Page 62 of Sinister Red

“Fuck you. You don’t know shit and never will, because as soon as you give me the fucking code, I’m out.” Sam stops and slams the end of his cane into the hardwood. “I don’t give a shit about that. I’ll have Cy or Jackal come pick my ass up and I’ll stay at the fucking clubhouse if I have to. Harlow can come there whenever you let her, but I am not staying in this fucking apartment any longer if this is— “ He shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, don’t have the first fucking clue, so stay the fuck out of my business. You text me the new goddamn code right now, Marbles. Right fucking now. She needs to get gone and so do I.”

I cringe as I stop at the end of the hall.

Obviously, Marbles and Harlow had an entirely different plan than having me stop by to check out Morty. Hearing Sam’s responses to whatever his best friend is saying makes that clear and confirms I was sent here for something neither of us really want. And that proves Harlow was in on it because I highly doubt Marbles woke up one day and thoughtI’m going to force Sam and Sofie into a situation they can’t get out of by locking them in my apartment together until they talk out their issues.Good guy or not, that is not something he would have come up with on his own.

While I’m sure neither of them has all the details about what happened seven years ago or over the last few months, they should both know enough to realize how bad this idea was and that very little good—if any—will come from it.

“Asshole,” Sam grunts as he fires his phone through the doorway into the living room. His hazel eyes flick to mine as he scrubs a hand over his beard. “We’re stuck. He changed the alarm code and now Spider has to reprogram it again because your failed entries triggered lockdown. I have no idea when that fucker will come back, but we’re stuck until then.” He starts down the hall again, his bare feet stomping back to his room. “I don’t give a fuck what you do, but I have shit to take care of and I don’t want to be bothered while I do it.”

Sam brushes past me again, and just before he disappears into the guest room, I catch sight of his back and what he must have been trying to take care of.

“Wait.” I hurry after him with my medical bag in hand. “Sam, wait—” The door slams in my face and I scowl as I push it open because fuck this guy for being such a dickhead, but it isn’t going to stop me from trying to help him. Even if he doesn’t really deserve it. “Would you just hold on a second?”

“Get out, Sofie. I don’t have the fucking patience for this right now.”

“Your back— “

“Is fine.”

“Isbleeding, you jackass.” I step into the room completely and close the space between us, my eyes welling with tears yet again as I do.

I haven’t seen the actual injuries Sam sustained, not outside of the x-rays after his surgery, or reading his chart in the hospital. I knew he was shot and stabbed, knew what the outcome of those could be, but I hadn’t seen any of what I’m looking at right now and it breaks my heart.

There are several smaller scars along his right side; about two inches wide, a little jagged, and very pink compared to his fair skin, but they’re healing fine and not the reason for my tears. It’s the four, maybe four and a half inch long scar down the middle of Sam’s back close to his spine, the incision angry and swollen with a thin line of blood bubbling up between fresh stitches. His surgery was weeks ago now, and I assume they would have taken the stitches out before he was cleared to start physical therapy, but based on what I’m looking at, I’m either wrong or these really are fresh stitches.

Sam glances at me over his shoulder as I get close enough to confirm what I was already thinking. “I tugged too hard when I was trying to change the bandage. I’m fine.”

“Didn’t you have these removed a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, but the incision split during PT. Kept having issues because of the way I pushed, had to put a drainage tube in and everything, but that came out a week ago,” Sam grunts as he turns away from me. “Hate-fucking you in the closet at the funeral home ripped it again.”

Well, that fucking hurts.

I don’t like that he keeps calling it that, even if it is really how Sam views it.Hatejust isn’t a word I’d ever use for any aspect of what we were or are, even if we can’t be civil.Hatedoesn’t apply to a man I’m still in love with, even when we’ve hurt each other so badly we might never come back from it.

“What… what were you trying to do with this?” I reach out to feel the skin along the stitches, but Sam flinches when I touch him so I pull my hand away and clear my throat. “Maybe I can help.”

“Don’t need it.” He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, my gaze drawn immediately to the gauze and bottles spread out next to him.

“You were trying to clean and re-bandage this on your own?”

He doesn’t respond.

“And that’s why you’re staying with Marbles, because Harlow is here and she can help when you need it.”

Still nothing.

“Since I’m here and won’t be leaving any time soon…” I clear my throat and wince when Sam tenses. “I could do that for you. I’m not a nurse like Harlow, but I’ve done plenty of wound care and stitches are kind of my forte.”

He just sits there for a few seconds, unmoving and rigid, but eventually, Sam relaxes and nods before slouching on the edge of the bed.

I blow out a breath as I walk around the full size frame, kicking off my boots and setting my bag down before I kneel and scoot toward him. Angry and hurt, hell bent on making us out to be enemies or not, I hate seeing Sam like this and can’t help the fact that I will always want to help him however I can.

I rub my hands together before I reach for the medicated salve, then a wad of gauze that I carefully press to his back just below the angry red line. The ointment becomes oily as I gently apply it, his skin so hot it warms the salve. I figured it was infected. The placement isn’t ideal since there is almost always some kind of pressure on your back, but staying with a nurse has probably helped and Sam isn’t ignorant when it comes to injuries so I’m sure it’s not that bad. He knows how to take care of them, probably better than I realize, and despite pushing himself hard enough to split this the first time, I’m sure he’s been doing what he was supposed to this time around.

Blotting the excess away, I look up to see Sam handing the medical tape over his shoulder, the brightly colored tattoos that run down his arm a contrast to the bland white plastic. I take it with trembling fingers then carefully tear off a few pieces before grabbing the fresh pad of gauze he’s holding out to me. My eyes well with tears—again—as I take the tape and secure the covering, and just when I’m about to finish, Sam finally speaks.

“You said I was right about Weston.”

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