Battered Not Broken

by Rose, Ranae

  When they reached the top of the last flight of stairs without incident, she silently thanked God.

  Ryan unlocked his apartment – 401 – and pushed the door wide open.

  Though her primary emotion was still concern for Ryan, a small wave of excitement washed over her as she followed him over the threshold. She hadn’t planned on ending up inside his apartment that night, though if she was honest with herself, a part of her had fantasized about it. Of course, she never would have wanted it to be because of their current circumstance.

  Ryan closed the door, locked the deadbolt and headed immediately for the half-kitchen. The small entry area opened up into it and a living space. There were two doors along the back wall – one for a bedroom and one for a bathroom, probably. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d called the place Spartan. The living room was dominated by a well-worn couch. A TV sat on a simple stand. There was no other furniture, save for a small wooden table and two chairs in the kitchenette.

  He opened two cupboards, pulling a bottle of pills that rattled in his hand from one and a glass tumbler from the other. He filled the latter at the kitchen sink before dumping two pills into his palm and downing them with a mouthful of tap water.

  The muscles in his throat flexed and shifted as he swallowed.

  Ally watched, her gaze glued to the powerful column of his neck, until the sound of breaking glass shattered her concentration.

  “Damn.” He stepped backward, away from the pile of shattered glass at his feet. The tumbler had been reduced to a heap of jagged shards that gleamed dully beneath the overhead lighting.

  “Let me get that,” she said, hurrying forward. “Do you have a dustpan?”

  He gripped the edge of a nearby counter like he needed it to steady himself. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up later.”

  She ignored his protest. It was all too easy to imagine him stumbling back out into the kitchen barefoot in the dead of night for another dose of medication and stepping on the pieces of broken glass. Spotting a broom propped between the refrigerator and the wall, she grabbed it and began sweeping. “Why don’t you go sit down on the couch? I’ve got this.”

  He mumbled something about her not being a maid, but started in the direction of the living room anyway.

  When she looked up from the pile she’d swept the glass shards into, he was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over the cushions and his head resting against the back. His eyes were closed and he looked utterly exhausted.

  She retrieved the dustpan that rested in the gap between the fridge and the wall and then searched the cabinets under the counter until she found what she was looking for – plastic bags. After sweeping the glass into the dustpan, she dumped it all into one of the bags and then proceeded to quadruple-bag it. “Be careful when you take out the trash,” she called over her shoulder as she stood and dropped the bag into the trashcan at the end of one counter. “There’s broken glass inside.”

  No response.

  When she faced the living room, he was in the same position as before, his eyes still closed. She was about to turn away and visually inspect the kitchen floor for any remaining pieces of glass when his lips moved.

  No sound escaped, but she could read the word he was mouthing – thanks.

  A wave of alarm that felt almost like nausea rolled through her belly. Did he even realize he hadn’t spoken out loud? It didn’t seem so, and the realization made her feel like she’d plunged into cold water.

  She’d expected to share dinner with him, maybe taste the lingering spice from their meal on his lips. Standing in his apartment and wondering if he was fully conscious left her feeling distinctly as if she were in over her head. The walls almost seemed to draw closer together as uncertainty bubbled inside her.

  “Ryan?” She took a few tentative steps toward the couch. The final floor inspection could wait – he didn’t look like he’d be getting up any time soon, and he still had his shoes on.

  When she reached the couch, she settled down beside him.

  The sight of him sitting slumped and seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d said his name was infinitely more intimidating than watching him knock somebody out cold with a single punch in the ring. On one hand, her instincts urged her to get closer – to make sure that he was okay. But on the other, seeing him so subdued by something she couldn’t control was frightening.

  What if he didn’t want her to get close – what if he didn’t want her to bother him?

  Trusting her first instincts, she reached for one of his hands and grasped it.

  His thick fingers trembled inside her more slender ones, sending little shivers of anxiety through her. She maintained her hold, as if she could somehow absorb the affliction that was shaking him.

  Maybe it worked, or maybe the passage of time and the effects of whatever pills he’d taken were to be credited, but after twenty or so long minutes, he opened his eyes.

  His blue eyes were dulled by an uncharacteristic haze that more or less erased what relief Ally had felt when he’d opened them. Still, he met her gaze. “Sorry. I didn’t know – I mean, I can’t predict when this is going to happen.” He motioned briefly toward his head as his words tumbled out, slightly slurred.

  “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, my aunt gets migraines – I know they’re unpredictable and can be intense.” Her words were a show of courage that she didn’t really feel. In reality, what he was experiencing seemed more extreme than what she’d seen Elsa deal with. That fact was magnified by the knowledge that he probably had a pain tolerance a hundred times greater than Elsa’s.

  He nodded, then grimaced as if it had hurt, which it probably had.

  Ally rose from the couch. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to use your restroom if that’s okay.” She didn’t wait for his reply, or ask him where it was – she didn’t want to trouble him and there were only two doors to choose from, anyway.

