“No. I’m good.”
I nod with one last look at him. “Okay then. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Rian,” he says, and I shut the door.
As I hustle back to my room, I’ve never felt sexier. Maybe my lingerie needs to come out a little more often.
Chapter Fifteen
Dylan
Monday Ink Envy is closed, but the minute my alarm goes off because I should be getting ready to go to the gym, I groan. My permanent cast was put on yesterday and it’s even more awkward and uncomfortable than the temporary one was.
Sliding my ass to the edge of my bed, I stand then open my dresser drawer and pull out a pair of track pants. Sitting back down, I open the right side to step through successfully, but opening the left is somehow impossible. After sweat beads along my hairline, I get my leg in, but now I have to pull them up.
“I look like I’m doing some kind of chicken dance at a wedding,” I mumble, shimmying them up my legs.
Forget the damn T-shirt.
I walk into the living room and toward the kitchen. Rian’s just getting out of bathroom. Shit, did it really take me that long to get the pants on?
“How are you this morning?” She tightens her robe.
It’s not the first time I’ve thought about her being naked under that puffy thing. But after I tried unsuccessfully to beat off with my right hand after she came in wearing those short silk shorts and tight cami that outlined her tits last night, I have to try to ignore the thought of her naked. Going six weeks with blue balls isn’t going to help my mood.
Again, her eyes fall to my chest. It makes me want to walk around without a shirt on all the time.
“I’m good. Sore.” I’m not sure sore from the broken arm. The bruises and scrapes all demand more attention at the moment.
“Well, eat something before taking the pain pills.” She walks across the living room.
“Got it, Mom, but I need to take a shower before I do anything.”
Her feet stop and she turns around. “Your nurse told me that you have to wrap the cast up in plastic.” She comes toward me. “She said we could try one of my scrunchies.”
“Yeah, I read the instructions last night.”
She grabs a garbage bag, not listening to me, and puts it over my arm. “Like this, I think. Maybe I should YouTube it?” She leaves the bag on my arm and turns to head back to her room.
“I got it, Rian, no worries.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Okay.” Her expression reminds me of the day she couldn’t get the puppy. “Well, my scrunchies are in the drawer on the left.”
She disappears through her bedroom door and I feel like an asshole for not allowing her to help me, but somehow, I think she’s probably not surprised. I chomp down on a granola bar and take two of my painkillers before taking my garbage bag to the bathroom.
I open up the left drawer and there’s a stockpile of hair stuff. I put my arm through the garbage bag and roll the scrunchie up my arm, although it feels like my circulation is cut off.
Taking a shower without the use of your dominant hand sucks. My right hand feels as if I’m a robot and it’s short-circuiting every minute. By the time I’m finished, I still don’t feel completely clean. And drying myself off? It’s a damn joke. I can’t wrap the towel around my waist with only one hand. My track pants are my only hope of walking out of here covered.
I stick one leg through the pants, though my skin is still damp because I apparently have no muscle strength in my right arm to even dry my skin. Shimmying them up my legs like I did this morning is ten times harder with wet skin, and I end up falling on my ass with a huge bang.
“Fuck!”
A knock sounds on the door immediately.
“I’m good, Rian,” I say.
“Okay. I can cover my eyes if that makes you feel more comfortable.” There’s a long pause. “I mean, if you need help.”
I look between my legs, my dick limp and flaccid. No way in hell is she coming in here.
But the track pants aren’t an option either.
“I need you to close your eyes because I’m going out with only a towel covering my dick.”
“Oh… okay.” Then there’s nothing for a second. “My eyes are closed.”
I shrug off the track pants. Covering my dick with a towel, I open the door and walk out.
Rian’s at the kitchen table with her hand covering her closed eyes. “I’m not looking. Swear.”
“She might not be, but I am. Great bod, Phillips.”
Jax shuts the fridge door with a smile. He’s actually dressed in a shirt and pajama pants on for once.
“Fuck off, Owens.” I slam my bedroom door like an angry teenager.
This fucking sucks. I look at the zip-up hoodie I laid on my bed. I need to cut the left sleeve to work with my cast, but I have no scissors. Not to mention if I try to cut it with my right hand, it will never work out. Having no other choice, I open my bedroom door, looking for Jax.
What I find is Rian still at the kitchen table.
“What are you doing here?”
She glances up then down then back up. I’m still shirtless. If I’m not careful, she’ll become immune to the image soon.
“I’m working from home. Pierson doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“Why?”
“To help you.” She stands from the chair. “What do you need?”
“I was going to have Jax…”
“Jax just left. Went to do his laundry.”
He’s never up this early. And laundry? Likely excuse. Where did he really go? If it was the city… I stop my mind from assuming anything. Jax isn’t my business. He never really was, and if he wants to look up old acquaintances and get into trouble, I can’t stop him.
“I just need someone to cut off my sweatshirt sleeve.”
She turns and opens her junk drawer that’s not really a junk drawer. It’s more like an organized miscellaneous drawer. All her different types of tape are lined up according to size. Coupons stacked neatly in the corner. She turns back around with a pair of scissors. “Got it.”
Before I can blink, she’s in my room. Although this hasn’t always been my room, I’ve made mine since living here and it feels weird to have her in my space.
She eyes the sweatshirt on my bed. “Do you know where I should cut it already?”
“I never put it on, so no.”
She picks it up and unzips it. With her feather-light touch, she pulls it over my good arm. Her wet hair is twisted into a bun on top of her head and her face is bare of makeup. She’s beautiful, pure, and natural. How does she not see that? Allowing Blanca and Sierra to give her a makeover was unnecessary.
She arranges the other side of the sweatshirt to rest on my shoulder, the sleeve hanging down empty. She reaches for my casted arm and eyeballs where she’ll have to cut. Her eyes follow the track of her hands until our eyes connect.
I swallow past the dryness in my mouth. “Thanks for doing this.”
She steps closer, tearing her eyes from mine and touching the part of the sweatshirt we’ll be cutting off. “Do you have a pen?” She moves to my dresser where my sketchbook is and stops, staring at the picture. “Dylan…” A sigh falls from her lips. “It’s beautiful. Did someone request this?”