Page 5 of Harley
Harley reached into the first, withdrew two packets, and handed one to me.
“There’s a pretty decent diner next door. I got you a ham salad sandwich. If you don’t like it, I have a turkey salad and can swap,” he stated.
“Ham is fine. Jeez, I’m starved. I’ve not eaten since last night,” I said as my stomach growled. Greedily, I unwrapped it, disappointed to see just the one. Right now, I could eat a platter full.
“Don’t worry,” Harley added, reading my mind. “Dinner can be collected in an hour and a half. I ordered a load of shit, so you better be hungry.”
“I’m starved,” I admitted around a mouthful of food. Rude, I know, but I didn’t really care.
Harley continued to empty the bag, and I noticed a lot of pharmacy items.
He gently lifted my foot up and grabbed a stool. Harley placed my leg on it and began examining my foot, letting out a low whistle.
“Some of these need stitches,” he replied, and I blanched.
“Harley, I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Good job I’m trained then. Oakley, I can stitch these up, but you aren’t walking anywhere for a while. Let me see the other one.”
Gingerly, I moved my leg and allowed Harley to examine my right foot.
He winced, and I bit my bottom lip.
“That’s worse than the left?”
“Yeah. You’ve done some real damage. Oakley, I’ll clean these and stitch the worst cuts. Shit, it looks like razors were taken to your skin. I got some numbing lotion, which will allow me to work on you. Once these are clean and stitched, I’ll help you into the shower. We’ll have to saran wrap your feet to keep them dry. I bought some clothes, just some sweats, jeans, and tops.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. Harley was proving to be so kind. I didn’t expect this from a man who belonged to a MC.
Harley turned away, and I got to study the huge patch on his back. Rage MC, Rapid City, South Dakota. I wondered if South Dakota was far enough away. Hell, was the other side of the world enough distance between Bronson and me?
Harley picked up my foot and set out cleaning swabs, antiseptic lotion, and other things he needed. I tried not to stare at the needle and thread and was relieved when Harley gently cleaned my painful foot. The Tylenol was kicking in now, but a dull pain remained. I hated to guess what it would have felt like without painkillers.
Harley used tweezers to pick out tiny bits of grit and stone and delicately treated each cut. He used a lamp to focus on my wounds, and I was surprised at how diligent he was. After forty minutes, Harley seemed pleased with his efforts and lathered on the numbing cream as I gave a sigh of relief. Then Harley slowly stitched the worst of the cuts up.
My other foot took another half an hour, and afterwards, Harley picked me up and placed me in the shower. He’d alreadyput a chair in there, so I didn’t have to stand. He deftly wrapped my feet in saran wrap, checked I could wash okay, and left me alone.
I nearly shrieked when I saw myself in the mirror. My makeup had run, and I had streaks of mascara running down my face. The blusher was so red I resembled a clown. This was not me.
Harley had been right. I was a reject from the eighties. Even my hair had been puffed up and held in place with a tin of hair spray.
In distaste, I stripped off the ruined wedding dress and tore the sexy lingerie off. My mother had purchased it to reward Bronson with my body. I’d have cut the asshole’s dick off first.
Throwing everything into a heap, I saw that Harley had bought me toiletries. There was also a bag on the floor, and when I checked, it contained underwear, which made me blush. Harley clearly liked feminine underwear, as there wasn’t a pair of granny panties to be seen.
Happily, I turned the water on and squealed as it ran cold before hot. Then I set out washing all the shit off my hair and face my mother had forced on me—and I cleansed my hair three times and conditioned it twice to get the crap out.
Once done, I scrubbed my skin and washed before turning the shower off and wrapping up in a big towel.
Quickly drying myself, I pulled on the underwear, ignoring the white lace, and yanked on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. Damn, I finally felt like myself. Gently, I brushed my hair and would allow it to dry naturally.
Harley knocked on the door just as I’d finished. “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
Harley entered, scooped me up, and walked me back to the queen-sized bed. He placed me on it and waved his hand at the table, which held a load of containers.
“Bought lasagne, chicken and fries, stew and dumplings, and pot roast. Which do you fancy?” Harley asked.
