“Take the night, Demetrio,” she said gently. “I don’t want you to feel you’ve been stitched up with the con. If need be, we can handle the heat from Drake House; there are other ways to survive in this business. Just look after yourself.”
I nodded mutely, worrying at my bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”
“And take a shower. You probably reek.”
I grumbled a goodbye and hung up on her, stripped off, then sat on the edge of the bed as god made me and held my head between my hands.
Three hours. I could make it three hours. And then another ten. And through the convention—through the talk—
My stomach dropped and my gorge rose. Lumbering to my feet, I lost my balance, and stepped directly onto an inkwell that had lain in wait for me on the floor near the bed.
It shattered, and shards of glass buried themselves into my foot.
I shrieked and fell backward onto the bed. The blood and ink beaded and bled together on the carpet in patterns that at any other time would have struck me as beautiful. As it was, I sat up and pulled my foot toward me, intending to yank the glass out of it. Unfortunately, the blood and ink which obscured the wounds made that impossible. Gritting my teeth, I managed to lever myself to my good foot and hopped around the puddle toward the door.
Dripping a red-and-black trail, I limped my way down the corridor to the toilet. My whimpering and swearing echoed off the tile, interrupted by the squeak of my skin meeting the porcelain of the tub. I turned on the tap and shoved my foot under it, leaning backward and gritting my teeth against the cold water and pain.
So caught up was I in my own agony and stupidity that I didn’t hear the front door open or footsteps padding down the hall.
“Oh my god, are you okay?”
I glanced up into a pair of startling green eyes and realized several horrific, world-ending things at once.
First: that a man was standing in the doorway. A very dirty man, with mud on his face and bits of hay in his hair.
Second: that man was Lucas.
Third was, of course, that I was sitting on the edge of the tub, cradling a foot which was steadily streaming blood, completely naked.
“Gnnrk!” I made a mad grab for a towel and threw it across my lap, trying to pretend that my whimpers of pain hadn’t turned into panicked croaks.
“Here, put pressure on that.” Lucas’s voice—strong and commanding—briefly snapped me out of myself, and I even caught the second towel he threw my way. I did, however, continue staring at him in shock.
“What are you—”
Lucas didn’t even glance up as he hastily washed his hands. “We need to stop the bleeding. Pressure. Now.”
I did my best to obey, watching numbly as he shook the water off his hands, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then reached into the medicine cabinet for what appeared to be a first-aid kit and a large pair of tweezers.
I gulped despite myself. “What are you doing with that?”
Lucas crouched beside me, set the open kit on the floor beside him, and took hold of my foot. He pressed briefly on the towel and wrapped it into a tourniquet around my ankle. “We’ll need to get the glass out.”
I tried to remember how to breathe, fidgeting and grinding my teeth as more pressure was applied. “Just forget it, I’ll go to a doctor.”
“My dad was a pediatrician—he taught me first aid.” Lucas’s brow remained furrowed, his mouth tight, and eyes fierce.
When the bleeding appeared to have stopped, he examined the wounded area and let out a relieved sigh. “You were lucky. These glass shards are pretty sizeable.”
I grasped desperately for balance and anything resembling coherence. “Really,” I panted, “you don’t have to.”
Lucas rolled his eyes as he carefully extracted the first shard of glass with the tweezers. “Don’t be a baby,” he muttered.
I tried to keep my silence as he worked, with only the occasional squeak of pain as a piece of glass was removed.
Eventually, Lucas leaned back on his heels and inspected my foot again. “There. That’s all of it.”
I let out a hiss. Sweat prickled over every inch of my skin. “Bloody hell ...”
