Purple Hearts(68)

And, yes, this was a tiny, dirty one-bedroom apartment that I paid for by slinging rail cocktails and deceiving the U.S. military, but it was mine, and there were different piles for different things.

There was the black-clothes pile. There was the not-black-clothes pile. There was the pile of Luke’s clothes. There was the pile of records. There was the pile of things Luke had used or would use in the future, some of which was trash, okay, but it was convenient because he could reach it from the couch.

Yeah, I’d thought, it did kind of smell in here. It smelled like a sweaty human body. Which was normally fine by me, for the record. But one shouldn’t have to constantly muck around in another’s aura.

Fine. Fine! I would take care of myself, just to prove I could do it. But I would use the most toxic corporate bleach, and I would listen to Yoko Ono’s primal-screaming records while I did it.

I put our clothes and Luke’s blankets in the wash. I removed the trash piles in the living room and kitchen, then swept and mopped the floors, and scrubbed the sink and tub. I mopped the bathroom tile, cleaned the oven, opened the windows, and dusted the sills. I even washed my hair, shaved my legs, plucked my eyebrows, trimmed my bikini line.

Luke opened the door, flashing me a small smile. He was wearing his old sweatpants and a Buda Bears T-shirt with visible pit stains. The effort he’d been expending the last few days was now hovering around him in the form of man scent. Since he started living here, Luke had not yet properly bathed.

Well, now he would. Or, at least, he would once we got him into the bathroom.

Which is how I ended up trying not to look at his naked body as he braced himself on the edge of the tub, hands clutching either side, lowering himself into the steaming water. We had considered a shower, but we were afraid he’d slip, and none of my chairs fit under the measly tap that hung over the claw-foot tub. Problem was, I had to hold him by the chest, making sure his good leg didn’t slip and splash water all over the floor, or worse, jam the injured leg against the side.

“Ow, ow, ow, fuck.”

My hands were slipping across his chest. “What?”

“Just, slower.”

“I’m trying.” I followed the line of the water as it hit the tops of his thighs, the lines of muscle cutting his pelvis.

God, Cassie. Perv, my gut said.

I couldn’t help it.

Some hidden part of my brain started shooting images of him inside of me in the motel bathroom. And again on the bed. And again on that chair near the bed. STOP.

Remember that this is the man who pissed himself on your floor.

Finally, he was sitting.

Oh. And he was aroused. I hadn’t noticed; too busy trying not to be aroused. “Okay,” I said, feeling my face flush.

“Yeah,” Luke said, covering it with his hand. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I, you know, was naked in front of a woman.”

I shuffled around, looking for a washcloth. “It’s biology,” I said, my voice doing that thing that it does when I don’t know what to say.

Without looking, I tossed a washcloth in the water and stood up, headed toward the door. Something tugged at me, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t been naked in front of a man in a while. I had no excuse.

“Is there soap?” he said behind me.

“It’s in the rack hanging on the spigot.”

A second later he yelled, “Fuck, ow.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I can’t reach it.”

“It’s right behind you,” I said to the wall.

“I can’t.”

I turned around and knelt, seeing his face strain as he twisted. In order to get it, he had to press his leg against the side of the tub.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

As I loaded the washcloth with soap, he rested his head on the back of the tub, breathing shallowly. He was exhausted, still wincing every few seconds. On instinct, I pushed him forward slightly, and ran the cloth down his back, to the parts it would be difficult for him to reach.

“Where else?” I said.

He opened his eyes. “Hm?”

“Where else can’t you reach?”

“No.” He held out his hand to take it. “I don’t need you to do that.”

“Just let me.” I squeezed the washcloth, and the tug went lower inside me, but thank God he couldn’t see that, and thank God it was just the two of us so no one else could question why I thought this would be a good idea.

He did let me. I started with his back, then up the neck, behind the ears. At first it was weird, but then it was just . . . nice. Nice to see him not in pain, and, yes, nice to touch him, as it had been that night six months ago. And perhaps nicer now, since neither of us was drunk or angry or awkward.

“Thank you,” he said, lulled, his silver-blue eyes disappearing under tired lids. “This is really,” he started, and let out a shiver as I got close to under his arms. “Helpful.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied, moving to his thighs, under his knees, the underside of his calves.

Suddenly, “Sugar, Sugar” started up in my pocket. Luke flinched in the water, splashing me slightly. I laughed, and stood up, grabbing my meter and test strips from the medicine cabinet, my lance and lancelets from the shelf above the toilet.

“Do you mind if I do this?” I asked, holding up the meter.