Play It Safe

by Kristen Ashley

  Feels Good Though

  “You think, you’re cleanin’ blood off my face and all, you might give me your name?”

  That was Gray, sitting on the end of my bed in the hotel room as I stood over him doing exactly what he said, cleaning blood off his face.

  Blood he shed for me.

  Hells bells.

  My eyes went from the short but deep and gaping cut to his.

  He was close, really close. I’d turned on most the lights in the room so I could see what I was doing and I saw that his eyelashes weren’t russet. They were dark brown.

  The tips were russet.

  Oh my.

  “Dollface?” he called and I blinked as my body started.

  I needed to pull myself together.

  “Ivey,” I muttered, looking back at the cut.

  “Ivey,” he muttered back and I could swear, him saying my name gave me goosebumps.

  “Yeah,” I whispered then ran the damp cloth down his face, wiping off the blood.

  “What we got?” he asked and my eyes flicked to his but I’d learned.

  Don’t look long. Don’t get captivated.

  I looked back to the blood, kept gently wiping and asked back, “What we got?”

  “The cut,” he explained. “How bad is it?”

  My eyes went to his cut then I went back to cleaning his face while answering, “Short but deep. You should get stitches.”

  “No stitches,” he murmured and I looked to him but I braced myself beforehand.

  Nope. Bracing myself didn’t work so I tried to look at him while not so I ended up mostly looking at his nose.

  “No stitches?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “It’s deep.”

  “It’ll heal.”

  “You’ll have a scar.”

  “Yeah, but it’ll heal.”

  I looked back to his eyes. “Gray, really, you should have it seen to. If you don’t get stitches you should have plasters and it should be disinfected.”

  “You got a first aid kit?”

  I did but it was in Casey’s car.

  “It’s in my brother’s car.”

  “So he’s your brother.”

  Darn!

  This was why you didn’t connect. This was why you played it safe. You played with fire; you were going to get burned.

  But he’d bled for me so what could I do?

  “Yeah, Casey. He’s my brother,” I whispered.

  Gray grinned at me, with dimple and that made it worth it.

  I moved away from him to the bathroom.

  “When’s he gonna be back?” Gray asked my back and I turned to him.

  “Sorry?”

  “Your brother. When’s he due back?”

  I couldn’t tell him this.

  I told him this.

  “Late, very late and that’s the earliest. Probably not until morning.”

  Gray’s face changed and it wasn’t a good change. He looked mildly angry.

  “Not until morning?”

  “He…uh…well, he’s busy doing something so no, not until very late or morning.”

  That was when Gray stood and announced, “You’re comin’ home with me.”

  My body froze and I stared at him.

  Then I forced my mouth to whisper, “Sorry?”

  “You’re comin’ home with me.”

  “I –”

  He interrupted me. “First, I got a first aid kit. You can disinfect and put shit on the cut. Second, I got a grandma who lives with me, she’s not ancient, she’s not young but she could be three hundred years old and still she’d have the hearing of a German Shepherd. She goes to church every Sunday and she’d lose her mind if I brought a girl home with any intent other than to make her dinner or study the Bible.”

  I couldn’t help it. That was so funny, it made my mouth twitch.

  Gray watched my mouth move and flat out smiled.

  Then he started speaking again.

  “And last, got an extra bed. Manny takes pride in his place,” his arm moved, indicating the space around us that was clean and to my practiced eye I knew it had been renovated sometime in the last five years and although the cable was basic and I wouldn’t want to live the rest of my life there, it was pretty nice for what it was and a whole lot nicer than many places I’d laid my head, “but I bet the bed at my house is more comfortable and I can guarantee a thousand other people haven’t slept in it. So, what I’m sayin’ is, you’re safe, you’ll be comfortable and last, and most important, you’re safe.”

  I read him and my eyes locked to his.

  “You think they’ll come back,” I said quietly.

