Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(40)

“Did he hurt you?” Brawler growls, his muscles tensing.

I shake my head. Again, people need to understand that physical hurt is not the only way people can suffer. But it’s what we always ask. When we say, “Are you hurt?” We’re never talking about mental suffering. Never.

I’m about to tell him I caught Johnny fucking someone else, but I know how na?ve that sounds. Brawler’s just going to stare at me like I should’ve known that would happen. The truth is, I should have. Their sense of right and wrong is not my sense of right and wrong. Johnny pledging an attraction for me doesn’t mean shit. Obviously.

“I need to take a shower,” I say, realizing the places where Johnny touched me are like pock marks on my otherwise smooth skin. It’s not an imprint I want on my body for any longer than it has to be.

“You can trust me,” Brawler says, trying again.

I don’t bother answering. I can’t trust anyone but myself. And shit, I can’t even trust myself. I got caught up in Johnny’s world for a second. In his sweet words and actions that had another meaning all together.

I stand from the armchair and move toward the bathroom. The second overdose of adrenaline is leaving, and I’m about to crash. A nap is in order after this, I think.

“What the…?” Brawler follows me, his angry steps stomping behind me. “He did fucking hurt you!”

Brawler’s hand clamps around my shoulder. I look over my shoulder, my gaze catching on a bloody spot I left on the tan recliner.

I sigh. “There was an…altercation,” I say, for lack of a better term. I don’t really know what all that was. Johnny being a dick? But also, Johnny doesn’t know any other way to be.

“Why did you tell me he didn’t hurt you?”

I turn, knocking his hand off me. “You know in a fight when there’s so much hype and energy around you. Sometimes you can get hit straight in the face and not even feel it because you’re so focused? I didn’t realize.”

He nods, understanding written all over his features. “Can I see it?”

From the looks of the blood on the recliner, I don’t know if it’s just what was on my shirt that seeped through or if I’m bleeding again. I turn so he can get a good view. “Johnny cleaned it up once.”

Brawler pauses as he grips my shirt. After what I said sinks in, he pulls the shirt up, placing it in his other hand to leave his other hand free to inspect.

“What’s it look like?”

“Looks like you got slammed into something.”

“That’s about right,” I say, humor lacing my voice. I don’t know why I think that’s funny. It’s really not. If anyone else had done that to me in a fight, I would’ve given it back to them worse. I can’t do that where Johnny is concerned though.

He lets the shirt back down. “It’s still seeping a little. After you take a shower, I’ll put some bandages on it.”

“So, you can touch me? Magnum seemed to think he’d end up in a ditch somewhere if he tried to help.”

“Don’t trust anyone that fucking close to them,” Brawler grinds out.

I turn, letting my shirt fall naturally. “But I can trust you?”

“Yes,” he says, voice firm, like he’s never been more sure of something his whole life.

I press my lips together, still not willing to believe it. Turning, I leave Brawler behind me as I make my way into the bathroom to take a shower. The shower stings at first, as does the soap running into the cut, but I let it happen, wanting it to be as clean as it can be before Brawler puts a bandage on it. When I get out, I wrap up in a towel, leaving my upper back bare while covering everything else up. My hair’s damp from the shower, clinging to my neck, so I move it over my other shoulder and walk back out into the living room.

An array of first aid materials sits on the counter. Brawler must’ve run to his own apartment because I don’t have much here. I have a tiny First-Aid kit under the bathroom sink but that’s it.

“Have a seat,” he says, pulling out the stool that sits next to my kitchen bar. The Formica is chipped in some places, but it doesn’t look half bad. It’s like everything else in this apartment. It’s not terrible.

I place my foot on the rung and heave myself up there, making sure to keep my towel closed as I give Brawler my back.

“Take that pill there,” he says, motioning toward the glass of water and small white pill next to me on the bar. “Then place that ice pack on your forehead.”

Oh look, an actual ice pack. I do as he says and lean over, resting my elbow on the bar while holding the ice pack to my forehead.

“This looks a lot better,” he says, voice lowering. “Is it okay if I put some ointment on it?”

“Please,” I tell him, my throat suddenly very dry. After what happened this morning, I’ve realized I’m sitting here in a towel and Brawler’s about to touch me again. “Can I reach it myself?” I ask, pulling away.

“Just let me do it,” he says.

I try to relax, turn back around, and steel myself for Brawler’s hands. When they finally touch me, it’s just a grazing like he doesn’t want to hurt me. He runs his fingertips over the wound, and I suck in a sharp breath.

He yanks his hands away. “Sorry.”