Page 23 of Bad Boy
“You could have a concussion.”
“I’m wearin’ a helmet.”
“Fine. But I’m taking you home and cleaning you up. It’s non-negotiable.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I let him help me to my feet, hissing in pain as the tiny cuts on my abdomen pull and sting. My chin aches, and I can feel the blood trickling down my neck. The pain is almost enough to make me curse.Almost.
“Preppy. . .” The whispered endearment is low and urgent.
“I’ll be fine. Really. Just take me home, please.”
I suppose I need to tell him now.
“There’s somethin’ you should know. . .”
He stares at me expectantly.
“We’re sorta neighbors.”
“You’re the boy next door?” he asks, his deep voice full of disbelief and. . .excitement? A slow grin pulls at his lips until a full-blown smile is on display.
“Oh, this is fucking gold.”
* * *
“Turn here,” I inform Remi from my seat in the passenger side of his Range Rover.
“I thought you said we were neighbors? I don’t live on this street.”
“Neighborsis a relative term out here. My house is the closest home to yours, but it’s still a forest apart. I can show you sometime.” I just want to get clean and curl up in bed with a good book or maybe watchHeartstoppersagain. Anything to distract me from what just happened.
“Keep goin’ to the end of the road. It’s the only driveway on the left.”
Remi turns in, and we ascend the small hill my house is on. He pulls right up front, ignoring all reason and blocking the roundabout. He jumps out before I can say anything and runs around to my side, opening the door and leaning in to unbuckle me.
His blazer is gone, ruined when he wiped the sticky mess from my face. With his tie loose and the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his tattoos peek out. I idly wonder what they are. I can’t quite tell.
“Linc. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
He’s standing there, door ajar, with his hand held out. And I’m still just sitting here. Staring.
Oops.
I try to snap out of my weird daze and place my hand in his. Remi pulls me up, and then he’s digging my keys from his own pocket as we walk up the steep steps to the front door. He must have taken them from the ignition when I wasn’t paying attention.
I didn’t even think of the keys. I hope he found my glasses, too.
Remi grips my elbow lightly, guiding me so I don’t fall. When he unlocks the door, I quickly turn the alarm off, and we head straight upstairs.
My parents aren’t home yet. We have a condo in Asheville where they stay whenever they have too many meetings in one day. I’m not sure if today is one of those days, but cheers to hoping it is.
I point to my room, and Remi tugs on my hand gently, leading me straight to my en-suite and the sink.
“Up,” he commands softly, and I lift myself until I’m sitting on the counter, leaning back against the mirror.
My eyes track Remi while he busies himself, turning on the shower and gathering items around the bathroom—a first aid kit, washcloth, and a towel. He sets his supplies down and just stands there, staring up at me.
“Take your shirt off. Let's see the damage,” he states matter-of-factly. Clinically almost.
