by Monica James
“No, no hospital. Take me back to the motel,” he argues.
“Are you mad?” I exclaim with a winded wheeze, flicking my attention back and forth between him and the road. “Your name suits you perfectly. You’re stubborn like a bull!”
He groans in frustration, arching his head backward to lean on the headrest. “I’m stubborn?” he argues. “Why are you so fucking stubborn, woman?”
“Um, firstly, do not call me woman. This isn’t the Stone Age.”
“Duly noted,” he replies, appearing, god forbid, humored by my response.
“And I’m taking you to the hospital because you’ve been stabbed!”
“Yes, I know. I can feel it.” His lips twitch. “There is no need to keep reminding me.”
Is he making jokes?
This night just keeps getting crazier by the minute.
“No hospital.”
When he refuses to budge about the hospital, I take a left and head to the motel. “Once you drop me off, you need to go to the hospital, though. You’re hurt.”
My entire body chooses this moment to spasm in pain, but I ignore it, and his bossiness, and shake my head firmly. “No, I’m not leaving you. You’ve been sta—” I bite my lip as he knows what he’s been.
“Nice T-shirt,” he says, while I keep my eyes ahead, embarrassed. We ride the rest of the short trip to the motel in silence.
When I pull into the parking lot, I park in front of his room. I kill the engine and quickly open my door to help him out. But he’s already hobbling to his room. I chase after him, winded and in agony, but I mask it because I’m not the one with a knife in my torso.
When Bull opens the door, he limps to the bathroom while I close and lock the door behind me. I don’t know what the right protocol is here. Should I call someone?
I lean against the door, biting my thumbnail nervously. When Bull emerges from the bathroom with supplies in hand, I pale.
“Can you get whatever alcohol there is out of the minibar?” When I merely stare at him wide-eyed, he adds, “Please.”
Working on autopilot, I quickly do as he asks. There are two bottles of scotch and one bottle of vodka. I grab all three.
He slumps onto the end of the bed, tossing the towels and sewing kit onto the mattress. When I see the complimentary kit, I cover my mouth to hold back the vomit.
“Let me drive you to the hospital,” I plead, as there is no way he will be able to sew himself back up with the flimsy needle and thread.
He ignores me and instead gestures with his head for the alcohol.
My legs are trembling as I walk over to the bed and pass them to him. He accepts and throws them onto the mattress. “If you’re queasy or going to faint, it’s best you leave now.”
“Why?” I squeak, suddenly feeling unsteady on my feet.
“Because I’m going to take this knife out,” he replies as though we’re discussing the weather.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus!” I begin to pace the room, interlocking my hands behind my neck.
Bull allows me the time to process the inevitable, but I shake my head animatedly and woman the fuck up. “It’ll be fine,” I say aloud, more for myself than for Bull. I’ve had a baby, for fuck’s sake. What can be worse than that?
Taking three deep breaths, I nod quickly. “Okay, do it.”
Bull exhales sharply, one hand supporting his flesh beneath the wound while the other grips the handle of the knife. Those eyes focus on mine, and somehow, they tell me it’ll be all right. He’s about to pull a knife out of his body, and he’s the one comforting me.
My infatuation for this man just grows.
“One.” He inhales, thoughtfully giving me a countdown.
“Two,” I squeak, unable to look away from his bloody fingers gripping the handle. My mouth is parted, in the midst of saying three, but Bull doesn’t give me a chance because he swiftly yanks out the knife and drops it to the floor with a thud.
“And th-three,” I stammer, needing to talk before I pass out.
Bull swiftly reaches for the towel and places it over the wound while I sway on my feet. There is so much…blood. The white towel is soon soaked a bright red. Bull casually peers down, patiently waiting for the bleeding to stop.
He breathes evenly through his nose, but when he shifts and finches slightly, the sight of him in pain has me forgetting my queasiness, and I rush over to the bed. Sitting near him, I slowly reach out to remove his hand.
