Page 9

“Okay, well, that’s rude. Anyway, your dressing needs changing. And… no disrespect, you’re leaving a trail of destruction everywhere you go… we’ve got to get you cleaned up” suddenly blushing, I have to get this out, right now “and I have to burn your clothes”

He just watches me through my monologue, seemingly somewhat more alert than he was a couple of hours ago, yet still pleasantly unresponsive. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, shuffles, and pushes himself up with his arms. Grimacing, but unfaltering he stands and returns his face to deadpan. As he straightens up I see the sheer size and definition of every muscle from his traps downwards. He’s not bulky beyond his natural build, but his back looks like a terrain map.

I’m still looking over his tattoos, muscles, and scars when he starts fidgeting. I’m kind of staring in awe when his trousers drop. My eyes nearly burst out of my head, he doesn’t skip leg day. Or glute day. I am so thankful it’s dark in here because I must be so red right now. I can feel it in my face. Then he just drops his boxers. And here I am. Staring at this man’s semi-hairy arse. As he starts to shuffle towards the door.

Now it’s my turn to just watch him. Partly because he’s rude. Partly because there’s some kind of rebel Greek god slow-motion walking through my living room and I just don’t know what to do about that.

He’s actually pissed me off a bit though, like why not just talk to me like a human?

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hallway door on the right, towels are in the airing cupboard” I call after him, I can hear his heavy hand landing on the wall with every shuffle to prop him up. Proud bastard. How does he think he’s going to manage? I’m going to wait. Screw him. He can ask for the help he needs like a big boy. I listen out and hear him get to the floorboard at the bottom of the stairs. I hear the first step creak, then the second. Wait for it, there’s the third. He’s slowing down, then some creaking, and then nothing. He’s stopped. I laugh to myself, and then catch myself oh shit, he’s stopped. I jump up and rush to the stairs and see him sitting, a few steps up. He’s moving heavily and making himself bleed more, the patch of blood on his bandage growing at a somewhat alarming rate now.

Noticing me, a defiant look in his eyes, he places his palms on the step above him, plants his feet and pushes himself up another one.

“Let me help you, come on, don’t be stupid”, nothing he pushes again. And again. I may or may not have caught several glimpses right between his legs. I’m trying not to look, honestly I am, but it’s just right there. And honestly, it’s kind of hard to miss.

“Okay seriously. You’re bleeding, quite a lot… and the doctor’s gone… and I can’t stitch! Look I know you don’t need my help… or want my help… I get it, you’re a big strong independent man, but let me help… please… before you bleed out in my house, fuck up my stairs… and make me explain to Harry how ‘looking after you’ ended with you dead, and probably me dead!” growing desperate with every new sentence. But he does stop. Without looking me in the eye this time, and only about halfway up the stairs. He slowly nods. His chest is glistening and heaving from the effort he’s just exerted. He might not be superhuman, but his sheer tolerance to push through is honestly admirable.

I stop and think for a minute. How do you transport a man the size of a Nissan Micra up a flight of stairs when you weigh the same as a moped? And ideally without having to confront the man-eating cobra hanging between his legs.

“Okay, I’m going to get behind you, just stay still and let me past” I climb the stairs, and kind of climb over him, he takes up nearly the whole width of the staircase. Somehow I manage to basically smash his ear with my inner thigh, but I’m past him.

“I obviously can’t lift you, so I’m going to loop my arms under yours and we’re going to leg press you together up a step at a time, yeah?”

The first attempt goes horribly, he stands too quickly, I get squashed between him and the stairs and maybe displace some vertebrae. It hurts, a lot. I swear, a bit. I decide against complaining, all things considered it feels a bit distasteful. Eventually though we find a bit of a rhythm, with me helping lift and him pushing against me. One time he loses his footing and I can’t say I caught him, but I did stop him from descending too aggressively before he got his foot planted again.

Eventually, together, we make it to the top of the stairs. Both dripping with sweat now. The bathroom now seems monumentally too far away, my en suite is significantly closer and, unlike the main bathroom, has a shower seat. So I tell him that’s the plan. He nods and grunts with agreement. After a bit of a struggle he manages to get himself back to his feet, and the propped-up shuffle continues. The moment his perfectly sculpted behind hits the shower seat, he nearly dozes off. This is less than ideal. That dressing is going to come off as soon as it gets wet, it’s already soaked through. Stopping to think for a second, I grab the hand towel from the rail by the sink.

“I need you to pin this to the wound, so we don’t soak it through… hey, hey! Oi!” and I clap my hands “Stay awake for me, okay?” he looks at me and widens his eyes. He is not going to be able to do this, in his state, whilst holding his wound. There is absolutely no way he’s going to let me do it, either. At least, not until he’s given it the good old college try and then realised I was right anyway. Typical man, I guess.

