His breathing is labored, and when we get to the landing, I stop and let him regroup. He shudders in a breath, leaning on me and the wall.
“You should probably get your chest x-rayed tomorrow just to make sure the rib didn’t puncture the lung.”
“It didn’t.”
“And how would you know?”
He pushes off the wall, and I guide him down the short hall to my room. “‘Cause I punctured a lung a few years ago, and believe me, this ain’t that.”
“I’m sure that’s a very interesting story.”
“Kinda like sucking air out of a straw.”
I push the door open, and we enter my little space. “Right now, we should concentrate on getting you comfortable.”
He pauses inside the door. “Much different than downstairs.”
I look at the small, tidy apartment through his eyes and see lived-in but clean furniture, an area rug, a compact galley kitchen with a counter and two stools. “This was the first space I fixed up, and since I had to live here, I made sure it was dust- and dirt-free.”
“I get it. Can’t stand fuckin’ dirt and clutter either.”
“Ahhhh, something we have in common.” I ease him onto the ancient couch, then straighten. “I’ll be right back.”
I head for the bathroom, and he calls out, “You got any booze up here?”
“No, and anyway, you might have a concussion, so you probably shouldn’t have even had what you drank downstairs.”
I return with my trusty first-aid kit and pop it open.
“Shit, I think you could perform surgery with all the shit you got in there.”
“I believe in being prepared.” I rip open an antiseptic wipe. “This might sting.”
He remains quiet watching me, and when I press against and wipe the open cut on his cheekbone, he doesn’t even flinch. Impressive.
I use a few more wipes, then open a Super Skin package, extract a Band-Aid and apply it to his cheekbone. I clean the other minor cuts, and his eyes never leave mine.
“You’re pretty good at this.”
“Like I said, lots of practice.”
“Must’ve come in handy when you were hanging with the Dogs, which makes me think. If you’re tied to the Dogs, how come you want to help me?”
“I wouldn’t say I actually hung with them.” I heave out a sigh. “More like working with them, or for them.”
He raises his brows. “In one of their Philly strip clubs?”
“No.” I snap the first-aid kit closed. “You should probably drink something.”
“That’s what I said, but?—”
“I’m talking about water to stay hydrated.”
“Oh.” He frowns like a little kid. That is if a little kid is over six feet of hard, bad-ass muscle.
I retrieve a bottle of water for both of us and return to the living area, sitting in an overstuffed chair across from him on the couch. I make sure my monitor is tucked under my other foot.
He looks around for the first time. “This is nice.”
