Page 6 of The Sharpest Edges

His reflexive jerk catches her by surprise when her thumb brushes a sensitive spot and he pulls his foot back like she burned him. It’s happened before, these small flinches, and she ignored them, but this time, before she can school her own body and resist, a similar one ripples through her from head to toe in a chain reaction to his. Some days, it feels like she’s made monumental progress in shedding all these moments that label her as traumatized and broken, and then something as innocuous as this will remind her that it’s all lurking beneath the surface.

They stare at each other for a beat, two deer ready to bolt over something so minor, and then he edges his foot toward her by way of apology before she can speak, no doubt aboutto tell her he’s sorry.

The warmth of his ankle heats her palm where she rests her hand in a comforting touch. “Easy. You’re okay.”

Dean’s uncomfortable with physical contact of any sort. She noticed that before and it’s still evident today. She should pull her hand away and give him some breathing room, stop hovering, stop touching, but she waits to see if he might move past the uncertainty stamped so clearly on his face. A little comfort isn’t a bad thing, and she’s offering the only chance he’ll get in here to soak up the smallest bit of it.

Then again, maybe she’s crossed a line. He’s the last person she should be touching unless it’s required…but he settles before she can abort her mission, exhaling hard in a way that sounds like relief, fingers uncurling from the bed rail he’d been squeezing.

Plenty of injuries have come through these doors and she’s rarely seen anyone as skittish, especially not one who looks like him. Not for the first time, his behavior has her more than a little curious.

“I won’t do any more damage, I promise. New wrap and you’re done.” She lets her hand fall away from his ankle, her thumb giving the skin a quick flutter, barely there at all, but she wishes she could take it back the moment it happens because that sort of thing is inappropriate at best.

He remains still and pliable for her to re-wrap his toe, a model patient in every respect, even nodding promptly when she tells him to avoid puddles, though they both know that’s impossible.

Dean’s far less willing to speak to her today. She wonders if he’s having flashbacks of all the wrong shit that came out of his mouth the last time, convinced he’ll make it worse if hetries again and that doesn’t sit well with her. They have quite a few visits left ahead of them and it won’t do anyone any favors if they’re both uncomfortable, so she tries to lighten the mood.

“You know I’m convinced Nick uses my time with the patients to do random things like write thank-you notes or file his taxes, maybe contemplate his life choices in the break room,” she says.

Dean grunts an agreeable sound, the stress lines in his brows evening out now that she’s finished fiddling with all his sore spots. “Should he be leaving you alone like this?”

She shrugs and leans back against the counter behind her. “It’s a small town. Small prison. The things people should do tend to be vastly different from what they actually do.” She wants to fill the void, chat with him like they’re two people passing the time instead of an inmate and a nurse, separated by cuffs and guards. “What do you do, Dean? For work on the outside.”

“Fix cars. I used to anyway.”

Her pleased smile is instant, eyebrows edging up in surprise. “I wish I could beg you to look at mine. It’s been—”

“—making a noise?” He cuts her off with a half grin like he’s heard that explanation from a hundred other car owners.

She almost blushes, both because of her oh-so-common complaint and because he’s so damn handsome when he isn’t scowling. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is making a noise. Sort of like a whooshing, or a clattering?”

He ponders her answer, clearly befuddled by the description. “Those are very different noises. Where’s it comin’ from? Front? Back? Under?”

“Front, for sure. That’s not all though, there’s so many things wrong with it.” She pauses, watchinghim squint at her. “It’s a long story. Anyway, I’ll take it in next week I guess. Somewhere.”

“If you take a picture of what’s under the hood, I’ll take a look, tell you if anything jumps out. Only if you want. You probably can’t though. I bet it’s breaking the rules. Shouldn’t have asked.”

He started confident and ended even shyer than before, his words low, like he’d forgotten that he’s got no business doing anything for her, but her heart twitches just the same. It’s a kind offer and harmless enough. He’s not asking her to show him some nudes, only the inside of her car, so she nods before she can talk herself out of it. “Okay. Any special area I need to get a close-up of?”

“Depends, what do ya got?”

“That’s part of the long story, but the cliff’s notes version is that it’s a sixty-nine Spider.” It feels like she’s telling him a secret, and maybe she is. Hopes he won’t dig further, though. She isn’t ready to share with Dean or anyone else why she has this car, or why she refuses to sell it and spends enough money repairing it to pay for a fancy vacation.

“No shit? Nice, real nice. Get way in there. Close-ups at all angles. Pay attention to anything that looks like a belt or a strap. Easier to spot in yours. All this new crap has fucking plastic covering all the parts but yours, what you see is what you get.”

He’s focused on what he’s talking about, a slip of excitement filtering through his tired face and she can’t help but smile, her expression likely as soft as they come these days. “Okay, I’ll take some photos tomorrow. It’s nice of you to do this.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Truth is, what else I got to do in here? Might not even see nothin’, but on the off chanceI do, maybe I can save you a few dollars from someone that might tack on a bunch of bogus charges.”

“I should sell it is what I should do, but…well, maybe someday. Pills starting to kick in?”

“Yeah, lot better than the Advil. Might get a nap when I get back.” The duck of his head proves he’d forgotten for a moment, during their conversations about cars and repairs, that he won’t be going home. He’ll be going back to the pod. Today and every day following for the next six months.

“Are you sure everything’s okay back there? I mean, I know nothing is okay, not really, but if something else happened—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. You ain’t gotta worry about me.”

She is worried. A tingle at the back of her brain tells her he’s leaving something out when he says it’s hard to sleep, and that there’s ‘always something going on’, but he isn’t offering details and she can’t make him tell her.

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