He ignores me, sitting up anyway. He blinks a few times, as if clearing his vision.
I squeeze his shoulder to get his attention. “Seriously, man. You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… lost my footing.”
“Uh-huh,” I deadpan. I’m done accepting his bullshit excuses. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Vince,” I snap, impatience getting the best of me. “You’re bleeding. How many fingers?”
He blinks, but the answer comes easily. “Three.”
“Good. How are your ribs? Your back? Does anything feel broken?”
He touches his left side tenderly, but shakes it off. “No. Just a bit achy. I’ll be okay.”
The way Vince keeps saying that makes me think he’s ignoring a much bigger problem. Is he getting help at all? Clearly, he needs it. Something is going on.
He tries to stand, but struggles to get his balance. I catch him and slide an arm around his back to support his weight. When he tries to pull away, I refuse to let go.
“Let me help you,” I say, harsher than necessary. I lower my voice and add more quietly, “Please.”
He finally surrenders.
I loop his arm over my shoulder and help him up the stairs. Vince is much heavier than he looks, all muscle. He leans on me hard, using his free hand to grip the railing with white knuckles. When we reach his door, he pulls away quickly. “Thanks. I’ve got it now.”
I stay close, and as soon as the lock clicks open, I step inside his apartment before he can block me.
“Dammit, Fletcher.” Vince glares at me.
“I need to check that cut out.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue. Probably because he’s too tired to care.
He flicks a light on before hanging his jacket on a hook by the door. His dark eyes are tight with pain, movements stiff. The cut on his head isn’t helping, blood trickling down behind his ear. I’m just glad he isn’t fighting me.
The state of his apartment is… shocking, to say the least. I have to step over a pile of shoes and dirty laundry just to get to the main living area, then around a crowded table to get to the kitchen, which is cluttered with glasses and silverware. Seeing the roll of paper towels, I rip a few off and set them aside, then get one more and dampen it under the faucet. By the time I return, he’s already sitting on the stairs by the door.
It’s hard to believe there isanotherset of stairs in his apartment, after watching him suffer through the first one. How is he even managing?
Crouching in front of him, I gently turn his face to examine the wound. He doesn’t fight me. The two-inch cut isn’t as deep as I feared, and the bleeding is already slowing down.
“It’s actually not too bad, but I want to clean it up and put something on it. Do you have a first-aid kit?”
He hesitates before gesturing upstairs.
“Do you know where? Or am I going to have to look in every cubby? Because I will.”
His hard expression softens a little. “In the bathroom, under the sink.”
I press the paper towel to the wound again. “Hold that and don’t move.”
Vince does as I ask, leaning to the side so I can step around him.
I expect the second floor to be just as messy as the first, but to my surprise, it’s almost completely clean—only a few stray socks in the hall, as if they’d fallen out of a laundry basket. There are two bedrooms, with a single bathroom in the master suite. It’s all fairly plain, with muted colors and white walls. The strange thing is, though, the second floor smells like it hasn’t been used in a while, all dust and stale linens.Is Vince living downstairs?
A photo on his dresser catches my attention—five men in military uniforms standing together in a dry desert. Afghanistan, maybe? They all look young, maybe early twenties, and they’re all grinning and flashing a hang loose symbol. Vince is on the right with the same dimpled smile and dark brown eyes I’ve admired for weeks. The only difference is he isn’t bald. The short, dark hair makes him seem even younger.
