Page 50 of Preying Heart
“She left.” I shrug. “Got my blood test results back and shared them with me. Said my blood sugar is slightly high.”
“Oh, that’s not good.”
“It’s not too bad. I just have to watch out for gestational diabetes.”
We’re at a standstill because I know he wants me to leave him alone, and I’m just as desperate not to be alone. I made my choice, again, to stay, and I need to repay him for his hospitality.
“Let me clean your wounds. Your shirt is torn in back, and I bet you won’t be able to reach those.”
“Why are you being nice to me again? You’re not trying to break me down, are you?”
“Depends on what it means to break you down.” Oh, face it. I can’t help being flirtatious. It’s how I was trained to get my way. “Sorry. I just mean it as a friendly gesture. I’m your houseguest. Eating your food. Using your resources. The least I can do is give you a helping hand.”
“A helping hand,” he repeats, seeming dazed as he enters the room without looking back.
I follow him and watch him rummage for the first aid supplies. He lays out gauze, antibiotic cream, alcohol pads, and tape on the bed.
“I’m going to take a shower first, and then we can patch up anything that’s still bleeding.” He takes off his shirt in front of me and drops it on the floor.
It’s hard not to admire the rippling muscles and that thatch of dark hair on his chest. His back, however, is tracked with a web of scars.
“Who whipped you?” I can’t help touching him. “Was it your dad?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just walks toward the bathroom while dropping his pants.
It’s not sexual. Not at all. And seeing the scars crisscrossing his back drives away any lusty thoughts I might have had on seeing that well-proportioned body.
What I see instead is a wounded man who tries way too hard to rescue and save others because no one saved him. He’s not going to tell me, but I’m going to figure it out. If only to help him. Everyone needs someone on their side, and I’m guessing that Heath believes he can walk alone and not need anyone.
I sit on his bed and wait for him. I don’t know why I’m not taking the opportunity to snoop. It’s what I do when Gavin leaves me alone. You’d be surprised at what people hide. Especially someone who portrays himself as a do-gooder hero in public. Gavin is always saying the “right” things, acting sympathetic to the downtrodden, railing against greed and taking the side of the little guy. He’s into saving the planet. He wants to get rid of cows and gasoline engines and one of his reasons for not having children, or at least what he says in public, is that people pollute the planet and he doesn’t want to contribute to the carbon footprint.
Of course, I see how much he wastes on his private jet, and the fact that his organic vegetables take more fertilizers to grow than just having a cow poop on it naturally. He also knows that cattle turn unusable grassland into protein and keep it from burning in those big wildfires that spew more carbon into the atmosphere than whatever he’s saving with his electric car, which he never wonders where the electricity for his toxic battery comes from.
He’s nothing if not a giant hypocrite, and I also know he steals money from his parents’ foundation as payoffs to himself for his “oversight,” which is basically nothing.
I gathered so much good stuff on him. Receipts. Emails. Notes he threw in the trash. Yep. I’m a master snooper.
Which is strange how I’m so paralyzed while waiting for Heath to finish his shower. I could be using this opportunity to dig into his things. Look for evidence, notes, correspondence, maybe even get lucky with a password taped underneath his bedpost.
Instead, I stay seated and wait. It might be because I’m grateful. An unusual emotion for me. But maybe it’s more than that. Have I come to care about him? As a person. As a man.
Yes. I chose to stay because I fear the unknown more, but could the unknown feelings in my heart betray me?
The shower shuts off, and Heath emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He holds on to it, because I’m sure when he’s alone, he doesn’t bother.
“I’m exhausted,” he says. “Do me a favor and don’t ask.”
Yep. He’s used to being alone, so I’ll let it be. Just count myself lucky that I’m the one here to fix him up—not Lucy.
He sits on the bed, partially facing me and holds out his arms.
The scrapes are all surface and are barely bleeding—more road rash than cuts with bruises forming around them.
I spread antibiotic ointment over the larger patches and then dress them with gauze pads. It feels calming and peaceful to work on his wounds without talking. Just touching him is more human contact and connection than I’ve ever felt. I’m sorry when I’m done, and there’s nothing more to do.
