off.
More guilt.
That fucker is jacking around with me lately and not in the way where my hand or a pussy is the accomplice to something more pleasurable.
No, it pricks, prods, and twists my gut because I have to be the cause of more pain to this girl. But I can't get this damn tape that seems to be super-glued to her skin off.
I trail my gaze back to her face, still as peaceful as ever, and I pray to something higher that she’s a heavy ass sleeper.
Unfortunately—for the both of us—she’s not.
In fact, her blue eyes shoot open and, of course, I’m the first thing she lands on.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I atone mildly. “I tried to get it off gently.” Her face twists, malice etched on her features, before closing off her blues again. Then I make quick work of soaping around her wound to finish up.
Letting her soak for a few more moments, I grab the softest towel I own and make careful work of lifting her out of the tub and wrap it around her.
I get her back on the bed, running back to the closet in the hall to snatch up the First Aid kit, a few pieces of clothes, and hydrogen peroxide. Stormi is motionless on the bed, fast asleep, which convicts me again for being a complete asshole.
I think I earned my Academy Award.
Stuffing a cloth to the side of her body, I need to pour peroxide on that wound. Lucien will be here soon, but I'd feel better if I took care of it now. Inhaling a deep breath, I don't think about it anymore, I pour.
And I don't think I've ever heard her this loud the entire time she's been with me. The liquid bubbles off her flesh, and her eyes gleam in hatred for me.
So much for that trust I had a moment ago.
"I'm sorry." It's all I got, and that hospital visit is still out of the question to give her a better sort of comfort than I ever could.
Lucien was the best I could do. The most discreet option I had without making more of a shitshow that we've already been starring roles in.
Beads of sweat begin to form on her forehead as she clutches the comforter on the bed for dear life. It hurts, it’s portrayed all over her face, and I don’t need to remind myself why.
"I need to do it one more time," I convey, my mouth going dry. Her nostrils flare this time, and those pretty blues slit. "It's either that or die from infection, sweetheart."
She doesn’t need to voice what she’s thinking because I deserve to die from something far worse.
Maybe one day I will, and she can dance on my grave but not until I resolve my sister's attempted assassination. Then maybe I'll let her pick or come up with some diabolical plan to off me.
“You ready?” She averts her gaze from me and focuses on something else in the room.
Anything else but me, which is fine, because I’d rather her not.
I wasn't lying when I told her that I loved her pleas and begging. However, the tables have turned, and they don't have their same luster as they once did.
Hovering the brown plastic bottle, I don't hesitate and dump it over her wound. She muffles the next scream by biting down on her lips, and I make quick work of the dressing while she stares at the ceiling.
I’m actually proud of her for taking it like a champ. I feel as though most women would’ve fought tooth and nail.
“You’re all set,” I voice, carelessly throwing everything back in the metal container of the First Aid kit to get it out of the way. “I’ll get some clothes for you."
One quick visit to my room and I grab a black t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers. When I arrive back, she hasn’t moved.
“Here. We’ll get these fresh clothes on and—” Her hand reaches out to snatch them from me and—I can’t help it—but the corners of my lips quirk. There's spunk living in that slender and stunning body of hers.
Her head slowly turns to me, routing slender eyes again in my direction.
“You can barely take a bath,” I vouch. “You’re going to need help.” She closes her eyes and fists my clothes in her hand. “I won’t look.”
She doesn’t react.
So, I do what any asshole would do, I climb into bed with her and carefully pin her body to the mattress with my knees on either side of her.
That gets her eyes to snap open.
“Arms up.” Her face twists in contempt. I expected nothing else. “I’ll close my eyes.”
I do, and the moment my lids slam shut, my clothes hit my face. I catch them with my reaction time, but she still holds the other side.
“You’re going to hurt yourself and mess up my dressing,” I scold lightly, giving my shirt a weak tug. She holds on with all the strength she has, which isn’t much, but I want her to give it up. To accept that I’m trying to make up for some of my fuckups.
More like forcing her again.
“You know you’re not going to win this round.” It only gets her to tug back harder like a little pitbull that wants her toy back. “C’mon.”
