Fuck me.
Soft olive toned skin, toned abdominals, legs that go on for days…
She turns and I spot the boot sized print on her ribs, her skin mottled, the bruising a mix of purples and blues, the size, color and swelling suggesting a possible break.
My teeth bite into my lower lip as I suppress the need to curse out loud. She disappears into thebathroom a moment later, her hiss of pain sounding down the hall as she gets into the tub.
This is not my problem; I have enough shit to deal with without her issues, too. Sighing, I head up to my bedroom and grab her a t-shirt from the drawer, knowing she won’t be able to put that dress on again. It’s an extra-large ranch shirt, so it’ll do just fine to cover her.
When I return downstairs, Judge is sitting in front of the bathroom door and, by the sound of the water splashing, the door is open.
“You aware you have some kind of wolf dog mix, cowboy?” She calls to me.
“His name is Judge,” I enter, keeping my eyes ahead so I don’t accidentally get a look at her naked in the bath, as much as I wouldn’t mind a look.
“He’s an Irish Wolfhound, not a wolf dog.” I throw the shirt onto the bed and pick up her dress.
She makes a humming kind of sound, and I start to make my way from the room.
“Where are you taking that?” I pause, glancing toward her. All I can see is her head, her dark hair wet as she leans back in the bath. Her grey eyes hold me before she cuts them to the ruined dress in my hand.
“Why? You want to keep it as a trophy? There’s a shirt on the bed for you.”
She turns her nose up and then dismisses me. It’s then I see the gun resting within arm’s reach next to the tub. Can’t blame a girl for protecting herself but at this point, pretty sure it’s me who should be arming themself.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I count to five and then leave, dumping the soiled dress in the trash on my way through, and grab the whiskey before I head to the living room. I am bone tired, the type of exhaustion you can never quite remedy, and I groan as I lower onto the couch, bringing the bottle to my lips.
I close my eyes, though I’m not going to be able to relax a bit with her in my house.
I hear the tap of Judge’s claws on the hardwood and his cold nose bumps the hand resting off the arm of the couch, fingers holding the neck of the bottle. I don’t have to open my eyes to know she’s just entered the room, too. I smell her, the scent of my soap on her skin.
Opening my eyes to half, I see her standing in front of me, gun in hand but not pointed at my head, so that’s a win. The tee falls off her dainty frame, hanging off one shoulder and falling to mid-thigh.
“The bruises,” I grumble, “Where’d you get them?”
There’s something so familiar about her, but I can’t place where. She’s not from town, that’s for sure. A woman like that would stir up quite thegossip and I haven’t heard a single peep out of old Mrs. Green from the butchers. She’d have a lot to say. She’s a gorgeous woman, with those steel-grey eyes, framed by impossibly thick lashes, her lips the color of blood.
“None of your business.”
“Of course.” I close my eyes again.
“You got anything to eat around here?” Her feet pad toward the kitchen, gait off with her limp.
“Help yourself,” I grunt. I need to go to bed. I have a four-a.m. start and a long day ahead.
The doors to the cupboards open and close behind me, though I know there isn’t much to choose from. The only thing that’s a constant in this house is the dog food and whiskey. I tend to eat with the hands at the end of the day down at the mess cabin since I make sure that’s fully stocked way before I ever stock my own fridge or pantry. Boys have gotta eat if I want good work out of them.
“Well, this is just sad,” She comments.
I huff out a humorless laugh, “That’s the life, darlin’.”
She comes back, taking a bite out of an apple. “What’s your name?”
“We’re not gonna be around each other long enough to warrant introductions.”
“Well, since I have your brand on my leg, figuredit was the least you could do.”
You have got to be shitting me.
