Bad Boy Blues(34)

Zach studies me for a few heartbeats, his fingers on his mouth again. “I didn’t think it was possible but that was the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.” I narrow my eyes at him but he keeps going, “Besides, it’s been a thousand years of chasing and the guy can’t take a hint and apparently, neither can you.”

Thrusting the sheets aside, I stand.

Only, I forgot about the blisters and the pain, and I stumble. “Fuck.”

I would’ve probably fallen on the floor if not for a strong grip around my arm. His fingers flex on my bare skin when he looks at my feet. “What the fuck happened?”

My toes have splotches and ugly looking boils around them, and I’m sure my skin must be ripped on the bottom and in the nook where my foot meets my ankle.

Ugh.

Stupid blue sandals.

Before I can answer him, he comes down on his knees. Those fingers of his vanish from around my arm and grip my left ankle. I have no choice but to hold on to his shoulders, his very hard and curved shoulders that ripple under his threadbare t-shirt as he moves my foot this way and that.

“What are you doing?” I ask his bowed head.

His finger traces the arch of my foot and my toes wiggle. “How’d you get these?”

I try to extricate my leg but his grasp tightens. “It doesn’t matter. I –”

“They’re bleeding. Insanely,” he snaps, as if I’m an imbecile.

As if I haven’t noticed.

I fist his t-shirt to keep my balance. “I know. I can see and feel, thank you very much. And it’s not my fault that they’re bleeding. It’s yours.”

He looks up. “What?”

“Yes. I’ve been walking for miles because I wanted to see you. So it’s your fault.”

It’s irrational but at the same time, it makes complete sense to me.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you call a cab or something?”

I sigh sharply at the look on his face. He knows the answer. He probably overheard it the other day when I was talking to Tina.

“You know why,” I tell him with gritted teeth. “Now, let my ankle go.”

There’s a clench in his jaw and finally, he comes to his feet. Sighing, I wiggle my toes on the hardwood floor in freedom.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“Go where?”

He tips his chin forward. “To the bathroom.”

“What?” I lean back from him like he’s making a play to grab me. “Why?”

“So I can murder you and dump your body,” he deadpans. “It’ll be easier to clean all that blood up in the bathroom.”

I scoff. “Funny. You wouldn’t murder me.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he says softly.

“No. Because if I die, you can’t torture me.”

He shoots me a long look. “You know this is breaking and entering, don’t you? I remember locking my door. So either let me dress your wounds or I’m calling the cops on you.”

“Did you hear yourself?” I ask, exasperatedly. “Are you saying if I don’t let you take care of me, you’ll have me arrested?”

Still staring at me, he gets out his phone from his back pocket. “Since it’s Saturday, you won’t make bail until Monday. You’ll definitely be fired and on top of that, to come up with bail money, you’ll have to dip into your savings – savings that I hear you were keeping aside to make a payment on your old house.”

“You’re a psychopath, you know that?”

“It’s your choice,” he says, coolly.

“Fine. You want to dress my wounds? Be my guest. I don’t even care. I’ve gone crazy, anyway. I’ve completely lost my mind because I’m here. I came into your room like an idiot. So yeah.”

Muttering to myself, I start to limp in the direction of the bathroom but a hiss escapes me when blisters pop with the pressure.

Behind me, Zach curses and I barely suppress a shriek when he lifts me in his arms, bridal-style, and strides over to the bathroom. I have very little choice but to fist his shirt and coil my hand around his neck.

The whole thing is over in less than five seconds and the next thing I know, he’s sitting me down on the marble countertop of his sink. I’m on the side, my legs dangling.

I think I should say something, show my stance that I’m against him picking me up like this. But my breaths are still shaken up and my feet are still throbbing, and I can’t form words.

A second later, Zach sits in front of me, on the closed toilet seat, and spreads out the first-aid box right next to me on the counter.

Then he circles his large fingers around my ankle once again and puts my foot on his thigh.

I suck in a breath at how hard it is, the muscles there. It’s like putting my foot up on a rock. A very warm rock.

The smell of antiseptic fills the space as Zach dabs some on a cotton ball with deft, expert movements.

“You didn’t have a meeting, did you?” I ask, instead of focusing on very weird feelings he’s invoking in me by his gentle ministrations.

With easy flicks of his hand, Zach cleans the cuts on my toes. My foot jerks with the sting but he holds it in place. “Nope.”

I curl my fingers at the edge of the counter. “You made it up.”