  “No tellin’. Jim, Ted and Pete, no way. ‘Specially Pete. Buddy is an asshole and he was pissed. You were immune to his charms then you bested him then he got bested by me. That shit doesn’t lay well with him so…” he trailed off and shrugged.

  This wasn’t good.

  Another trickle of blood slid down his face. It wasn’t much but the cut was still bleeding.

  That wasn’t good either.

  Darn it all to heck.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Ivey, swear to God, you’ll be safe with me.” I heard him say softly.

  I opened my eyes mostly because him talking soft was nice and with my eyes closed it seemed a heck of a lot nicer.

  “Get what you need and write your brother a note. I’ll bring you back in the morning.”

  I wanted to bite my lip.

  I didn’t.

  I went to the bathroom, did my best to rinse his blood from the washcloth I had, I wet another one then took it out to him.

  Then, stopping as far away as I could, I held it to him and said quietly, “It’s still bleeding. Maybe I should drive.”

  He took the cloth from me but he did it grinning.

  Hells bells.

  * * * * *

  “Go on through to the kitchen, I’ll take this upstairs and get the first aid kit,” Gray ordered on a mutter, his fingers flipping a light switch which illuminated the hall.

  He’d already illuminated the entryway.

  At the end of the hall was a kitchen.

  He turned and went to the foot of the stairs and jogged up, carrying my bag.

  I stood in the hall and allowed myself to bite my lip.

  He didn’t live in town.

  He lived out of town and not close to anyone. I couldn’t tell in the dark if it was a ranch or an orchard. There were a lot of shadowy trees close to his house. There were also outbuildings and some fenced but empty pens. One of the outbuildings was a barn.

  But it was his house I liked.

  It was old. It wasn’t a ranch house, it was a farmhouse. Not big. Compact. Two stories. From what I could tell white outside but the woodwork was painted something else. A rectangular porch out front with a porch swing, the family room jutting out so the porch only had two open sides.

  Stained glass in the door.

  I didn’t have to peruse the rest of the house, the entryway said it all.

  People lived here, the same people for generations. When I say that I mean the same family. The furniture was old and pretty. The pictures on the wall faded and pretty. The décor the same. This house had been lived in, maybe stuff had been added but nothing had been taken away. Still, instead of full and suffocating, it seemed warm and welcoming.

  I sucked in breath and moved down the hall to the shadowed kitchen. Feeling around the opened, doorless doorway, I found the switch and the kitchen was bathed in light.

  I closed my eyes but I still saw it.

  No renovation, not for years. This house might have been built before modern appliances but it was modernized shortly after and left to be.

  I opened my eyes.

  Cupboards painted bright red. Little white ceramic knobs to open them looking like polka dots in that sea of bright. Soffits papered in wallpaper that had a white background, green vines and leaves, white and yellow flowers and big fat str
awberries. Cream fridge, the old kind with the bulging front, huge handles and curved edges. Big, old gas burner stove. Someone had cut out some cupboards to insert a cream fronted dishwasher next to the sink. Butcher block countertops that had seen so much use they didn’t have grooves, they had waves and their edges were rounded. A big, beat up farm table in the middle of the room with six chairs around it, only three matching, all of their seats sporting big, red poofy cushions tied to their backs. A huge bowl filled with apples, oranges and bananas in the middle. The countertops covered with appliances and crocks holding utensils. A backdoor that led now to darkness but its window was covered in wispy white curtains held back with red sashes. A huge window over the double-bowled, cream ceramic sink with the same wispy white, red-sashed curtains hanging. Another window at the side under which there was a low, wood-framed cabinet, its doors inlaid with punched tin, its top holding a vase of slightly wilting flowers, some greeting cards turned on their sides and a bowl full of keys, change and other life detritus.

  My eyes swept the space.

  Many Thanksgiving dinners had been cooked there. Christmases. Birthdays. And just because you had to eat.

  I loved it.

  Every inch.

  Every stinking inch.

