Othello Station (7 page)

“Go work on your kale, will you?” I adjust the knife and start slicing the chunks thinner, and she shuffles away to prepare the leafy greens. She stops for a moment and walks over to the CD player near the bed to turn some music on. Vance Joy’s “Mess is Mine” fills the space, giving me something to redirect my attention to as I slice away. I still can’t seem to think about anything other than kissing this girl and bending her over this fucking counter, but the wistful melody and smart lyrics suck me in, transporting me to a simpler, calmer space in my mind—a place where I don’t have the opportunity to screw anything up. I’m just a traveler, here, living vicariously through this man’s words. He begins singing about someone else’s mess making sense to him, and I feel myself dive into the chorus with him, until I feel something else entirely.

Pain. Sharp, shooting, stinging pain.

“Shit!” My eyes drop to the carrot. Then the knife. All they register, though, is the blood. The sight instantly makes me queasy. My pulse races, my heart slams into my chest, and a quick sweat breaks out on my forehead. Fear takes hold, rooting itself deeply into my veins. The familiar heat of panic races over my skin, electrifying my brain until I can’t think straight. There’s no formulating a single thought or sentence other than
I’m bleeding
.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mira’s voice floats toward me in the distance, somewhere from the left, I think. I see her touch my wrist but I don’t feel her skin. I don’t feel anything but the throbbing pain of the open wound on my finger. “It’s a small cut, you’re okay. No need to freak.” I mumble some kind of jibberish. The sweat on my forehead thickens. Mira notices. “Hey.” She steadies my shaking hand and tries looking up into my eyes to get my attention. “Look at me, Grant. Can you do that? Look right here.”

I blink profusely, struggling to pry my gaze from my hand. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Yeah. Let’s do that. Wait.” She doesn’t let go of my wrist, grabbing a washcloth with her free hand. “I’m going to wrap this around the cut, okay? So we can stop the bleeding. Just breathe.”
I’m bleeding
. “Are you breathing? You really need to breathe.”

“Trying.” I watch as she wraps the cut, my gaze glued on the pink and white cloth. Red seeps through, saturating it, reminding me of what lies beneath. A deep, painful slice in my skin that will likely need stitches, and that means a trip to the emergency room. Or at the very least, a walk-in clinic. Doctors. Needles. Machines. Beeping. Coughing. Sterile, shiny white floors and ceilings.

The panic rises in my throat again.

“Okay,” Mira says gently, “let’s just chill on the edge of the bed, here.” She guides me away from the kitchen and over to the mattress, trying her damnedest to lead me to a sitting position. My body is still rigid, my hand still shaking. I need to get a grip. Fast. What I really need is to get back to my hotel room, where my vitamins, supplements, and first aid kit are waiting. My blood pressure is probably through the roof right now.

“I need to get back.”

“Get back where?”

“To my room. At the hotel.”

Mira sits first, her deep, molten eyes looking up at me in concern. “Will you sit for a second? I need to take a look at the cut.”

“No.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I need to look at it, Grant. You might need to go to the doctor.”

“You said it wasn’t deep.”

“It didn’t look very deep. But I need to get a better look, just to be sure. There’s no need to panic, though. Honest.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh huh.” She carefully takes my hand and pulls it to her knee. With one gentle motion, she lifts the washcloth and leans over my finger to assess the damage.

I can’t look. “So?”

“So, I think I was wrong.”

“What do you mean?” The words squeak from my throat, sharp and tight.

“It’s a little deeper than I thought. We should go up the road to the walk-in clinic. Have them stitch it up.”

“It’s the middle of the night.” I pull my hand away from her knee and without looking, feel my way for the washcloth to wrap up my mangled finger. “It’ll be fine.”

“You don’t want it to get infected. It’s a quick and easy fix, I promise. I’ve had stitches millions of times. It’s no biggie.”

“I’ve never had stitches. I don’t need them. I’ll be fine. I should go.” I quickly rise and start for the door.

