Page 118 of Painted Scars
“Sounds like a good plan.” I swallow a noise that attempts to betray a sob.
He nods clinically, all signs of softness vaporized from my morally orange stalker. “We’ll assess the payoff and then devise another plan. Publish your articles if you’re amenable to it. Then they won’t have anything left to hide behind.”
“Okay.” I’m not up for any more plans tonight and certainly no articles. “What about you?”
August stares at my mouth like every word costs restraint to curl me on his lap and hold me to him. “What about me?”
“You chopped off his finger,” I remind him.
“Prevented a felony,” he says, flatly. “I don’t care about being painted a monster so long as you get off.”
Cold sweat rolls down my neck. “Don’t be fucking noble, August.”
“I’m not noble.” He takes my mug and leaves to refill it, returns, all quiet competence and boiling violence restrained. He holds it out for me, an inch from contact, and I want to cry at the distance separating us.
I take the mug from him and close my eyes and picture the newsroom. The printer room. Closed door. My reflection in the glass windows, pale, small, and frightened. I open my eyes and gulp down air and use August’s loft and my breathing technique to calm down.
He rubs his palms, and I’ve never wanted them on my thighs or waist more than I have before. To be rocked and told everything will be alright.
“Do you want to start documenting everything?” he asks.
My stomach roils. I put the glass down before it slips from my sweaty palms and shatters. One breath and I’m thrust back to the moment we met. A tiny fluorescent-lit room, choking out the details of my assault.
“Yes.” It’s barely louder than my memories.
We spend the next hour documenting everything, taking photos, recording a statement. He asks for consent to every photo, doesn’t touch me despite my hands insistent shaking, and I feel cold and empty inside without his caress. Like clockwork, he performs the concussion protocol, assessing my vision, mental clarity, and pain for any changes.
Afterward, I sip on a third tea, while August converses with his contact on the phone, arranging to save duplicates of the information and have it ready to go public if the Romans retaliate.
August’s physician arrives and examines me. Penlight across my eyes. Follow my finger again. Gentle examinations of my head, neck, and wound. Blood pressure checks. Pulse-ox clip winking red on my finger.
“You stitched this up well,” he compliments August, packing up his belongings. To me, he says, “You’re lucky you came out the way you did. Hard head.” He taps his skull.
Then he reels off a neat list to August. Low lights, no screens, frequent water, administer Tylenol every five hours and antibiotics three times daily for my head wound. Call him if anything changes. He promises to check in tomorrow, squeezes August’s shoulder, and nods at me, slipping out as quietly as he came. Darkness presses in on the room. My head is a shade less furious with fire.
August sees him out and comes to lean on his knees next to me. “I think it’s best if you stay here the night and sleep on everything. Take my bed, and I’ll sleep here. Tomorrow, we talk. Fight. Yell. Have angry hate sex.”
I snort. “Keep dreaming about the last one.”
His fingers drum an inch from my arm. “I haven’t stopped dreaming about you, Glitter Bomb.”
My chest aches in a different way, urging me to pull him down beside me in the bed and tell him to stay with me until the morning. Rational me smothers those crazy ideas before my Book Girlie gets carried away with it and does it.
“Don’t, August.” I lift off the seat without his help.
“I’ll get you into bed.” He leads me to the mattress set up in one corner and pulls the blankets back. “I’ll get you some of my clothes if you want.”
Exhaustion is a battle of its own, and I nod.
He riffles through an old dresser for something to wear and comes back with a shirt and shorts. I take them and pad to the bathroom. Everything aches. Ribs, chest, my biceps. Muscles Ididn’t know existed seize. I hiss and brace at the hot pull under my ribcage as I peel off my blouse.
A light knock sounds on the door. “Kate?”
Book Girlie me wants to drop a match to that name.
“I can’t.” The shirt sticks halfway, and I whimper.
“Permission to come in?” he asks.