  She guessed correctly. The door to the left opened into a small bathroom that featured a sink, toilet, narrow closet door and a shower stall. She pulled the door shut behind herself as softly as she could, remembering that her aunt’s headaches were sometimes worsened by loud or sudden noises.

  A minute later, a noise that was both loud and sudden resounded throughout the apartment. She jumped, splashing warm water all over the front of her jacket.

  “Fuck!” A strangled expletive followed the bang that had startled her.

  Without pausing to dry her hands, Ally hastily shut off the faucet and reached for the doorknob.

  Chapter 7

  When she emerged from the bathroom, Ryan wasn’t resting on the couch anymore. Instead, he was slumped on the kitchen floor, by the end of the small island countertop that divided the kitchenette from the living room. He’d pressed a palm flat against the side of his head and was muttering curses under his breath.

  Ally hurried to him, a blend of adrenaline and wariness coursing through her veins. By the time she crouched beside him, redness had begun to well between his fingers.

  “You’re bleeding.” She tried to keep her voice soft, for his sake, though it came out a little more strained than she’d meant it too.

  Before she could say or do anything else, he rose, standing on unsteady feet.

  “You need to sit back down.” A smudge of redness glared bright and stark from the corner of the counter, where he’d hit his head. If he didn’t get off his feet, he’d probably fall again. Gathering every last bit of her willpower, she gripped him by his free arm and did her best to guide him in the direction of the couch.

  The way he growled another curse word under his breath and the way his hard muscles shifted beneath her grip made it feel as if she were trying to wrangle a pissed-off lion. Maybe an MMA fighter with a migraine was basically the same thing.

  When they reached it, he sank down at her urging with a sound of frustration.

  “Wait right here,” she said in her best assuring tone, struggling to mask the
fact that she didn’t know what the hell she was doing. “I’m going to get a towel.”

  She hurried to the bathroom and opened the narrow closet next to the shower. Thankfully, there was a small stack of towels inside. A very small one, but she grabbed one anyway. He could worry about how he’d dry his hands later – right now, he needed something to stanch the flow of blood from his head.

  Fortunately, when she emerged from the bathroom, he hadn’t moved from the couch.

  “Here.” She wielded the towel like a shield as she approached him. “For your head. If you’ll just move your hand…” Her stomach gave a weird little twist at the thought of seeing how bad the damage was. She prayed it wasn’t severe enough that he’d need to go to the hospital, though maybe he’d be better off there than in his apartment under her inexpert care.

  When he dropped his hand, blood surged forward and began streaking down his forehead.

  It was difficult to assess the wound with the red mess in the way, so she pressed the towel against his head, where the counter’s sharp corner had cut him at his hairline, just above his left temple. As gently as she could manage, she blotted the blood away.

  When she lifted the towel, it revealed a gash that was maybe three quarters of an inch long. Width-wise, it was narrow, but she couldn’t really tell how deep it was. The blood welled too quickly to gauge depth – a common problem for head wounds.

  “I’m no expert, but you might want to think about stiches,” she said, pressing the towel against his skull again.

  “No. No, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Are you sure? I could drive you. You have to be in so much pain.” She hated to nag, but worry was turning her blood cold. What if he needed medical attention more badly than she realized – what if she was being stupid by not making sure he received it?

  And what if she was overreacting and making him angry? She hated the thought of adding unnecessarily to his misery.

  “I’m sure. I’ve got butterfly bandages in the medicine cabinet.” He said it like that settled everything.

  Still, worry ate away at her from the inside. Had he been hurt like this before? She was gripped by the urge to run her fingers through his hair, searching for any tell-tale lines of scar tissue that might answer the question. Instead, she gripped the towel a little more tightly as she continued doing the only thing that seemed like a surefire way to help – blotting away the blood that kept seeping from his wound. It was a good thing she’d never been one to feel faint at the sight of the stuff.

  After a few minutes, her nervousness lost its manic edge. The bleeding had slowed significantly. “If you can hold the towel against your head, I’ll go look for those butterfly bandages.”

  His fingers fumbled over hers as he took over towel-holding duty.

  When she was sure he had a steady hold on it, she withdrew her own hand and headed for the bathroom.

  The bandages were right where he’d said they would be, in the cabinet behind the mirror above the sink. She grabbed the box and found that it had already been opened. The thought of him falling with no one around and having to patch himself up made her feel devastatingly hollow, as if the bottom had fallen out of her stomach. Was that where the first few bandages had gone? According to the count on the outside of the box, he’d already used about half of them.

  With her pulse fluttering and thoughts whirling, she pulled one bandage out and carried it back to where Ryan waited on the couch.

  “Let me see that towel.” Before doing anything with the bandage, she took the towel, dampened it with warm water from the kitchen faucet and dabbed his wound clean. Hopefully, that would be enough – she hadn’t seen any antibacterial ointments or other disinfecting products in the cabinet.

  After patting the cut dry, she removed the backing from the butterfly bandage and painstakingly positioned it at what was hopefully an optimally effective angle. “All done.”