Mira stands and confusion sweeps her face. “Go now? Back to the hotel?”

“Yeah, I mean I have a room there, so…no point in wasting it, right?”

“Wait. Let me at least clean you up. Come here.” She waves me over to the kitchen, where she retrieves a small white box from the top of the refrigerator. She pops the box open and out comes bandaids, disinfecting wipes, and some kind of healing ointment. “You should run it under the faucet, first.”

“You’re smoking something if you think I’m running this under water.” I lift my wounded hand, gesturing to the sink.

“Grant, quit being so stubborn. If you won’t go get it stitched up, at least clean the damn thing. Just rinse it off and I’ll fix you up. Come on, get over here.” She walks toward me and guides me by the elbow to the sink. Surprisingly, I let her lead me, but all my mind dances around is the unholy stinging sensation that I know is coming to me the second I place my finger under cold water.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my teeth. “This is really going to suck.”

“Yeah,” she turns the tap on,” it really is. Better safe than sorry, though. You ready?”

“Just get it over with.” I keep my eyes shut and allow her to bring my hand underneath the faucet, where, just as I’d suspected, a god awful pain radiates through me the second my broken, bloody skin makes contact with the water. I hear the faint pressure of a soap pump. The smell of peaches hits me and I catch a glimpse of white, fluffy soap suds forming in the sink.

“Not so bad, right?”

“I’d rather have my eyeballs plucked out.” I wince as she moves my hand away from the water and reaches to turn the tap off.

“I highly doubt you mean that.” She grabs a fresh paper towel and gently dabs at the wound, then leads me back over to the bed. “Here, have a seat. The worst is almost over.” She rips open a disinfectant wipe and places it over the cut.

“Son of a bitch, Mira!” I cringe and jerk away from her, but she holds my hand steady, keeping me rooted to the damn mattress.

“I said almost.”

“That fucking hurts.”

“What do you expect it to feel like? A warm, summer breeze? You should be happy I’m not dragging you to the clinic. Or worse, the emergency room. Hold still, will you?” She blows on the wound as she disposes of the disinfectant wipe, then squirts some of the ointment onto a thick bandage and wraps it around my finger like a skilled, attentive nurse.

“Okay. I really have to go.” I shoot up the second the bandage is secured.

“Wait, Grant. I’m…”

“You’re what?” My voice is sharper than I intended, but the panic is seeping out. I need to get back to the hotel room. I need to be alone. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“No. I got it.” I haul ass out into the hallway, pausing to add a quick thanks for cleaning up the wound.

“You’re welcome,” Mira replies quietly. The last thing I see before I shut the door is her concern. Big, brown eyes watching me closely, and pretty lips pressed into a tight line, the tension paling their rosy color.

I zoom down the stairs and out into the street, holding the palm of my wounded hand tightly, wanting to cover the edges of the bandage, just in case. The broken skin throbs beneath the pressure, my pulse pounding in protest. It’s pissed off at me. I get it. I’m pissed off at me, too. The night was going smoothly until I decided to fuck it all up.

The streets are quiet, void of life and the usual bustle that brings them business during the daylight hours. My mind is focused on nothing but the heat radiating from my hand, but somewhere, something registers that I do need a cab. The buses are pretty easy to figure out around here, but they’re not running this hour, and I’m not that familiar with the Capitol Hill schedule anyway. I steady my wounded hand and use my good hand to fumble through my coat pocket for my phone. I glance at the screen.

God damn it. Deader than dead.

I shove it back in my pocket and turn for Mira’s apartment building, resigned to running back upstairs to take her up on the offer to call the cab. My mind wrestles with the thought for a second. She’ll probably try and talk me into going to the clinic again. Or a hospital.

Not happening.

But the immediate need to escape this place and retreat to my room back at the hotel takes over, blotting out those worries. I’ll stand my ground. I’ll insist she just calls me a cab, and that’ll be the end of it.

