Page 88 of Tattletale

He holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers. I suppose it’s slightly less urgent if it’s not his dominant hand at risk.

“And why are you in the shower? Hm?” I look down at the gory mess that is his hand. “Did you think you could just rinse this like a paper cut? What if I didn’t come?”

He rolls his neck so his gaze meets mine. “But you did.”

“But I’m asking you what if I didn’t—”

“But you did,” he interrupts more sternly. “Thank you.” His lips switch into a smile. We both sit quietly for a moment in the thick air. I wrap my arm around his shoulders, deciding to give in to the urge to comfort him.

“Where’d you go tonight? Why’d you ditch me?”

“I didn’t. I just stepped out and—”

“Don’t lie.” He lifts one brow.

I exhale. “It’s good to know that superpower still works even when you’re piss drunk.”

He smirks. “So?”

“I hurt my friend’s feelings really bad tonight. I had to make it right,” I admit.

“So rude Secret Service guy’s your ex, huh?”

I nod slowly. “He was worried I was falling in love with you.”

Gabriel gives me a sheepish smile. “Are you?”

“I care about you.”

Gabriel holds my stare best he can with his heavy eyelids seeming desperate to clamp shut. He lets out a breathy laugh. With his uninjured hand, he taps my nose. “Look at that. Surprisingly, not a lie.”

“Are you falling in love with me?” I’m asking mostly out of guilt than anything else.

He shuts his eyes and turns his head forward, away from me. “I’m trying not to love women who won’t love me back.”

I wish I could deny it. I really do, but Gabriel’s spot on. My heart’s not available. “Do you have a first aid kit anywhere?”

He points to a cabinet on the far side of the bathroom.

“Okay, I’m going to triage your hand, call your doctor, then we’re going to get you out of these wet clothes—”

“Sexy,” he mumbles with a playful smile.

“Don’t flirt with me right now, Gabriel. You smell like a wet cat.”

“Like pussy?” He snickers as I stare at him with unblinking eyes.

“Okay, funny man, don’t quit your day job.” Crawling over him, careful not to nudge his injured hand, I wrap his good arm around my shoulders and lift with all my might. By some miracle, I’m able to get him to his feet. Even I’m surprised. I’m strong, but I know my limits. On missions, I usually have to leave the body-dragging to Linc or Lance when it comes to a man this size.

“Whoa, whoa, steady, Gabriel.” He starts to sway as we make our way to the bedroom. If he topples, I’m going down with him. I sit him on the side of the bed, swivel his feet around, and let gravity handle the rest. Gabriel falls back onto the bed, his head hitting the pillow. He holds out his bleeding hand so it’s dangling off the side of the bed.

“Smart move. Don’t bleed on your nice duvet,” I say. It’s hard to tell how drunk he really is. He smells like he shouldbe out cold. But yet, our conversation was intelligible enough. Maybe it’s because he’s a genius. Even alcohol has a hard time completely penetrating his mind.

I dart back into the bathroom to collect the first aid kit and all the clean towels in sight. They’re white and will ruin. Such a shame, but I’m sure Gabriel can afford a new set. Hell, he can afford a brand-new penthouse should he choose. Making one more trip, I return with the giant bottle of antiseptic I spotted under his sink.

After dragging a sitting chair to Gabriel’s side, I make a bird’s nest with the towels for his hand to rest in. I examine the wound. The bleeding seems like it’s starting to slow, but this most definitely needs stitches. I’ve stitched Lance up a time or two in a bind, but those were mostly surface wounds. This is too close to the tendons and ligaments. He needs a skilled surgeon if he wants to use this hand again.

“Okay, Gabriel, I’m really hoping you’re too drunk to feel this.”

---