“I was,” I admit. “But… you have a guestroom. Surely, this place has a guestroom. I’ll sleep in there.” I jump off the bed.
“There’re no guestrooms here for you,” August says.
“Fine, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
August shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’re not sleeping on the sofa, babe.” He walks into the bathroom.
Standing up without thought, I follow him and then stop. Waiting for the sound of the toilet to flush. I walk into the bathroom as he’s washing his hands.
“What do you mean I’m not sleeping on the sofa? I’m not sleeping with you,” I repeat.
“We can sort this out later,” he says. “You hungry?”
I’m staring at his back. Damn it. He has those two little indents right above his ass. My eyes dart upwards. He totally caught me checking him out.
“Hungry?” His voice dips when he asks it the second time.
“No.” I’m actually starving. I skipped dinner last night. The gurgle of my stomach gives me up, though. When August lifts a brow at me through the mirror, I groan. “Fine, I’m hungry,” I admit.
My gaze falls to his arm, to the stream of blood slowly dripping down.
“You’re bleeding. What happened?” I close the distance, reach out, and take hold of his arm, turning it so I can inspect it better. There’s a piece of gauze covering a wound that has clearly been ripped open. Removing the tape, I see a small slash that he’s attempted to seal himself. “You need stitches.”
“It seems that way,” he says, looking down at me. He then opens the cabinet next to him and pulls out a first aid kit.
“What are you doing?” I ask when he removes a sterile packet with a needle inside it. He grabs for some thread next.
“You just said I needed stitches.”
“Yeah, but you’re not doing it yourself,” I tell him.
“Are you going to do it for me, then?” August holds out the needle towards me.
I shake my head. “I can’t stitch you up. I’m a hairdresser, not a doctor.” This guy is out of his damn mind. “Also, you need to clean that first.”
I shove him aside and fish around in the kit until I find the antiseptic and some cotton swabs.
Chapter Eight
Idon’t move, because I’m afraid if I do, she’ll stop touching me. And that’s the last thing I want. One hand holds my arm still as she wipes the orange shit all over my open wound. Stings likea fucking bitch. I keep it in, though. No way am I letting her know that she’s hurting me.
“Okay, that’s a bit better, I guess,” she says, discarding the last ball of cotton into the trash bin next to the sink.
“Thanks,” I grunt, clearing my throat. I pick up the needle that I already threaded. This isn’t the first time I’ve stitched myself up. Won’t be the last either.
“What happened?” Hayley asks, watching as I push the needle through my skin.
“I got stabbed,” I tell her.
“With a knife?” Her eyes widen.
“Yes.” I grit my teeth as I continue tugging the wound closed.
“Who would be stupid enough to try to stab you?”
I smirk. “I have no idea. He was there to kill someone else.”
“Stop. You can’t tell me these things, August.” Hayley holds up a hand, and I shrug.
