I was a little less affected by the cold now.
When I’d gotten burned, I’d experienced a lot of damage to my nerve endings.
A lot of things didn’t quite feel like it used to.
I couldn’t feel cold the same way—it had to really be freezing out for me to even put on a jacket. The heat was much the same, and the only way that I could feel heat on my affected burned side was if it was intense. And by that point, I was already damaging my skin.
Sensation on my burned skin also didn’t quite feel the same.
It was like my body was just too damaged to feel anything the same way that it used to.
“Thanks,” she returned. “Who’s that for?”
“You,” I answered. “It’s cold as fuck right now.”
“You’re not wearing a jacket, though,” she pointed out.
I hesitated, not wanting to share anything about myself. I just hated bringing attention to my flaws, and this was one of the ones that bothered me the most.
But I ended up telling her anyway. “I don’t feel heat or cold like I used to. It has to be fairly extreme. And even then, I’ve probably already fucked myself up.”
“What about on the skin that wasn’t injured by the fire?” she asked bluntly.
That was my Calliope.
Never one to beat around the bush.
“It’s the same as the damaged skin areas,” I admitted. “Something changed when the fire fucked me up. Nothing feels the same.”
She looked over at me with a curious glance, and I wondered if her mind had gone to the biggest question all women want to know.
Did my dick still work the same.
But she didn’t ask, which I was thankful for.
During the fire, having multiple layers of clothing on, as well as the fire retardant clothing that the police department recommended we wear, had saved me somewhat below the belt.
Or maybe it was the way that I was positioned when the blast went off. I don’t know. Whatever it was, my dick was fully intact, as were my testicles. The skin around my thighs, however, was fucked. My entire left side from hairline to ankle was covered in burn scars. The same went for most of my back, and half of my ass.
The authorities thought that I’d tried to protect Bayne Green when the explosion happened, and I’d covered him with my body.
However, I hadn’t protected him well enough.
He’d died on impact with the wall—I’d hit the wall right behind him, apparently, helping with the force in which he’d hit it. The fire had still burned him, but it’d gotten his face, arms and torso.
If he hadn’t been wearing the bulletproof vest that I’d put on him, he might’ve lived, to be honest. But the metal plates in the vest had superheated, and although the fire hadn’t fucked with his chest, it’d pretty much burned his internal organs up—though somehow it’d left his heart intact and unscathed.
At least, that was what the experts thought.
I didn’t know.
All I did know from that day was that Bayne Green was an imbecile, and I’d been pissed as fuck that he’d not been open and honest about the threat level that he faced. I’d given him my bulletproof vest, which happened to have my dog tags as well as my wallet tucked into the front pocket held in place by Velcro.
That’d been where the confusion had come from.
When the authorities had finally found us, they’d mistaken him for me, and me for Bayne. My family had made the decision to donate my organs. Meanwhile, Bayne’s team had done everything in their power to get me the best care in the world. I’d had the best doctors. The best therapists. The best of the best of the best.
And I would forever be thankful to them for that.