His body tenses, but he allows me to touch him. “Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”
Ignoring him, I gently remove the towel from his wound, but I can’t see anything because his T-shirt is in the way. “Take off your shirt,” I demand, not even thinking twice about my request.
He hesitates. The tangible tension filling the room is bound to suffocate me. Needing to say something, my lips turn up into a small grin. “You’ve seen me with no clothes on. Now it’s my turn.”
The gap between us suddenly crackles with an electrical charge I feel all the way to my toes.
His hesitation has me wetting my lips because I’m suddenly parched, but water won’t satisfy the thirst I feel. With eyes pinned to me, he reaches behind his head and grips the back of his collar as he unhurriedly exposes inch after glorious inch of inked skin.
It’s too much, too fast, but I can’t look away. I am transfixed by his strong, muscled chest, and defined abs that ripple as he twists and tosses his shirt to the floor. He is covered in tattoos, and when I say covered, I mean there isn’t much skin left to ink.
The artwork seems to emphasize his tapered waist and well-defined V muscle. It’s a visual feast as I examine every hardened inch of him, wanting nothing more than to study each tattoo. But when a trickle of red pours from a small hole in his side, I stop gawking and quickly reach for the clean towel. Pressing it over his wound, I don’t have the guts to look at him as I don’t trust the look in my eyes.
The room falls silent, our heavy breathing the only sounds filling the small room. I don’t know how much pressure to apply. “Am I hurting you?” I ask softly. Using my hair as a shield, I’m unable to look at him just yet.
“No,” he replies in a tone similar to mine.
Nodding, I continue pressing the towel to his wound, wishing I knew what to say. The towel isn’t as soaked as the first, which has me hoping the bleeding has slowed. I glance at the sewing kit on the bed, my stomach roiling.
When Bull shifts slightly, I can’t help the gasp which escapes me. “What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself. Even beneath his tattoos, the large scar on his side is clearly visible. When I take a closer look, however, that isn’t the only scar he has. He has many. The one down his left eyebrow has always left me curious.
When he doesn’t reply, I peer up at him from under my lashes, holding my breath. “Life,” he finally replies, setting me alight with one word and the weight of a thousand pounds.
My skin breaks out into goose bumps when he wraps his fingers around my wrist. I don’t know what he’s doing until he gently coaxes my hand away from his wound. Snapping to attention, I notice the bleeding has stopped, but the red, angry slash is still very much open.
Swallowing, I dare not breathe as he reaches for the mini bottle of scotch and unscrews the lid. He takes a swig, then offers me one. I shake my head. He pours the remaining alcohol over his wound, closing his eyes briefly.
This would probably be easier in the bathroom, but I have a feeling we both need to be sitting for what’s about to happen next. Bull opens the sewing kit, and with bloody fingers, he begins to thread the cotton through the eye of the needle.
His fingers are steady while I have to sit on mine to stop the trembling.
He opens another bottle of scotch, and this time, he throws back the entire bottle. Once he’s done, he inhales and gathers the flesh around the wound. As he is about to pierce his skin with the needle, I lunge forward, cupping my hand over his.
“Let me,” I offer. I feel
like this is something I need to do.
Bull seems almost…fascinated by us touching, and I don’t know why that is. His blood stains us both, and while most would be repulsed by the sight, it seems to excite him. But I established long ago that Bull isn’t like most.
With a sharp nod, he allows me to take the needle from his hand. Rising from the bed, I gradually drop to my knees before him. Something dark overtakes him, but that darkness enlivens me. It has every fiber of my body standing to command.
Focusing, I gently pinch his skin and look up at him. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“I won’t need to.” There is nothing arrogant about his reply. His candor is sincere. With a firm nod, I will my shaky fingers to still and pierce his skin.
The gasp leaves me and not him, as he is unmoving, like he didn’t just get stabbed once again. Thinking this is similar to a Band-Aid, I pull the thread through and then pierce his flesh once again. I stitch him up carefully, ensuring the gap is small between each one.
