Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(47)
“Screw you!” I shout—well, I actually say a lot worse than that, but most of it he doesn’t hear once he’s left the room.
The ladies are somewhat dumbfounded by my anger and seem concerned. I realize what I must look like to them. I’m filthy, I’m covered in bruises and bandages, and I’ve got a shaved head. Plus, I was hand delivered by an armed soldier.
“Sorry,” I say, even though I suspect they don’t understand. I mime myself drawing a smile on my face and hope that helps.
The ladies try to help me out of my uniform, but I resist. It’s not some weird shame about my body; it’s that I’m tired of being vulnerable. Eventually, though, I surrender and take off the jumpsuit. The call of the tub and bubbles is too great. I step into the steamy water, which should be heavenly, but I’m covered in fresh wounds. Burn marks on my chest are bright red, and my knees are raw. All my damages sing with agony. Crimson welts and scars rise up where there were none.
Eventually, the pain dulls and I allow myself to melt like a slab of butter buried inside a stack of pancakes. The women wash me like I’m a helpless baby. They scrub my arms and back, my feet, my face and neck. It’s odd to be bathed, but I’m so tired, I let it happen. The women are gentle and kind, even when they gingerly remove the bandages from the back of my head.
They both gasp.
“Is it bad?” I ask in a panic, but I know they don’t understand.
One of them rushes to the door and pounds on it. A soldier opens up, but I can’t see what’s happening because my other helper has spread a gigantic towel in front of me to block his sight line. My other “stylist” shouts at him in rapid-fire Spanish, but he’s just as clueless as me. He calls for Doyle, who briefly speaks to her, then closes the door.
When she returns, she looks at me with a sad, sympathetic face and points to the back of her own head. I don’t need an interpreter to understand my wound is infected. The other lady holds my hand tight while the first pours hot water over it. It feels like lava, and I shriek and cry.
I hear an argument in the hall, and then the door opens. Nurse Amy steps in with a small medical kit. She approaches the tub like it’s full of venomous snakes. My ladies scream at her, shouting hostilities in her face, pointing to my head, telling her off in the universal language of “you suck.”
After she examines my wound, Amy tries to open a tube of ointment, but the women snatch it from her. Like before, one takes my hand and the other pours the water. It’s just as painful, but when they’re done, they let Amy apply the cream, supervising her every move until she wraps it in a fresh dressing. Then they take the ointment from her and point to the door. Amy stalks off, and I ease back into the bath and smile up at my saviors.
“I love you, ladies,” I say.
When I’m done, they help me out of the bath and rub moisturizer all over me—my back, my scalp, my feet and face. They apply more ointment to wounds and scratches Amy ignored, then help me into a robe and slippers. They lead me to the sink, where a tube of toothpaste and a brush await me. As they remove the toothbrush from the packaging, I stare into the mirror at someone I don’t recognize. I’m gaunt, tired, and pale, like a ghost who refuses to believe she is no longer alive. It’s a wonder that Fathom knew who I was when I saw him. I’m ashamed, which is stupid, but it kills me to know he saw me this weak and broken. I’m almost glad my mother didn’t wake up and see me too.
I squeeze some toothpaste onto the brush and go to work. The mint has a shocking bite. Dental floss feels like lasers shredding my mouth apart. Still, I force myself to do my best, spitting out one red mouthful after another. I turn the knob for water to wash it down the drain and watch it swirl around in the bottom of the sink. Odd that I’ve missed hearing its whisper in my ears. I suppose Spangler will have to turn off whatever it is that jams my glove if he wants me to train those kids. Wait! I’ll have an opportunity to get us all out of here this time, and not as some mad unplanned dash through a maze of hallways. I will have my power back.
I nearly sprint out of the bathroom, and I make my way to the door. I want the guard outside to know I’ll train the kids. I want him to tell Doyle right away, but before I can get there, I see my ladies smiling at me from ear to ear.
“What?” I ask.
They point to a chair in the corner. Fathom is here. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt, all with the same stupid logo, but who cares? He’s here. He’s alive and in my room, and I have suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Neither of us waits for the women to leave. He’s out of the seat and wrapping me inside his arms before I can really process him. I don’t even hear the click of the closing door. All my attention is on his face, his eyes, his mouth.
“I thought you were—”
He stops me with a kiss. It’s firm but gentle, romantic but passionate, everything I have ever dreamed a kiss could be and a few ways I never dared all at once. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he pulls me in with his. Our mouths never part. I’m not sure they can.
I don’t know how long it lasts—minutes? Days? We might live out the rest of our lives connected by this kiss. Fine with me. Eventually he pulls back, rests his hands on my shoulders, and looks me up and down.
“Did they harm you, Lyric Walker?”
“Yes, but I’ll be okay. I’m just a little beat up,” I admit.