Rosemary and Rue
Page 57
As if that’s ever been an option.
Devin closed the front with three stitches, and the back with only two. “There.” He returned the needle and surgical thread to the first aid kit before standing, offering me his hands. I raised my eyebrows, and he nodded toward the bathroom. “Didn’t you want a shower?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m a little naked here.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that the best state in which to take a shower? Nudity is, I believe, a prerequisite.”
“If you insist.” Taking his hands, I let him pull me off the couch. I stumbled slightly as I put my weight on my injured leg, relieved when it didn’t buckle. I probably couldn’t run, but I could walk, at least for now. Depending on the infection, well, we’d see how long that lasted.
Devin didn’t comment on the way I leaned on him as we walked to the bathroom. I appreciated that, almost as much as I appreciated his steadying arm around my waist. “You still like your showers hot, don’t you?” he asked, letting go at the bathroom door.
“The hotter, the better,” I said, before the mirror caught my attention. “Oh.”
“Yes,” said Devin grimly. Sitting down on the edge of the tub, he turned on the taps. Hot steam began to fill the room. “You see why I was a trifle concerned.”
“Uh, yeah. I do.” Muck had plastered my hair almost flat against my head, and there was a distinct gray undertone to my complexion. I’ve seen corpses that looked like they had more life left in them. Considering the way I looked, I shouldn’t have been doing anything but calling Danny and requesting a ride to the nearest emergency room—do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
“You look better than you did.”
“This is better?”
Devin looked up, saying simply, “Yes.”
That was a sobering thought. I was still standing there contemplating it, when he walked over, put his hands around my waist, and lifted me off the floor. “Hey!” I protested.
“Shower now,” he said. “And then, I’ll put you to bed with a nice hot drink to make you feel better.”
“Is that all you’ll put me to bed with?” I asked.
Devin smiled and lowered me into the bathtub.
Hot water on fresh wounds may be medicinally helpful, but it hurts like hell. I gasped as the spray from the showerhead hit me, fighting the urge to scream. Devin watched, holding the shower curtain open, before he asked, “Will you be all right?”
Iron poisoning, two gunshot wounds, and he was asking if I’d be all right? I forced a smile, reaching for the curtain. “If I can’t take a shower by myself, you can go ahead and bury me,” I said, and pulled it closed.
He laughed, saying, “Have it your way,” as he left the bathroom. I waited for the sound of the door closing, and turned myself to the serious business of getting clean.
You never realize how wonderful it is to be clean until you’ve been dirty for days. I stayed in the shower for almost half an hour, glorying in the hot water and the fact that no one was trying to kill me. When the water started to cool I turned it off, wringing as much as I could out of my hair before grabbing a towel off the rack and stepping gingerly out of the stall.
Devin was waiting for me in the hall. He pressed a mug of thick yellow liquid into my hands. “Drink this.”
I sniffed. It was warm and smelled like gingerbread. “This is . . . ?”
“Good for you.”
“Right,” I said, and sipped. It was bitter. I grimaced. “How good for me are we talking? Because this tastes—”
“Good enough.”
“Right,” I repeated. Devin watched intently as I finished the mug.
When I was done, he took it away from me, setting it on the hallway table. “There’s another cup in your coffeepot,” he said. “Drink it in the morning. You’ll feel better.”
“Promise?” I asked, with a small smile.
Devin put his arms around my waist again, nearly dislodging my towel. “Would I lie to you?” he asked, bending toward me.
“All the time,” I said, and leaned in to meet him.
His first kiss was careful, all too aware of my recent injuries. I pressed closer, putting my arms around his neck, lacing my fingers into his hair. That seemed to be the signal he’d been waiting for; his second kiss was more assertive, more the Devin I knew, the one who took my virginity on the roof of Home, with the fog blocking out everything else in the world.
When my bad leg buckled, he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, kissing me all the way.
We left the towel behind.
EIGHTEEN
DEVIN’S VOICE IN MY EAR, as I was drifting toward a safe, comfortable slumber: “Let this go, October. Just . . . just let her go.”
“I can’t,” I mumbled.
He sighed. The bedsprings creaked as he stood. “My kids will be here in the morning,” he said, and that was the last thing I knew before the sun slanting through my bedroom window hit my face and brought me slowly back to consciousness.
I peeled my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Not dead. That was a start. The inside of my mouth tasted terrible, and my head felt like it had been the ball in the all-Summerlands soccer finals. Adding this to the pain in my shoulder and thigh, I figured I should just stay asleep until sometime in, say, March. I’d already managed to sleep through dawn, thus proving that iron poisoning and blood loss are the best knockout drugs known to man.
At least I wasn’t bleeding, thanks to Devin and Lily. If I could get through a few hours without someone deciding the world would be a better place without me in it, I might actually start feeling like a normal person again.
Levering myself into a sitting position, I fumbled for my robe on the bedroom floor, and frowned as I realized the cats weren’t demanding to be fed. “That’s weird.” Cagney and Lacey always demanded breakfast when they saw signs that I might be awake. “Girls?”
There was no reply.
Frowning, I pulled on my robe and left the room, scanning for signs of my feline roommates. “Girls? Kitty-kitty? Hey, not funny, you two . . .” They still didn’t answer. At least my leg was holding up my weight without much of a complaint.
Devin was gone, as I’d expected; he hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. Only the mug on my hallway table, sides caked with thick yellow gunk, proved that he’d actually been there. I picked it up and paused, throat tightening. The light on my answering machine was blinking.