Each time the needle penetrates his flesh, my nausea rises, but I stamp it down. His body is hot to the touch, and it thaws the chill from my bones. Before long, I’m burning up for so many different reasons. His signature fragrance is amplified tenfold. I chew the inside of my cheek to suppress my whimper.
I’m almost done, proud of my efforts not to pass out or throw up, but when Bull’s hard abs undulate as he appears uncertain for a second before he leans forward, I realize I might pass out for an entirely different reason. If not for my heightened state, I would have missed it, but it feels like a lover’s caress when Bull cautiously takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.
He gently slides his fingertips over my locks, as if feeling something for the first time. I pause, unsure what’s going on. “Your hair…it smells like cherry blossoms,” he finally declares in what sounds like awe, breaking the silence.
“It’s my sh-shampoo,” I stutter, unable to meet his eyes. When he doesn’t say anything else, I continue to stitch him up. He doesn’t let go of my hair.
I have no idea how I was able to keep my hand steady, but once the wound is closed, I tie a knot in the cotton and snip it with the scissors. Leaning back on my heels to examine my handiwork, my hair slips from Bull’s fingers.
“All done,” I state, finally finding the nerve to look up at him. “I still think you need to see a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine,” he rebukes, reaching for the vodka and offering it to me. This time, I accept. I drink half and then hand him the rest.
He takes his time savoring it, his predominant Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquor slides down his throat. I can’t help myself and give in to temptation, tilting my head to examine his tattoos. His entire chest is inked with a detailed piece of what looks to be the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding into a barren forest with twisted, bare trees. Down his ribs and stomach is a scene straight from hell.
There are half skeletal, half living men riding horses with swords raised, prepared for battle. Throughout the intricate piece lay broken men, dead or begging for mercy. But nothing is merciful about this tattoo. He has what appears to be the all-seeing eye in a triangle in the middle of his chest. The eye follows me. So do the owl’s eyes he has inked on his right forearm. Always alert, always watching.
His right bicep has an hourglass. The pocket watch he has tattooed on the back of his hand has me wondering what his fascination with time is. And on his left bicep, he has a spread of four aces. However, on his tattoo, the traditional playing card suits are replaced with images that must mean something to him.
There is what appears to be a lion, a green diamond, a blindfolded woman, and a blue shark. The lion has a cross tattooed in the corner where the image of the suit should be. I have no idea what it means, but the closer I look and uncover the hidden images beneath the artwork, the more curious I become.
I can’t see his back, but from the small glimpse I saw, it too is covered. He has all the pieces to this complex puzzle inked on his skin, and all I want to do is study each one. The silver medallion of St. Christopher he wears around his neck is just another riddle. Bull doesn’t strike me as a religious person, so I wonder what its significance is to him.
“I don’t think tonight was a random attack,” Bull says, snapping me from my gawking. “He would have stolen something. Or tried to rape you.”
I gulp at his candidness because he’s right. At no time during the assault did I think he wanted to steal my bag or virtue. He was out for blood.
I’m still on my knees and lost in thought when, with a hesitant touch, Bull reaches down and cups my throat gently. With his fingertips, he caresses my neck slowly where I have bruises forming from the hands that tried to squeeze the life from me. “He was trying to kill you,” he states, dangerously low.
I remain perfectly still, not daring to breathe as I am utterly intoxicated by this moment, by him.
Bull can feel the steady beat of my pulse, which begins to pound faster and faster as he examines me more closely. “Is there someone who wants you dead?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply, my reddening cheeks betraying my response to him.
“Thinking so isn’t going to cut it. It’s the difference between life and death.” His grip on me tightens, emphasizing his warning.
The line between pleasure and pain begins to blur, but I don’t move. The way he touches me is hypnotic, and I forget everything but this sensation, which makes no sense. “I have no idea. But lately, I’ve felt like someone has been watching me,” I explain on a rushed breath.