  “First aid kit.” I heard, jumped and turned to see Gray sauntering down the hall toward me carrying a big box, the bottom blue, the top white, the size the size of the tackle box of a very serious fisherman. If that was his first aid kit, I had a feeling he had a history with more than just Cocky Guy Buddy.

  “That’s a big first aid kit,” I blurted and again he rewarded me with a grin.

  “Man now, Ivey but used to be a boy,” he muttered intriguingly, deposited the box on the table then flicked the latches and flipped it open.

  It was stuffed full.

  He grew up here.

  This wasn’t his house, it was his grandmother’s.

  I wondered if that was a fib or something else.

  I wondered a lot of things.

  None of which I would ask.

  “Alcohol wipes, plasters, scissors,” he murmured, digging and pulling the stuff out as I dumped my purse on the table, unwrapped my scarf and shrugged off my coat, tossing them over the back of a chair. Then his neck twisted and his eyes hit me. “We’re good.”

  I nodded, my head dropping, my experienced eyes scanning the stuff then I looked up at him and ordered, “Sit.”

  One side of his mouth hitched up a bit then he shrugged off his leather jacket, hooked it on the back of a chair, unwrapped his scarf, tossed that on top and he sat, tipping his face up to me.

  I put out of my mind how handsome he was, how, if I just bent at the waist, I could kiss his mouth and when I managed that, I got busy.

  I tore open the wipe, tossed the packet on the table and cautiously dabbed at the cut.

  He drew in air on a hiss and his head jerked.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, for some reason affected by his reaction deeply. Too deeply. Hating that I hurt him. Actually hating it.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t done this before. Before (and after) we’d instigated the pool hustle, made it an art, Casey saw a lot of action that wasn’t so good, ended up in cuts and bruises which meant I was in this same spot, clean up and resident untrained nurse.

  I didn’t like it when I hurt Casey while tending to him but I really didn’t like to make Gray feel more pain for me.

  So I did something crazy. I did something stupid. I totally lost who I was, where I was, who I was with and I did exactly what I did when I worked on Casey.

  I leaned close, dabbed light and after each dab, I leaned closer and I blew air gently between my lips against the cut.

  I did this three times before Gray said in a voice I would never forget in my whole life. Never. Not if I lived like he said earlier, to be three hundred. It was soft, it was quiet and it was gentle to the point of tender.

  “Dollface, you blowin’ on me defeats the purpose of the antiseptic.”

  My body shot straight and my eyes shot to his.

  He grinned and kept speaking

  “Feels good though.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  Then his eyes changed. Those beautiful blue eyes with their russet tipped lashes. They changed in a way I also wouldn’t forget. Not ever. I’d remember them every day, dozens of times a day for the rest of my life.

  And they changed to become just like his voice had been. Gentle to the point of tender.

  “Don’t be,” he whispered back.

  My heart started slamming in my chest.

  What was with me?

  I had to pull myself together.

  So I pulled myself together and kept gently dabbing, cleaned the cut, cleaned away the blood then expertly cut the plasters, pressed together the opened flesh and laid the three, thin, precisely cut strips to keep it closed.

  Then I took a step back and declared, “Done.”

  His eyes captured mine.

  “Made fast work of that.”

  I made no response.

  His eyes held mine.

  “Practice,” he guessed accurately.

  I turned to the first aid kit and started tidying.

  I felt Gray come to his feet beside me; he tagged the used wipes and their packages and took them to the sink. He opened the cupboard under them, tossed them in the bin there, closed it and turned to me.

  “Bed,” he stated.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll show you your room.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  He led, I followed and he turned off lights as he did. He moved up the stairs, me trailing.

  Upstairs, same as downstairs, settled, warm, welcome and everything had been there awhile.

  He turned left at the top and took me to a room where the lights were on, shining softly and invitingly into the hall. He disappeared through the door and I followed him to see he’d stopped.

  “Bathroom other end of the hall, last door on your right,” he told me then he invited, “Make yourself at home.”

