Page 6 of Pick Six
He trails behind me, following me up the stairs to the hall bathroom, and shuts the door halfway behind us. His eyes land on my lip again, and now that I’m standing in front of a well-lit mirror, I can see why he had such a visceral reaction. My lip is split and bloody, the swelling already making me look like I went two rounds in a boxing ring. His hand slides under my chin again, turning me so he can look closer.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” His eyes darken, and I can tell I’m about to lose him again to whatever rage-filled tirade he’s about to go on. Just the way I saw him snap downstairs. Alex’s temper was infamous for a reason.
“How about instead, we clean up your knuckles before you get blood on my dress and then figure out why it looks like you’re bleeding through that shirt.” I nod down to his side.
He flips the faucet on and starts soaping up his hands, the bubbles foaming up over his tattooed knuckles and the bloody bruises where he’d punched the fuck out of his teammate. I watch, in part because there’s not much else to do in this room, and in part because his hands are sexy as fuck. The swirl of the ink over his veins distracts me. My mind immediately starts wandering, and I have to make an effort to stop it.
This is the problem with Alex, especially being in close proximity to him. I notice all the little details about him that I like and forget about the whole package which is a giant red flag hoisted on top of a train wreck barreling down the rails at three hundred miles per hour. I glance up to see if he’s caught me staring, but he looks too lost in his own thoughts to notice.
My eyes slip down to where the stain is on his shirt as he turns the faucet off again and dries his hands on the towel hanging next to the sink. The shirt is black, but in this light, I can tell that my earlier suspicion was right. There’s definitely blood there and now I can see where a hole has been ripped through it.
His eyes follow mine and he tilts his head when he sees what I’m seeing, his hands going to the buttons on his shirt. He makes quick work of the bottom few and untucks it before he pulls it back. I immediately regret telling him to investigate it while I’m still standing here because now, I’m getting a view of him I try to forget exists. The expanse of skin, the muscles, and tattoos are something that distracts me for full seconds before I can think straight again. It’s honestly embarrassing and I should probably not have come in here with him. Except I see where there’s a pretty deep gash and reach forward to pull his shirt back the rest of the way so I can get a better look, wincing when I see the way the flesh has been torn open.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask letting his shirt go again, looking around for a washcloth.
“I guess. I didn’t notice it until now. He had a sharp ass fucking ring on. He must have caught me.”
“We should wash it out before it gets infected.” I try hard to focus on the cut and not let my eyes wander beyond it. The man took a beating for me and the least I can do is try to help him fix it without ogling him in the process.
“We? You gonna nurse me, Saint?” A glimmer of a smile flashes across his face.
I roll my eyes as I pull a washcloth from the shelf and soap it up with water from the faucet. I can feel his eyes on me as I do it, and the silence in the room makes the air feel even thicker than it had before.
“Here.” I hand it to him, and he takes it from me.
Instead of using it on himself he slides a hand under my chin and tilts my face up, swiping the cloth gently over the corner of my lip. His touch is so soft that I’m caught off guard by it, and I feel the little kick in my heart rate that should have me worried. The one I’ve always felt when he’s too close, which is why I try to avoid these sorts of encounters at all costs.
“I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. But I just saw the look on your face and fuck…”
“For the record, the look on my face was more ‘please come interrupt this so I can get away’ and less ‘beat his ass’.”
“He got what he deserved though.”
“And you?” I glance at his knuckles and his side.
He shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I probably got what I deserved for what I was thinking after you told me you’re divorced.”
I feel like some of the oxygen has left the room. It might explain the tingle of awareness that’s creeping down my spine and the fact that I can hear my own breathing so loudly as he takes a step closer to me.
“Don’t look at me like that, Saint.”
“Like what?” My voice is barely audible because I’m trying to use whatever functioning brain cells I have left in this moment to tell myself this is a very bad idea.
“Like you want the things I could do.”
The partially open door kicks open and I take an abrupt step back from him, making his hand drop from my face. Violet’s form fills the door frame, two bags of ice in her hands. Her eyes fly back and forth between us, and we’re clearly being caught red-handed in her bathroom. Which is just lovely.
“Ice!” she says loudly, her eyes wide, clearing her throat before she sets it down on the sink. “I see you found the washcloths and towels. You can use more to wrap the ice if you want. Let me know if you need anything else.”
She says the words fast, and then dodges out of the room almost as quickly.
“Wonderful,” I mutter softly under my breath.