  He breathed a sigh, his eyelids fluttering. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” She practically mauled the inside of her lower lip as she stood there in front of him. What the hell was she supposed to do next? The thought of leaving him alone and half-conscious on the couch was as bitter as cyanide. “Was there something you wanted from the kitchen?” Presumably, he hadn’t tried to make his way out there for the fun of taking a stroll.

  “A glass of water.”

  No wonder he was thirsty. A fine sheen of sweat shone on his forehead – not surprising after the agonizing and stressful hour he’d just experienced.

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  In the cupboard above the kitchen sink, she found a tumbler just like the one that had broken when he’d dropped it. She filled it halfway with water from the tap before returning to him.

  He took the glass from her hand, his fingers creating friction as they brushed hers. He didn’t drop the glass this time, but finished it in a few quick swallows.

  “More?” she asked, working the glass free from his tight grip.

  “No.”

  After returning the glass to the counter beside the sink and finally giving the kitchen floor a final visual inspection, she was left with absolutely no idea what to do next.

  Ryan rested on the couch, his head tipped back and his eyes shut. What if the flimsy butterfly bandage she’d used to seal his wound didn’t hold up? Or what if he tried to rise again and hurt himself? After what had just happened, no nightmare scenario she imagined seemed too extreme. How could she possibly know what was best to do? No date she’d ever been on had turned into anything like her current situation. But one thing was clear – she couldn’t just leave him.

  After removing her cell phone from her jacket pocket, she composed a quick text message to her mother, letting her know that everything was all right and not to expect her home any time soon. Then, taking a deep breath, she returned to the living room.

  Walking up to the couch had her more worked up than she usually felt when approaching a fighting ring. Her nerves vibrated like a tightly-strung wire as she sank onto the cushion beside Ryan, whose heavy breathing seemed to indicate he was asleep.

  When she reached out and gripped one of his hands, his fingers shook inside hers. For a few moments, anyway. The longer she held his hand, the more subtle the trembling seemed to become. When it finally stopped, she breathed a sigh she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in.

  Exhaustion pounced on her like a feral cat, dragging her eyelids down over suddenly dry eyes. She gripped his hand a little more tightly, willing herself not to let go. If he tried to leave the couch, she’d feel his movement and wake up. That thought comforted her as she succumbed to exhaustion, allowing her head to loll against the back of the couch and her thoughts to unravel into a haze of mixed worry and relief.

  * * * * *

  It was a smell that woke Ally up. One that made her mouth water. She swallowed a sudden flood of excess saliva as awareness set in.

  Her stomach was in knots before she even opened her eyes. When she did, she wasn’t surprised to see the interior of Ryan’s apartment. She was, however, already cursing herself inside her head. At some point, Ryan had risen without her noticing. The light filtering through the kitchen window made it obvious that she’d slept through the entire night on his couch.

  Her tiredness was instantly replaced by alarm as she rose from the cushions, ignoring the stiff and achy muscles in her back.

  “Morning,” Ryan called from the kitchen, where he’d stationed himself in front of the stove. He still wore his jeans from the night before, but he’d shed his jacket and the shirt he’d worn beneath it. The sight of his bare back greeted her, broad shoulders, tattoos and all.

  Still wearing everything from the night before, from her jacket to her shoes, she walked into the kitchen.

  “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he said, still facing the stove. “I tried to keep the noise down.”

  “It was the smell that woke me up,” she said, inhaling another lungful of bacon-s
cented air.

  He used a fork to flip a line of sizzling bacon strips. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Sunny-side up,” she said, her gaze drifting to a cardboard carton of eggs that waited, open on the countertop beside the stove.

  Cautiously, she stepped to his left, craning her neck for a look at his face. “How’s your head?”

  He finished flipping the last piece of bacon and faced her. “Fine.”

  Whether or not he really felt fine after the previous night’s blow, the butterfly bandage had held up. The sight of it doing its job eased the knots in Ally’s stomach just a little. “Your migraine is gone?”

  “Yeah.” He turned on a second burner, where an empty frying pan waited. Before he cracked several eggs over its edge, he greased the inside with butter. “Sorry about last night. Guess I put you through hell.”

  “It’s all right.” If she’d been in hell, it was only because she’d been afraid for him, not to mention agonizingly unsure of how to handle the situation.

  “It wasn’t how I envisioned our second date ending. If you’d told me yesterday that I’d be cooking breakfast for you in the morning, I would’ve assumed things had gone a lot better.”

  Something fluttered inside Ally’s chest as his words settled over her. Until then, she’d been so wrapped up in the lingering haze of the previous night’s ordeal that she hadn’t considered the very different set of circumstances that usually led to the kind of morning she’d woken up to. “I hope you don’t mind that I stayed. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I’m sorry I ruined our date,” he said, turning away from the stove to face her fully. “But I’m not sorry you’re here.”

  She was struck silent for a moment as she took in the sight of his bare chest. Did he have any idea what it did to her? He probably thought that since she saw him that way at the gym all the time, it was no big deal. Standing that close to him in the privacy of his apartment, it certainly felt like a big deal. “Neither am I.”