I aim the shower at the wall behind him, because I don’t want to get soaked and turn it on so he’s got a running water feature behind him as the bathroom fills with steam. “Is the temperature okay for you?” I ask kind of absent-mindedly. Yes, Sawyer, because all gangland killers have the same skin sensitivity as newborn babies. I could facepalm, but the words are out there now and he just looks at me.

So I grab my bright pink shower pouffe, and douse it in gel before offering it to him. He raises an eyebrow at it before reaching out for it, he winces, so I put it in his hand. Every movement is hurting him, no matter how stone-cold he tries to be about it. And without moving his bad side, or unpinning the towel he’s stuck. I let him struggle just for a minute, to preserve his dignity, to be honest.

“Here, let me help” I offer, gently taking the pouffe from his hand. He looks at me, but the look in his eye is different. Certainly still strong and certainly not resigned, but accepting perhaps neutral.

He’s done an appalling job of cleaning himself so far really, so I start again at the back of his neck, he tilts his head forwards just far enough for me to get to it properly and work his shoulders. I can’t really see, so I just scrub well enough that if there’s any crap back there it should be gone. I work my way down his back, standing over him in the chair. He doesn’t participate so much as he enables what I’m trying to do.

His trunk is really where most of the dried blood and assorted other crap is, so naturally it gets the most attention. I notice more minor injuries, just about everywhere really. Bumps and scrapes and bruising just starting to show. They’ve got to hurt, but he stays stone faced throughout.

This man has told me precisely fuck all about himself, he won’t even tell me his name. Yet inch by inch I discover the story he’s lived, through scars and tattoos and touch. I’m still fucking terrified of him and frankly the ink and old wounds do nothing to reduce that. Bit by bit he becomes less reactive to my touch, he doesn’t tense in the same way as he did at first. Maybe he’s like a wild animal, I can’t tell him that he can trust me or that he’s safe, I have to show him. Like a wild animal, there’s still the very real danger that he could bite. I am under no illusions about that.

I avoid the area around his wound, staying a tactical few inches away. I don’t want to get any soap suds in it, I do want to get the area cleaned of all the crap, I also don’t want to get blood on my hands. I work my way down underneath it and get to his waistline and then his hamstrings. I take my time, partly so I don’t invoke some kind of natural killer’s startle response. Partly because I’m enjoying myself, and enjoying this platonic closeness.

I finish scrubbing a particularly stubborn piece of muck and lean backwards to stretch my lower back and I see it. Oh sweet Satan do I see it. I immediately avert my eyes and cover them with my hand. My stomach drops in so many ways. How did I not see it coming? That is an absolute monster, staring at me. Even with my eyes covered I can’t un-see it. Throbbing and ready. I could’ve held that with two hands and it wouldn’t have contained it. Am I? Oh God, I am actually squirming with my thighs locked together. Pull yourself together woman, you have seen a penis before.

Shit. Is he expecting me to… do something about it? I can’t do that, Dan would kill me. I’m not some hitman-hotel-whore. No, absolutely not. That is not my job, I didn’t agree to that. I didn’t agree to any of it. My stomach sinks further, a mixture of disgust because I am absolutely not fucking doing that and… I am so ashamed of myself. I am taken. I have been for years. That is some slutty shit, Sawyer, absolutely not, no way. Behave yourself.

I peek up from under the blade of my hand, expecting him to have maybe covered himself or done something to preserve his dignity, but no. He’s just sat there, leant back, with this mortar of a penis facing due north. He glances down at me. I’m obviously staring, my mouth obviously not closed, and he just looks at me. Again.

Leaping into panicked action I jump up and nearly slip out of the shower falling against the wall opposite him. “I… I’m really sorry… I didn’t realise… I didn’t mean to… I can’t…” I don’t know if I’m more scared of him, or Dan’s reaction when he finds out all this happened. I didn’t do anything, I was just trying to help. But if he finds out I was in our shower with another naked man, even though nothing’s happened. I can feel the panic setting in and I bring my hands to my face practically clawing at my scalp, pulling at my hair; when the room goes dark.

The shadow he casts over me is no small thing, like a complete eclipse of all lighting. I reach my hands out to try and push him away. I don’t want to. Practically sobbing and trying to bat at him, he just holds my wrists together with one hand.

“Stop,” his deep, gruff voice commands. And I flinch away, I know what comes next. Until nothing happens. Still in the flinch, with my eyes squeezed tightly shut, braced for impact. After what feels like minutes, I open one eye and look at him. Holding my wrists, wounded yet somehow still the most intimidating man that I’ve ever encountered. His face is completely neutral, and he’s still very much erect.

“I could. I won’t,” he says, flatly, calmly. His lack of emotion somehow reassuring and I finally breathe out. I don’t know how long I’d held my breath for. He lets go of my wrists slowly and I bring my hands back to my chest. I take my opportunity and scramble out of the bathroom “I’ll fetch you some towels”

I hold them at arm’s length and hand them to him, he’s now leaning with both forearms on the shower wall for support. He grunts himself upright and takes them and I actually get a “thank you” this time.