Catfish runs the paper towel under the tap and then cleans the wound gently. “Don’t think so. I think a Band-Aid should be okay, but we have a doctor we can call if you’re worried.”
Vehemently, I shake my head. “God, no. I really don’t want to see a doctor. They ask way too many questions I don’t really want to have to answer.”
His touch pulls me back into my own skin. The heat from his bare chest tugs at something inside of me. And I refuse to believe that this man is the cause.
It would be foolish to lean into it.
His hands look so masculine and mine look so feminine in his. I struggle with the dichotomy and dysphoria. Objectively, if they weren’t my hands or his hands, it would be a …hot image. A size difference. Smooth versus rough. But I find myself wishing mine weren’t so fragile looking. I wish I could lift heavier than I do, but no matter how many farmer’s carries I do at the gym, I never seem to be able to build up the same kind of strength.
“When I was seven, Willa accidentally fired a nail from a nail gun through my hand,” he says suddenly, turning his hand over to show a silver scar in the shape of a star. And despite the awfulness of the statement, a chuckle escapes me.
“How does something like that accidentally happen?”
Catfish grins as he resumes cleaning little shards out of my skin. “Willa is four years older than me. And from the day I was born, she preferred me to her dolls. Legend has it, she’d shove me in her toy stroller and walk me around the yard for days.”
I can imagine it. I bet he was a cute baby, all swaddled in a bright purple doll’s stroller. “You’ve lived an eventful life.”
Catfish looks up at me and grins. It makes my insides ripple with excitement. “You want life to be any other way?”
I look around the apartment atop the bakery in a town I never knew existed. “I think it’s fair to say I could do with the dial turning down a little on my level of excitement right about now.”
“That’s fair,” Catfish says, tossing the last bit of paper towel into a garbage bin under the sink. Then, he opens and closes a few cupboards before finding a medical kit.
“If we run out of Band-Aids, I’ll have one of the prospects outside make a run to the store to grab us some more.”
“Must be fun having people you can give orders to,” I say.
Catfish looks up at me. “Not really. Some clubs get a real hard-on for hazing their prospects. We believe in testing their loyalty. Their willingness to do whatever it takes. We’re not gonna give them alcohol poisoning for shits and giggles. I mean, anything that involves the hospital is going to cause ‘em to go broke with medical bills before they even start. Not to mention the questions they’d get asked.”
That’s more noble an answer than I was expecting. I feel like after meeting both the New Jersey and Colorado Outlaws, my worldview of what a motorcycle club is is changing. “Wait, you never finished your story about Willa shooting you with a nail gun.”
Catfish presses the sticky part of the Band-Aid to my skin with firm thumbs. “She was pissed at me. I broke the arm off one of her dolls. So, she reached for the nearest thing she could find in the garage.”
I cover my mouth to stifle the laugh. “That sounds like she intentionally hit you with a nail gun rather than accidentally hit you.”
Catfish tips his head to one side. “Nah. I prefer to give her the benefit of the doubt. She said she wanted to scare me, but the gun was heavier than she thought, and it wobbled in her hand. As she tried to catch it, she fired a nail from the nail gun.”
“Then she’s got really good aim.”
“Or really good luck.” Catfish attaches the final Band-Aid. “There. All done.”
“Thank you.”
Catfish pauses with his hands on my knees, kneading them softly. “You feeling calmer, now?”
I take a breath and silently check through my body.
My mind’s a little quieter. My heart rate definitely slower.
The negative energy has worked its course through me. “I am. You know you said yesterday to just ask for what I need?”
He nods. “You need something?”
“I need to get out of here. I need some air. I need to feel the burn of the cold and not feel like my ribs are crushing me.”
There’s something about the way he listens to me when I talk. The way his eyes drop to my lips then back to my face stirs me.
He glances at the clock on the microwave, then tilts his head to look out of the kitchen window over the street. When he’s done, he lifts me up and then deposits me in the hallway outside my room. “Don’t ask any questions, and dress warm.”
