Page 56 of Stupid Dirty

I try not to seethe. “You dumb bastard. Here, sit your ass down. I swear, if you get sepsis from Ford’s grimy idea of first aid, I will murder you myself.”

Silas doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t put up a fight as I pull him over to the old laz-y-boy in the corner and deposit him into it. Kicking out the footstool, I get him to lie back and he closes his eyes while I work. He looks tired.

There’s one towel still wrapped around his hand, but I want to grab my kit before I reveal whatever’s underneath, in case he starts bleeding again.

“Do. Not. Move.”

I can’t tell who I’m more pissed at or why. I’m buzzing with adrenaline despite treating much more serious shit on a daily basis, and I have to force myself to shut the emotional part of my brain down for a second. Snapping into work mode, I distance myself from anger so I can focus.

It only takes a second for me to grab the med kit from under my bed and bring it out, unzipping all the pockets and sifting through until I find what I need. Saline to flush the shit out of the wound. Chlorhex to disinfect it. Skin glue if I have to, and bandage materials.

All of it’s expired and ended up here as a detour on its way to the trash can at work. No antibiotics, unfortunately, because no one’s going to fire me over some gauze, but I’m not losing my license for the sake of some bootlegged Augmentin.

I have suture shit, but that’s way, way out of my wheelhouse as an EMT. I taught myself how to do proper suturing from YouTube, in case of dire emergencies. I’ve definitely advanced beyond the ‘tie a knot and hope for the best’ level. But it’s hisfucking hand. I’m not taking that risk. Not when one damaged nerve could fuck up his new livelihood just as he’s falling in love with it. I’ll eat the hospital bill for real stitches if it comes to that.

Or maybe Tristan will do them. Army medics have experience doing all sorts of fun shit civilians aren’t allowed to even think about.

When I untie the last nasty rag from around Silas’ hand, I feel my whole body sag in relief. It’s not as bad as I was imagining.

The wound is messy, with a lot of torn edges where whatever he was using ripped through the flesh. It must hurt like shit, and I’m sure the amount of blood freaked them both out. But it seems more torn up at a surface level than any deep, significant damage.

Throwing a couple of chucks under his arm to absorb the mess, I pull on a pair of gloves and jab a needle into a bag of IV saline, squeezing it to make a strong enough spray to dislodge all that grime and grit. Silas winces at the sting, but other than that, he stays still and lets me work. He’s facing the opposite direction and his eyes are still closed.

By the time the wound is flushed clean and I’m scrubbing it with antiseptic, Silas still hasn’t moved or spoken. All my fear and anger have ebbed, and the silence in the room is threatening to choke me.

Screw it. It could stand to soak in the Chlorhex for a while, anyway.

Leaving the wet gauze on the wound to do its shit, I pull off my gloves and toss them to the side. I can clean up later.

I bring my hand up to take hold of Silas’ chin, gently redirecting his face until he’s looking at me for the first time since he walked in.

“Hey,” I murmur. “What’s going on?”

Silas swallows, and I can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs with the movement. It reminds me of all the placeson his neck I greedily sucked last night and how much I want to again.

Just above the collar of his hoodie, there’s a bruise on his collarbone. I’m pretty sure it came from my mouth. I always thought hickeys were juvenile, but right now my cock is telling me screw the hand, screw the conversation; the most important thing is putting as many bruises as possible up and down Silas’ neck to let everyone know whose mouth has been there.

“It was an accident. I was distracted and my hand slipped. It’s no big deal.”

I don’t like how hollow his voice sounds at all. I don’t like that he’s not leaning into my touch the way he always has, even before he knew what I looked like naked.

“Yeah, tell me why I don’t believe you.” An invisible barrier seems to be building between us by the second, and I ignore my own growing anxiety to tear it down. Looking Silas in the eye, I repeat my question. “What’s going on?”

Silas huffs out a breath like he’s irritated, but his face doesn’t quite make it there. He pulls his chin out of my grasp, but I don’t let my hand go far, resting it on his chest instead.

“I told you, it was an accident. Don’t worry, I’ll get my stuff and you can give me a ride back to my truck once you’re done playing doctor. I’ll be out of your way soon.”

There’s a lot to unpack there.

Like in most situations, subtle is not how I roll. Silas looks upset, and he’s talking about packing his shit. I could always un-upset him before by touching him, and after last night I opened up a giant bonus arsenal of touching to use on him, so this should be an easy fix.

He looks like a wide-eyed woodland creature when I climb up and straddle his lap, being careful not to mess with his hand.

Thank God this chair is big enough for both of us. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in someone’s lap before, but it’s kind of doing itfor me. There’s something about the way he’s looking up at me with his serious brown eyes that makes me feel powerful as shit. Having someone as strong as him underneath me—at my mercy—is a feeling I could get used to.

When I run both hands down his chest, he sucks in a harsh breath. That’s all the encouragement I need to put my hands back on his face, tilt it up to me and kiss him.

It’s soft. Gentle. But when I run my tongue along the seam of his lips, he opens for me easily, and we both sink into it.

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