  I tore my eyes from the room with its white-painted, curlicue iron bed (tall head and tall but still shorter than the head foot) covered in an unbelievably beautiful wedding ring quilt, a folded soft looking blanket at the bottom and big fluffy pillows with ruffly edges. The room’s floors warm, honeyed wood covered in a big, thick, pastel-colored rug with tangled fringe at two sides, its colors faded but it had started pastel too, I could tell. Jumbled mismatched furniture, some painted white but there were chips, some gleaming wood, all charming and one dresser had a big, oval mirror affixed to the top. On the nightstands, both turned on and glowing, tall, thin lamps with dotted, glass balls as lampshades, crystals dangling from the bottom. And on the walls, prints of flowers in frames distressed from age, not meant to be that way.

  It was countrified beauty at its finest. A room you’d expect in a farmhouse. A room you’d pay big money to rent in some B&B because the owners had paid big money to make it that way. A room that was just that enchanting naturally.

  “Sleep well, Ivey,” Gray muttered.

  I nodded.

  He lifted a hand, curled his long fingers on my upper arm, gave me a squeeze and walked out the door.

  I sucked in another breath.

  Then I pulled it together, moved to the door and closed it.

  Then I decided to get ready for bed fast, get in bed, turn off the lights, close my eyes and try to erase this from my mind.

  Tomorrow, he’d take me back to the hotel. Tomorrow, I’d pack our stuff. Tomorrow, Casey would come back, we’d load up the car and we’d be away.

  Mustang would be in our rearview mirrors.

  Mustang would be a memory.

  And so would Gray.

  I moved directly to the bag Gray left sitting on top of the bed and did just that.

  In my nightshirt with my face wash, toothbrush, toothpaste and a hair clip, I shot out the door and moved quickly down the hall, eyes to my feet
. I didn’t want to take anymore in. Couldn’t take anymore in.

  And you know what stunk?

  Looking at my feet, I still saw the carpet runner that ran down the hall, attractively worn and frayed in the middle where feet had trod a million times but near-to new looking at the edge and, beyond, more of that warm, honey-colored wood floor.

  Yes, even the floor was warm and welcoming.

  Hells bells.

  I made it to the end of the hallway, the door to the bathroom slightly closed, light on. I pushed in, stepped in, lifted my head and stopped dead.

  Gray, wearing nothing (nothing!) but a pair of light blue cotton, drawstring pajama bottoms, toothbrush in mouth turned to me.

  Oh my.

  Oh my.

  His shoulders were broad. His chest was wide.

  And…and…

  Did real men actually look like that?

  I mean, my brother Casey was relatively fit. He was lean. He did pushups and sit ups a lot. He thought of himself as a ladies’ man and he got enough action, he probably was.

  But he didn’t have all those planes and contours. Especially not across his belly.

  And he didn’t have those veins running down his arms.

  Oh my.

  “Big enough to share.” I heard Gray say and my body jolted, my eyes shot from his chest to his face and I saw he had his toothbrush out, foam in his mouth and he’d shifted to the side of the sink.

  How on earth could a man have toothbrush foam in his mouth and look just…that…beautiful?

  “Ivey?” he called and I blinked but didn’t move. “Dollface, you okay?”

  No. I was not.

  But I had to pretend to be.

  “Just a weird night,” I murmured, trying to decide if it was rude if I said I’d come back and left him to it.

  I hadn’t been a guest in someone’s house. Not ever.

  What was protocol?

  As for me, if someone barged in on me brushing my teeth, I would expect them to slink away.

  He kept brushing, eyes on me and kept to his side of the sink. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it and his behavior seemed to be inviting me in.

  Maybe it was rude.

  Darn.

  I moved in and went to the sink.

  I put the stuff down on the side of the basin, keeping my body to my side as far from his as I could. I lifted my hands and gathered my hair, twisted it then sunk the clip in to hold it back. I felt it flopping all around the clip but it was away from my face so I could wash it.