“Hungry?” Spencer dropped my arm to pull out a chair for me.
My stomach growled in response, deepening the blush on my cheeks. “How’d you guess?”
“Grilled cheese okay?”
“Grilled cheese sounds perfect.” I hadn’t gotten a chance to eat anything before rushing out the door to meet Gabe. And while the ride to this hidden mansion had been smooth, my stomach could use the buttery bread and gooey cheese to help soak up some of the alcohol gurgling at the pit of my stomach.
I took a seat at the Calacatta marble counter, trying to calm the livewire of my nervous system as Spencer headed for the fridge and Leo rifled through a pantry closet.
The anxiety I wore like a scratchy safety blanket morphed into something entirely different every time these women looked at me. My heart raced not with fear, but excitement.
That’s new…
But the revelation brought that familiar anxiety creeping back in at the edges.
How the fuck are they doing this to me? I’m straight.
To be fair, less than twenty minutes ago, I’d been thoroughly convinced that they were men. And no one had ever stood up for me the way they had. That plus the adrenaline and alcohol in my system were blending into a heavy concoction of confusion.
My brain is fried. It’ll pass in the morning.
Besides, there wasn’t much harm in coasting through the feeling tonight — I’d never see them again come morning.
“Alright, darlin’. Let’s tend to that hand of yours.” Leo broke my attention, turning on the tap of the nearest sink and testing the temperature against her wrist. “Do me a favor and rinse out what you can, but don’t touch anything. I don’t want you driving those splinters any deeper before I get the chance to grab ‘em.”
“My hand…?” I looked down at my palm and was shocked at the bloody mess that greeted me. The fall outside the bar had been much worse than I’d processed through the adrenaline. I knew I’d hit glass, but I didn’t realize quite how deep it had cut.
Blinking, I did as she bid, crossing over to the sink and letting the warm water melt away dirt and dried blood from my open wounds. As my blood swirled into the drain, I could hear her set a bag down on the counter and open it up, unfurl some sort of plastic sheet, and then open up a small, paper packet before scrubbing her hands at the other sink.
By the time I finished up, she was snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. Back at the counter, the plastic sheet housed a couple pairs of sterile tweezers and a small metal tray. Next to it, a hefty black pouch with a black and white American flag patch sat unzipped, ready for anything else she might need to retrieve.
“Ready to let me see that hand?” She took a seat at the counter, beckoning me closer.
I sat back in my own seat, swallowing hard as she cradled my hand in her palm, gloved fingers gently angling my wounds toward the light. Every movement was precise and considered. As she studied my cuts, her eyebrow furrowed ever so slightly with concentration.
“So,” I broke the silence, “what are you, some kind of doctor?”
“Yep.” The reply was instant. She didn’t look up as she reached for her tweezers.
I waited for her laughter, but it didn’t come. I tilted my head. “Wait, are you serious?”
Her eyes flicked up to mine for just a second, goldish flecks sparkling in a pool of cognac paired with a cocky smile that could have stopped my heart right there. “Deadly.”
At that moment, I didn’t doubt she was deadly. One look from her made it hard to breathe. I could only imagine what those eyes would do aimed at an attainable prize.
Glass clinked against the metal tray, drawing my attention. She was so gentle, I hadn’t even noticed the growing pile. The worst piece was still lodged square at the center of my palm, though.
The sight of it was enough to turn my stomach. I kept my eyes focused on her face instead, searching for any way to distract myself.
Her face was hardened, grizzled almost. But her eyes sparkled and her skin was taut. She couldn’t have been much older than me. “Aren’t you kind of young to be a doctor?”
Her arms, now exposed from under her leather jacket, were covered in tattoos, sleeves of ink caressing the thick muscles of her forearms and biceps. I could tell that even more hid beneath her shirt. Over her crewneck collar, I could the handle of what looked like a sword peeked out.
She was probably a few years older than me, but definitely still in her twenties. I didn’t think it was even possible to graduate med school that quickly.
But she just shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a bit of an overachiever.”
She set down the tweezers, finally leaning back on her stool. My eyes flicked to the tray, where the last piece of glass sat, edged in crimson. I hadn’t even felt her go for it.
