Even with those beads of sweat collecting along her hairline, she looked smart and in control. Not the kind of chick who’d ever touch him under normal circumstances.
“Okay,” she said, gathering the papers in front of her like a shield. “I’ll have the receptionist get anything we miss here today. She can also deal with payment next time you come in.”
“Don’t have insurance,” he said, thankful but surprised she’d actually agreed to take him in, alone like this. “Filled those papers in, but if we could…you know, keep this on the down low, I’d be grateful.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flew up to his, full of concern. “Are you in trouble?”
“I can pay. Just rather keep this quiet.” He swallowed, reading her as too much of a straight shooter to go for it. “If you don’t mind.”
After a quick scan of his body, she looked at him again, everything about her serious. Whatever she saw must have decided her, because she grabbed the papers he’d just spent five minutes filling out with bullshit and ripped them in half before throwing them into the trash. Clay’s brows lifted in surprise. Maybe not quite the Goody Two-Shoes he’d taken her for.
“Okay, Mr. Blane. Let’s see what we’re working with here.” Her eyes ran up his arms. She was clinical now, in charge. “You want all of these removed?”
“No, ma’am. I’m keeping the sleeves.” He indicated his face. “But I could use some help with these.”
“Right. The eyes.” She slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses—sexy ones that framed her eyes, spotlighted the bright-green irises that he only now noticed—and stood, leaning in to stare at the ink on his eyelids. The neckline of her lab coat sagged enough for him to catch a glimpse of the skimpy tank top beneath. He ignored it, instead concentrating on her face, a perfect distraction from thoughts of the two deadly numbers etched onto his lids.
“It’s a relief you only want a few of these gone. You’ve got so much ink on those arms, we’d be here for years.” One small, white hand reached out, cupped the side of his face, and pulled at his skin. Firm and painfully gentle.
Trying not to breathe her in, Clay averted his gaze. None of the nurses in the hospital had looked at him with this much kindness. It made his throat hurt.
“These are quite crudely done.”
“Ya think?”
She glanced at him, eyes wide with surprise, and he pulled it back. No point offending the person he’d come to for help. Why was he being an asshole?
Because she’s pretty and nice, and I’m not used to that.
“Sorry. So, these too.” He held up his hands, baring knuckles that had seen better days—knuckles that itched with the ink of his enemies. Ink that couldn’t disappear fast enough, as far as he was concerned. One hand went to his neck. “This one and a few more.”
“Good. Black is good. And prison-style tattoos like this are generally easier to get rid of than professional work, so…I know it might not feel that way, but it’s actually a positive.” She smiled, cleared her throat, met his eyes, and held them. “I work with a lot of people who’ve been through some…hard times, Mr. Blane. And you…are you okay?”
“What? Yeah. Great,” he lied.
“I don’t want to pry, but if you’re in trouble… If you need help at all—” Her hand landed on his arm, soft and comforting, and something tightened in his throat before he shook it off.
“I’m fine.”
There were a couple of beats of quiet breathing as her eyes searched his. She was close to him now, lips compressed in a straight, serious line, and he could feel her wondering. Jesus, this was a mistake. He should go, before she freaked out and called the cops, who’d fuck everything up. “Where else, Mr. Blane?”
She sat back down and rolled a couple of feet away. When he caught her eye, expecting judgment, he was surprised to find more of that unbearable empathy.
In response, Clay stood up and pulled off his wife beater, looked straight ahead, and braced himself for the real judgment.
* * *
Before she could stop it, a startled oh escaped George’s mouth.
He was beautiful. Beautiful but tragic, his skin a patchwork of scars, old and fresh alike, intersected by ink that ran the gamut from decorative to distressing. After a few seconds, she felt the awkward imbalance of their positions and stood, which still put her only about chest high.
His was a chest unlike any she’d had the pleasure of seeing. Beyond the obvious—the ink and the damage—his shape appealed on a level her brain couldn’t even begin to understand, but her body seemed quite eager to explore. She eyed his pectorals, curved and strong-looking, solid and sprinkled with a smattering of hair, and that vertical indentation in the middle, just begging a women to slide her nose in there, to run it up to a finely delineated set of clavicles, where she knew he’d smell like man, and down to the apex of a rib cage and belly carved in bone and muscle and sinew. She wondered how he’d gotten all that strength and unconsciously lifted a hand to touch…
With a start, George pulled herself back to the room, to her job, to her livelihood, for God’s sake, and felt her face go hot.
Dear God, my ovaries are taking over.
Take George’s professional trappings away from her—things like paper gowns and background music and attending nurses—and you might as well throw her into a barnyard or a zoo or whatever uncivilized place her overheated brain had escaped to.
