"There's a blood trail from the front door and on your mat." He pointed at the wet footprints I'd missed in the shock. "If anyone sees it, it'll make things complicated for you. And you don't want the police to get involved. Also, I may have left some on the wall outside."
He was right. Of course, he was right.
"We need to wash your boots," I suggested and rushed over to pull them off. "And probably your clothes too."
"Blood is hard to come out."
"I know, but the longer you wait, the harder it will be to remove it. I can toss the T-shirt in the washer and try to clean the jacket by hand."
"Okay," he agreed.
I took the boots to the bathroom and put them in the tub. Tossed the T-shirt in the washing machine. Then I grabbed the bottle of all-purpose cleaner, a handful of paper towels, and some gloves from under the sink. I hesitated on my way back.
Seven watched me go, his eyes now hooded. The weirdest thing was, despite everything, I trusted him completely. He could have gone anywhere but at his most vulnerable he'd chosen to come to my place.
"I can wash your pants too," I offered gingerly, but to my ears it sounded strange, like I was trying to get the injured man on my couch naked.
He just shook his head.
I nodded and rushed to the front door.
The hallway was empty. The blood was exactly where he said it would be—fat, dark drops soaking into my mat, a few errant smears at shin height along the wall by my door.
I wiped it quickly, scrubbed as hard as I could to at least get rid of visible evidence.
While I worked, my mind cycled back to the look on his face while he stapled his own flesh, the way he braced himself, as if the pain was a distraction from something worse. I thought about how his body had felt next to me when I helped him to the couch. Hot, solid. The next word that came to mind was real.
This is not what you should be thinking about right now, Kimmy.
By the time I finished, my knees hurt from kneeling, and I was sweating through my clothes. I double-bagged the mess and took it to the trash chute, then jogged back to the apartment. I scrubbed his jacket and boots by hand in the bathroom. I knew some of the blood still remained but at least it wasn't obvious anymore.
I half-expected to find Seven unconscious or asleep, but instead, he was exactly where I'd left him, on the couch. Still somewhat lucid.
His chest rose and fell with each breath and I found myself glued to it, the outline of his muscles beneath his skin, to the tattoo on his pectoral. It'd been a very long time since I was in a proximity of a man in the state of undress. And considering that his face was covered, I should have been panicking. That's what my brain told me.
My body felt something else entirely. I couldn't identify the feeling. It was new and hovering, like a butterfly beating its wings in front of you and making it hard to see the design on them.
Seven looked up when I moved through the room. "Did you get it?" His eyes were hooded but alert.
"All of it," I confirmed, trying to stay in the present moment, trying to stop my thoughts from wandering.
"Good."
I realized I was still wearing the cleaning gloves. I stripped them off and tossed them in the kitchen sink, then I sat on the chair. "Can I ask what happened?"
He shifted his gaze and stared into the distance, then started talking like it was the weather.
"I was working a lead at The Lux on Field Avenue. Not far from here. There's a woman who lives at that complex whom I need to talk to." He paused, then rolled his shoulder, wincing at the motion. "Someone was following me, and I didn't spot them until I was inside." He flexed his hand,the knuckles whitening. "They knew what they were doing. Waited in the lobby, went straight for the kidney."
"And you're sure it has something to do with Valmont?"
He tipped his chin. "It has to be. He's getting nervous. He hired people, probably to look for me."
I felt sick. "So I got you hurt."
"You paid for a job," he said, voice flat. "You're not responsible for the hazards. That's on me. I knew the target had acted but didn't take extra precaution."
There was something in the way he said it—so absolute, like he'd drawn a circle around the event and nothing outside could ever touch it.
