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Slowly, I test my feet. The floor feels stable. Okay, good so far. I’m weak but upright. I take a couple of steps. Not exactly drunk, but a little wobbly, maybe it’s all the blood I lost.
The next two steps go pretty well. But the third… not so much. Reaching for the dresser, I catch my balance.
So… okay, maybe I’m not too steady.
But I don’t have far to go. I can crawl if I have to. Leaning heavily on this and that, first the furniture, then the wall, I make my way to the small bathroom.
The space is tidy, narrow, and painted light blue. An old, but clean shower curtain hangs over the small square shower. A stack of neatly folded towels sits on a primitive wood shelf.
It’s got the bare minimum, like most safe houses do.
With longing, I stare at the shower. Heavens, it would feel soooo good right now.
But there’s no way I can take the chance of getting my wound wet. Scotch would kill me if I got the bandage soaked.
Or… maybe he’d spank me.
I grin, feeling sheepish. Lord, I must be intoxicated if I thought that!
Oh, I’m not averse to flirting. I like to flirt. But rule number one of the game is know who NOT to flirt with. And Jameson Scott, M.D. falls squarely in that category.
But what did I do? I flirted with the intent of provocation in the car, even though he’s the kind of man that can take an innocent enough flirty comment and turn it into a fiasco.
Yep. Fiasco of almost six and a half foot proportions.
That’s what getting involved with a man like him would be.
Hell. That’s what getting involved with ninety-nine percent of men is. Which is why I steer clear and stay in my own lane.
But damn if he isn’t doing a fine job of rattling me all to hell.
I lick across my lips, gliding my tongue across the place where I can still feel his mouth against mine.
I’m still pissed at myself for liking it.
But god, all I want is to feel alive. Really alive after facing down death. And what better way to feel that than in the arms of the one man who makes your blood sizzle?
Oh no!
I cringe. God, am I really going to let myself do something so reckless?
Maybe I do really have hero syndrome!
I wouldn’t be the first person who got hearts in their eyes for the person who rescued them.
And that’s a whole other set of problems that I don’t want.
But first things first. Get clean. Get dressed. Get the heck out of San Miguel. Before I do something truly problematic.
When I look more closely in the mirror, I almost scream. Mother of God. Who is that looking back at me?
Frazzled hair, sunken eyes. Pale skin. I’ve aged ten years since Pavel pulled that trigger.
I don’t need to worry too much about Scotch flirting with me or getting any ideas because I am a walking nightmare.
Looking at the sickly waif in the mirror makes me tired. So tired. Melted-bones-and-no-gas tired.
I lower myself onto the toilet and lean on the sink. The water that comes out of the spigot is tepid and vaguely the color of rust. But there is water, at least.
