Page 112 of Things I Wish I Said
I lift his shirt slightly to inspect him for more wounds but find none.
His body is honed to perfection, carved from hours in the gym and work on the field, with hard abdominals, a cut Adonis V, and a muscular chest that matches the swell of muscle in his biceps. But the last thing I want to do is stare at him like a creeper, so I quickly lower his shirt, then head for the bathroom where I fill a glass with warm water and grab a washcloth.
Once I return, I set to work, gently scrubbing away the dried blood from his face, being careful not to aggravate the bruising around his eye.
I finish and dispose of the water and cloth, then return to my perch on the bed where I stare at him, wondering if I made a mistake bringing him here instead of the hospital. He clearly hit his head. He could have a concussion, broken bones, or bleeding somewhere.
I groan and drop my head in my hands, praying I did the right thing when he suddenly rolls onto his side and vomits all over my bedspread.
Chapter twenty-five
GRAYSON
I blink my eyesopen, or at least I try to, but my left won’t give. It’s as though someone inflated it with a tire pump, then glued it shut. My right opens, but it’s enough to assess my surroundings. Sunlight filters through a nearby window. Soft white curtains. Shelves lined with awards and trophies. A wrought-iron bed and a small desk with an ancient desktop computer.
It doesn’t take me long to realize I’m not at home, and even less time to determine I’m in Sinclair’s bedroom. I wonder how I got here until my muddled thoughts begin to clear, bringing with them a flicker of memories.
Ryleigh’s scan results.
Dustin.
The drugs.
The beating.
But how the hell did I get here?
I bring my hands to my forehead and moan. I must’ve called her; it’s the only thing that makes sense.
“Hey there, Slugger. How’s the noggin’?” Her voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and insistent.
I grunt and somehow manage to push myself up to a seated position even though every fucking square inch of my body hurts.
I wait until the sharp slide of the knife stabbing me in the ribs stops, then glance up at her through my limited vision.
Her whiskey eyes focus on my face, then scan over me.
She’s wearing her wig today, a fresh coat of pink lip gloss, blush, and that black winged liner girls wear, but otherwise, her skin is bare, giving me a glimpse of the light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks.
She looks beautiful, but then she always looks beautiful. With or without hair. With or without makeup. I’m quite certain Ryleigh could live out her worst of days and still take my breath away every damn time.
The sight eases something inside me, stills my racing thoughts.
“What time is it?” I croak out.
“Just past ten in the morning. You slept for a while, which is probably a good thing considering you spent a couple hours last night barfing up the contents in your stomach.”
I groan. “Please say you’re joking.”
“I’m not. Unfortunately, my bedspread might need to be burned.”
“Shit.” I grunt, hating the picture she’s painting. “I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“I don’t need you to buy me a new one,” she says, her tone soft—softer than I deserve.
With all the shit she’s going through, the last thing she needs is this.
I run a hand through my hair; it feels tacky, dirty. I’d hate to look in a mirror right now. “I shouldn’t have called you.”
