Page 28 of The Love You Hate
“You’re not gangly. It’s a lot of blood. Let’s get back to the truck. I have a first aid kit in there.” His gaze darts down, but the muscles in his arms flex, and his jaw works—a welcome visual distraction from my pounding face.
“Why do you have a first aid kit in your truck? When did you put it there?”
He looks away, standing, then offers me a hand. I stand up, wobbling on the skates. “Well, it’s warranted,is it not? It doesn’t matter when I put it there.”
I grunt out my frustration. Nate doesn’t let go of my hand until we’re at the truck and I remove the skates. He pulls the kit out from under his seat and I see that the upholstery is messed up, almost torn in places. “What happened there?” I wasn’t paying attention to anything except Nate’s proximity on the drive here, so I didn’t notice before.
“You don’t remember,” he says, more to himself than to me as he fishes around in the box looking for something specific. “I lost something between the seats had to take them apart. This old ass truck has old ass seats.”
He spins with a wipe in his hand and begins to dab it on my lip, but stops. “Here, hold this on your mouth while I get the antiseptic.”
“What did you lose?” I ask, words jumbled against the wipe, as I keep my lips separated.
He turns to look at me and lifts a brow. “A USB stick fell out of my laptop. Why?”
“Just wondering. You don’t seem like a man who loses things.”
He clears his throat. “Let me see it.”
I pull the red-soaked wipe down and he winces. “It’s already fat,” he says, moving in for a closer look. Delicately he puts his finger on my bottom lip, and my whole body breaks out in a flush of heat. “It doesn’t need stitches though.” He dabs ointment on the lip and wipes at the road rash on my cheek before applying the sticky goo there as well.
He licks his lips and notices me watching them. Another tic of his jaw, an awkward slow blink, a glimmer of something that wasn’t there just yesterday. He’s holding his breath, I realize. “Do I stink?” It’s a stupid question, but my mind is so fuzzy it’s the only thing I can say when he’s making me feel this way.
Nate furrows his brows. “No. I don’t think so.” He steps back.
“Why are you holding your breath?”
I step toward him, feeling my bottom lip protruding from my face. “Habit,” Nate replies. “Have you had enough roller derby for one day?”
Rubbing my cheek, I let it slide. “I guess. Can we go back to your house to watch the sunset?”
He looks hesitant, even bothered, but I can tell he’s going to agree. “Sure. Maybe I can get those drip hoses working for the garden.”
I get into the truck and hold the first aid kit in my lap as he goes around to the driver’s side. There is way more in this kit than basic first aid. There are bottles I don’t recognize and small little devices that look like espionage spy shit. When he slams the door, I hold up a black thing. “What’s this do?”
He eyes it warily and turns back to the road. “It’s a cauterizing tool. Luckily we didn’t need it today,or you’d smell burned meat for a week.”
Grimacing, I drop it. “That’s disgusting. You really were a sport today. My bucket list took a huge hit today. Only ten more things!”
“Ten?” He startles. “Why so many?”
“Well, there were a million things I wasn’t allowed to do in my…well before I came to Gold Hawke to spread my wings, there was a bunch of things I wasn’t able to do. When you think about it that way there really isn’t that many.”
“Please tell me you don’t actually want to join a roller derby team after today’s incident. You can’t even lookbackwardand skate. They’ll crush you like asteamroller. Those women aren’t delicate.”
Sighing, I bring my cool fingers up to my cheek. “What I can’t work out is why you care.”
“Is it such an impossibility that I care about your well-being as my solitary friend in my new home?” Nate glances over, eyes worried. “We’ll get some ice on it as soon as we get to my house. It’s going to swell. You’ll probably have a shiner tomorrow.”
I grin. “I can’t wait to tell Ryan you kicked my ass.”
“You wouldn’t,” Nate says, horrified.
He pulls into his driveway, and I fidget in my seat. “I am known as the jokester around these parts. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I can lie too. I’ll make up something equally as disgusting if you say that.” His tone is serious.
Stepping out of the car, my stomach turns. “I was just joking. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” When another grumble hits, I add, “I need dinner.”