Devin closed the front with three stitches, and the back with only two. “There.” He returned the needle and surgical thread to the first aid kit before standing, offering me his hands. I raised my eyebrows, and he nodded toward the bathroom. “Didn’t you want a shower?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’m a little naked here.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that the best state in which to take a shower? Nudity is, I believe, a prerequisite.”
“If you insist.” Taking his hands, I let him pull me off the couch. I stumbled slightly as I put my weight on my injured leg, relieved when it didn’t buckle. I probably couldn’t run, but I could walk, at least for now. Depending on the infection, well, we’d see how long that lasted.
Devin didn’t comment on the way I leaned on him as we walked to the bathroom. I appreciated that, almost as much as I appreciated his steadying arm around my waist. “You still like your showers hot, don’t you?” he asked, letting go at the bathroom door.
“The hotter, the better,” I said, before the mirror caught my attention. “Oh.”
“Yes,” said Devin grimly. Sitting down on the edge of the tub, he turned on the taps. Hot steam began to fill the room. “You see why I was a trifle concerned.”
“Uh, yeah. I do.” Muck had plastered my hair almost flat against my head, and there was a distinct gray undertone to my complexion. I’ve seen corpses that looked like they had more life left in them. Considering the way I looked, I shouldn’t have been doing anything but calling Danny and requesting a ride to the nearest emergency room—do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
“You look better than you did.”
“This is better?”
Devin looked up, saying simply, “Yes.”
That was a sobering thought. I was still standing there contemplating it, when he walked over, put his hands around my waist, and lifted me off the floor. “Hey!” I protested.
“Shower now,” he said. “And then, I’ll put you to bed with a nice hot drink to make you feel better.”
“Is that all you’ll put me to bed with?” I asked.
Devin smiled and lowered me into the bathtub.
Hot water on fresh wounds may be medicinally helpful, but it hurts like hell. I gasped as the spray from the showerhead hit me, fighting the urge to scream. Devin watched, holding the shower curtain open, before he asked, “Will you be all right?”
Iron poisoning, two gunshot wounds, and he was asking if I’d be all right? I forced a smile, reaching for the curtain. “If I can’t take a shower by myself, you can go ahead and bury me,” I said, and pulled it closed.
He laughed, saying, “Have it your way,” as he left the bathroom. I waited for the sound of the door closing, and turned myself to the serious business of getting clean.
You never realize how wonderful it is to be clean until you’ve been dirty for days. I stayed in the shower for almost half an hour, glorying in the hot water and the fact that no one was trying to kill me. When the water started to cool I turned it off, wringing as much as I could out of my hair before grabbing a towel off the rack and stepping gingerly out of the stall.
Devin was waiting for me in the hall. He pressed a mug of thick yellow liquid into my hands. “Drink this.”
I sniffed. It was warm and smelled like gingerbread. “This is . . . ?”
“Good for you.”
“Right,” I said, and sipped. It was bitter. I grimaced. “How good for me are we talking? Because this tastes—”
“Good enough.”
“Right,” I repeated. Devin watched intently as I finished the mug.
When I was done, he took it away from me, setting it on the hallway table. “There’s another cup in your coffeepot,” he said. “Drink it in the morning. You’ll feel better.”
“Promise?” I asked, with a small smile.
Devin put his arms around my waist again, nearly dislodging my towel. “Would I lie to you?” he asked, bending toward me.
“All the time,” I said, and leaned in to meet him.
His first kiss was careful, all too aware of my recent injuries. I pressed closer, putting my arms around his neck, lacing my fingers into his hair. That seemed to be the signal he’d been waiting for; his second kiss was more assertive, more the Devin I knew, the one who took my virginity on the roof of Home, with the fog blocking out everything else in the world.
When my bad leg buckled, he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, kissing me all the way.
We left the towel behind.
EIGHTEEN
DEVIN’S VOICE IN MY EAR, as I was drifting toward a safe, comfortable slumber: “Let this go, October. Just . . . just let her go.”
“I can’t,” I mumbled.
He sighed. The bedsprings creaked as he stood. “My kids will be here in the morning,” he said, and that was the last thing I knew before the sun slanting through my bedroom window hit my face and brought me slowly back to consciousness.
I peeled my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Not dead. That was a start. The inside of my mouth tasted terrible, and my head felt like it had been the ball in the all-Summerlands soccer finals. Adding this to the pain in my shoulder and thigh, I figured I should just stay asleep until sometime in, say, March. I’d already managed to sleep through dawn, thus proving that iron poisoning and blood loss are the best knockout drugs known to man.
At least I wasn’t bleeding, thanks to Devin and Lily. If I could get through a few hours without someone deciding the world would be a better place without me in it, I might actually start feeling like a normal person again.
Levering myself into a sitting position, I fumbled for my robe on the bedroom floor, and frowned as I realized the cats weren’t demanding to be fed. “That’s weird.” Cagney and Lacey always demanded breakfast when they saw signs that I might be awake. “Girls?”
There was no reply.
Frowning, I pulled on my robe and left the room, scanning for signs of my feline roommates. “Girls? Kitty-kitty? Hey, not funny, you two . . .” They still didn’t answer. At least my leg was holding up my weight without much of a complaint.
Devin was gone, as I’d expected; he hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. Only the mug on my hallway table, sides caked with thick yellow gunk, proved that he’d actually been there. I picked it up and paused, throat tightening. The light on my answering machine was blinking.