Zipping back up the stairs, my body slows when I hear the soft murmur of her voice. She giggles a little, and then there’s a beat of silence. Then a hushed moan. A man whispers something, and a sharp intake of breath follows. I curve around the corner, stalling at the sight. Mira and the bar tender, up against her apartment door. His lips on hers, her head tilted up to capture his mouth. He’s pinning her there, his thumb caressing the bare skin of her hip. Just an inch of her shirt’s hem is hiked up, exposing the soft, delicate flesh I’ve been wanting to taste.

I can hear him clearly, now. “You know I’ll be good to you.”

“I don’t know that.”

“I’m telling you. I’m trying to show you—been trying. You’re everything I want.”

“This just isn’t a good time, Garrett. For either of us. Maybe someday, but not now. I’m sorry.” Mira’s big brown eyes look up at him as I look at her, rapt and waiting. He bends down once more to kiss her and she lets him. A little shiver seizes her as he touches her, visibly exposing her desire, her need. It’s fucking sexy, but I want to be the one touching her. And she definitely, positively needs to be touched. Like now. Tonight. Right this second. It’s damn near painful to watch, and the knowledge that no one’s taken care of her in God knows how long only amplifies the dilemma.

Without another word, Garrett slowly pushes away from her, leaving her aching against the door frame. She touches her lips as he drifts away, watching him disappear down the other end of the hall. I move from the shadows to approach her. She’s still spacing out, staring wistfully in the direction of his wake, but is shaken from the spell when she senses my presence.

“Grant.” She straightens up, her eyes clear and sober as Garrett’s haze dissipates. “You’re back. Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Phone’s dead. I need you to call that cab for me, afterall, I guess.” The hallway’s walls close in on us. Everything is smaller, more suffocating. I’m seconds from pouncing on this girl. But her mind and body is clearly focused on other suitors. And my wounded hand is still pretty pissed off at me. Pouncing would likely entail some more bloodshed, and that wouldn’t be very sexy. Unless you’re into that shit. I definitely am not, and I don’t think Mira is, either. Then again, I don’t know anything about her style in the bedroom. I don’t know what she likes at all. She could be some kinky, sadistic freak, for all I know.

Something tells me she’s not.

Maybe it was the way she practically crumbled beneath me the second I got my hands on her back in the hotel room. The way her body submitted, how responsive it was to my advance, to my attempt to run the show. Or maybe it was just the sheer honesty in her eyes as she looked up at me, telling me everything I needed to know. There was fear there. Lots of it. Mixed with a desire to trust, to give herself to me. She wasn’t quite there, yet. But she wanted to be. The desire was so thick, so tangible, I could taste it. Even after she shut it down, it lingered like a heavy cloud, saturating the space.

Nah. Kinky and sadistic? Not a chance. Submissive and dirty? Very likely. Especially with the right man’s hands on her.

“Oh, sure. Of course,” she says, stirring me from fantasy. “Come on in. I’m still in the middle of chores.” She clears her throat and averts her gaze as she turns to open the door.

“Chores. So, that’s what you call it, huh?” Foot, meet mouth.

Her eyes flick back up to mine as I follow her inside. “You heard.”

“More than heard.”

“I imagined you to be many things. Stalker was not on the list.”

“You know damn well I wasn’t stalking you.”

“Okay. So, you were just spying.”

“More like eaves dropping. Accidentally. No need to get carried away.”

“No one accidentally eaves drops.” She lifts her hands and closes her eyes. “You know what? Let’s not even talk about this. Let me call you that cab.” She quickly spins on her heel and walks to the kitchen, picking her phone up from the counter. “Orange or Yellow?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Orange is faster.”

“Okay, I guess Orange, then.”

“I still think you should get that stitched up.” She points to my hand.

“Please just call me the cab.”

“Fine.” She swipes at her phone, the movement laced with potent irritation.

My body suddenly switches to autopilot, and I’m stepping closer to her, pushing her hand down so she’s forced to tear her gaze from the phone. I reach for it and toss it onto a pile of folded towels on the floor. “Are you seeing him?”