It was just past midnight when I shut myself into the hotel bathroom and stripped carefully, moving my right arm as little as possible. The mirror provided my first real glimpse of the injury, and relief flooded me as I stared at it. The wound was raw and ugly, but minor and easy to examine, since Cale had cleaned it. The bullet had passed right through the edge of my triceps, taking out a chunk of flesh and ripping through muscle, but missing the bone entirely. It had already started to heal, and in a couple of days, my arm would be as good as new.
The rest of me, though…
My long, pale hair had dried plastered to my scalp, what little makeup I wore was now streaked across my face, and my hip and shoulder were bruised from dropping onto the floor of the plane when psycho-bitch shot me. And, of course, the handcuffs had raised a chafed ring of skin on each of my wrists.
I looked like an escaped convict.
For at least fifteen full minutes, I stood beneath the almost-scalding water without bothering to actually wash. My body temperature had crashed when the succubus-induced fever faded, and even with the hotel heat cranked up to seventy-five and my stomach full, I hadn’t truly thawed out. The cold, ceramic-tiled bathroom did little to help that.
Finally, once my teeth stopped chattering, I reached for the shampoo and squirted the usual half-dollar sized dollop on my right hand. Which was when I realized how much of a challenge a one-armed shower would truly be.
I couldn’t lift that hand over my head.
Well, shit.
Irritated beyond reason by such a stupid dilemma, I scraped the shampoo onto my other hand. In the two hundred years I’d been in this line of work, I’d only been shot three times—four, now—but never in the arm. I’d taken two bullets to my left leg—one in the thigh, one grazing my calf—and one to the gut. That gut shot was a real bitch. I couldn’t work for a week, and Lacey had to wait on me a lot. He’d even helped me shower in the beginning, displaying impressive professionalism. Apparently he reallydidthink of me like a sister.
Unfortunately, Lacey was several hundred miles away, and I wasnotcalling on Murphy for help. If and when he saw me naked—a distinct possibility, assuming we both lived through the week—I did not intend to be bruised, grimy, or in too much pain to participate in the festivities.
Sighing, I rubbed shampoo into my hair with my good hand, doing my best to gather it all on top of my head and lather it properly. But my efforts were pointless, even with my dominant hand functioning perfectly. Washing hair as long as mine was a two-handed job.
Frustrated, I accidentally knocked the shampoo bottle off its little shelf, and when I tried to catch it, I slipped and crashed to the bottom of the tub on my ass. The back of my head hit the faucet, and I slid to the end of the soapy surface, my legs splayed out to either side. Near-scalding water rained down on me. Pain shot through my injured arm.
Before I could push myself upright, the bathroom door flew open, bringing with it a chilly breeze. And Cale Murphy.
“Lex, you okay?” His shadow-silhouette appeared through the closed shower curtain.
“Yeah. Just slipped.”
“Need some help?”
Probably. “I’m fine, thanks.” Using the side of the tub for support, I pulled myself into an awkward sitting position. “Go back to…whatever you were doing.”No knight in shining armor needed here. The damsel in distress has it covered.
“Sure. As soon as you stand up, so I know you’re okay.”
“I’mfine. Just soaking in hot water to, um…make my arm feel better.”
He chuckled. “You’re soaking in the tub? With the shower on?”
“That’s how I do it,” I snapped, glaring at the broad outline he cast on the white vinyl. “Go away so I can finish my shower…bath.”
Murphy sighed. “You’re hurt. Let me help you.” The silhouette of his hand loomed larger as it came closer.
“You touch that curtain and I’ll rip your hand right off,” I snapped.
Another chuckle. “If you could stand up on your own, I might actually believe that.”
His shadow approached, and I pulled my knees up to my chest, hiding as much of myself as I could. When and if he saw me naked, I intended to be at my very best—composed, confident, and capable of standing under my own power.
His fingers curled around the edge of the cheap vinyl curtain and started to pull. I grabbed the hem and held it in place.
“Be reasonable, Lex,” he said, and I glanced up to find him staring down into my eyes from a gap in the curtain.Onlymy eyes. “I’m just trying to help you.”
Ihatedneeding help.
But when he reached out for my good hand, I gave it to him, because huddling in the tub did not make me look strong or dignified. Heedless of the water soaking through his sleeve, Murphy pulled me easily to my feet.
I met his eyes boldly, daring him to look away first. To glance down and admit he was interested in more than just helping me to my feet.
