Page 11 of Trailer Trash

Killian lies in bed, looking relaxed and watching television. Once again, he’s strapped to the bed rails like the animal he seems determined to be.

“Knock, knock,” I say. “How are you, Mr. Easton?”

His eyes light up, and he straightens.

“My lowly CNA.”

“No.” I hold up my index finger. “None of that. We will not be joking around tonight.”

He obviously got the wrong impression last time. That ends today. The outgoing sitter wishes me luck, then I take her place.

“Why are you in restraints again, Killian?”

“I’m suicidal,” he lies, then plasters on a sad expression. “Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

“Hardly,” I answer and sit under the only light, which is currently dimmed. “Seems like you’re feeling better. At least that sense of humor is in full force.”

“I told you. Day five.”

I purse my lips to hold back a smile.

“Your speech is improving, too,” I say, though I can tell it’s hard for him to speak. He’s quicker, but still careful when he enunciates.

I plan to finish my book tonight since this is all a stunt. I open it.

Immediately, he speaks.

“You look pretty.”

I let the compliment in too fast, and it lands just right, making me flush. I say nothing, though.

“How’s nursing school?”

Coolly, I respond, “It’s fine. I had homework over the weekend and classes today.”

I don’t add: Jaxson flirted with me finally, yet I failed to orgasm for the millionth time.

Instead, I start reading.

“Where do you live?”

I snort. “I’m not telling a patient where I live.”

“I can find out,” he says, his tone lower, losing any trace of humor.

Instinctively, cold slips down my spine.

There he is. Not the wounded man in a hospital bed. A calculating addict who thinks boundaries are optional.

“An apartment, then,” he says dismissively.

“A house,” I correct before I can stop myself.

“Where?”

Dang, he’s persistent.

“I just bought a house. I’m finally done with apartment life. Thank God.”