Another tug.
"I don't know your middle name, so I can't berate you properly, but I'll keep my eyes shut like I said."
“No,” she deadpans in a tiny voice.
“I promise.”
“No.”
"What's your middle name, Stormi?" She keeps her lips sealed, heaving again on the cotton shirt. "Mine is Ruslan."
"That's stupid."
I shrug. "It was my father's name."
"Good for you," she strains out.
Alright, fine.
Cracking my eyes open, Stormi's are barely agape, but she holds on for dear life to the shirt. She's soaked on my bed, strands of her hair plastered to her cheeks, and her skin looks paler than before. I don't know if keeping her wet is going to do better or worse for her.
“You need to cover up because I bet you have a fever and—”
“Leave me alone.” She releases the shirt and clasps her hands together, pulling her arms to her body. "Please leave."
"I don't think we should keep those wet clothes on."
"Who cares?" Her voice is smaller and barely audible, hitting me in the chest with more self-accusation.
Don't give up on me now.
Carefully climbing off her, I pull the white comforter over her body.
I'm not going to force this woman to do anything that she doesn't want to do right now. I don't think she'll die from damp clothes. Again, Lucien will be here soon, and he'll know what to do.
"I'll be back," I croon. "Help is coming."
She doesn't acknowledge me.
I gained her animosity and distrust. Now I have to man up and take it.
"She has an infection," Lucien states, dropping his black bag on my coffee table and pulling at his stethoscope that's wrapped around his neck. Tossing it in his duffle, he hits me with a "what the fuck did you do" stare.
He's not going to get that story from me.
"What now?" I ask, tugging on my beer and letting it mix with my restlessness.
I've been trying to watch a recap on ESPN of today's sports scores but keep glancing upward towards the stairs.
I don't know specifically what I'm waiting to appear. It's not like Stormi is going to skip down, or some magical fairy is going to descend with a wand to make any of this shit go away.
I can't help it.
If she wasn't defeated already, Stormi made it crystal clear that she wants to be left alone. To let God or whatever higher power there is decide on what plan they want to ensue.
As much as I can't blame her for all of the above, I had a hard time leaving her alone.
Lucien attempted to kic
k me out of the room before I was even able to step in—didn't happen. I wasn't going to have her wake up to see some random fuck hovering over and frighten her. So I took the brunt of her glower, watched those clear-cut blues fasten on me, unamused and utterly exhausted.
"She's dehydrated," Lucien continues. "The girl could put on a good ten pounds too."
Agreed.
"What do I need to do?" I pry my attention from him and watch a replay of the Houston Astros game. Don't know what team they played or if they won, I just can't stand him judging me for what happened up there. How badly I fucked up, and now she has to pay and heal because of it.
"Let her rest, feed her soup, and plenty of water. I have antibiotics in the car. She needs to take them every four hours."
"What else?"
"I'm not going to bother asking where she got the wounds from."
"Using that doctor's degree for good use, Lucien." I take another hearty sip of my beer, needing something to do with my hands, brain, and guilt.
If I can chip some of it away or make them do something, maybe I won't feel as bad.
He flicks his dark brown eyes to me. I can feel them casting down in scrutiny.
This isn't the first time he and I have been in a room alone together. Mind you, it wasn't from someone I was hired to kill, but Emmy Lou.
I let her big mouth sway me to go alone on a pass. It was something we did to learn the in's and out's of someone's day so that we could determine when the best time to strike was. The dude's name was Hayden O'Mulligan, Irish Mob had a hit on a California senator, and I don't remember the reason why, just the blood.
The blood smeared all over the cement in the parking garage.
The phone call she made to me when she was getting her assed kicked by steel-toed boots and clubs.
O'Mulligans's crew caught on to her, and she was no match for three thugs the size of linebackers. Emmy pushed a hundred and twenty pounds, maybe, and was five foot nothing. A good wind would pick her up like Mary Poppins with an umbrella.
It was my fault for letting her go. My transgression for allowing the little pint-sized princess to go play with the ogres. She was supposed to be background noise, a pretty little thing that was supposed to be nothing but a bystander.