“For how long?”
“Not long,” I reply, hating how flippant I sound, but it’s the truth. I don’t know how long because ever since Christopher left, I’ve always been looking over my shoulder.
“Any clients or ex-boyfriends you pissed off who would want to settle a score?”
He strokes his thumb over my pulse, his gaze never wavering from mine as he awaits my reply. But being this way with him has me forgetting my own name. I haven’t felt this in so very long, and I don’t know what to think or how to react to the way my body, my entire being responds to him.
It doesn’t make a lick of sense because I barely know him. But I’ve felt this undeniable pull from the first moment I saw him in the club. He guards secrets—deep, dark ones—yet that only lures me in deeper.
“No. I don’t have issues with anyone that would warrant my attack,” I finally reply. I decide to omit the fact his eyes looked familiar because I can’t even remember what they looked like.
Bull nods sharply before removing his hand. I instantly miss his touch. “You need to be careful. I’ll keep an eye out at the club. You should tell Lotus.”
Reality kicks in, and I realize I’m still kneeling between Bull’s legs. Unable to help myself, my gaze drifts to the front of his black jeans. Memories of his arousal pressed against me have me rising quickly because, unlike Bull, I can’t hide my emotions.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue yet again. If it wasn’t for you…” I rub my arms, a sudden chill coming over me.
“There’s no need to thank me,” he rebukes, coming to a stand as something changes inside him. I don’t know why thanking him has pissed him off, but it has.
For a split moment, his walls were lowered, and what I saw took my breath away, but they’re erected again, and the hard-hearted, aloof bastard is back. I don’t like this version.
I don’t know what’s supposed to happen because now that he’s stitched up and I’m as okay as I can be, considering what happened, it’s time for me to go home. That awkward tension lingers in the air because if Bull asked me to stay the night, I don’t know what I would say.
Most men would try to take advantage of this situation, but not Bull. I respect him for that, but on the flipside, I also feel like the ugly duckling.
Men usually throw themselves at my feet, but I still don’t even know if Bull likes me. And when he stands in the middle of the room, b
asically showing me the door, I take that as confirmation that whatever I feel is one-sided. He is just another asshole. One I need to forget about.
“I’ll see you at work.” I try to keep the emotion from my voice.
Suddenly, the walls close in on me, and I grab my bag, marching for the door. However, Bull steps to the left, blocking my exit.
My chest rises and falls rapidly as I’m provoked for so many different reasons. Pissed off, annoyed, infuriated, confused…aroused. I need to get out of here. But I’m not going anywhere, thanks to the giant standing in front of me.
He casually folds his arms across his still bare chest, watching me. Always watching. “You seem”—he pauses, searching for the right word before he settles on—“angry. Are you?”
Scoffing, I can’t believe he’s asking me this. How clueless can he be? “I’m fine.” I am so far from being fine, but I’ll be damned if I tell him that.
I attempt to push past him, but he moves with me, foiling my escape. “I can call Venus and ask if there are any rooms available if you want to stay here?”
I blink once, stunned. Is he really proposing for me to stay in another room? Is the thought of staying in the same room as me that repulsive? And who the hell is Venus? “That’s not necessary. Your virtue is safe with me. I’m going home.”
“You are angry with me,” he says, as though he’s just solved the world’s greatest mystery.
“No shit. Move.” I once again try to shove past him, but he is built like a brick shithouse and won’t move.
“Why are you angry? You can’t stay here, so I thought—”
Oh, the nerve.
“Do me a favor and don’t think whenever I’m involved. Thank you, or not, seeing as when I thanked you, you looked like I just told you to go fuck yourself, which is what I probably should have said because—”
I’m cut off mid rant as one second, I’m fuming, and the next, my back is shoved up against the door with Bull holding me prisoner. His hands are on either side of my head. I push off the door, only to be jostled back down.
“What’s wrong?” he has the gall to ask, inches from my face. But I don’t allow this closeness to distract me.
