He’s been unbearable and pushy (typical grizzly) as all get out for two days. Thank God we’re almost done with this barn.
When I asked him yesterday if he needed to get back to his writing soon, he snapped at me. “And who’s gonna install the support beam? You?”
Whatever. I’ve given him all the breathing room he needs. The problem is now I can’t seem to get rid of him.
“That’s not the right one. The other socket wrench, the bigger one.”
Have you checked your asshole? ’Cause I think there’s something stuck up there. Gospel truth, I am one snide look away from saying it out loud.
I show him two more. Eyeballing them with the intensity of the sun, he grabs one and climbs back up the ladder. I turn around for one minute, one freaking minute, and somehow within that small window of opportunity, he falls backward.
“Shane!” Crouching down over him, I check his pupils first. “Did you hit your head?”
“No. My foot slipped.” He sits up. “Got the wind knocked out of me.”
“He alive?” Aidan asks with nary a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, I think,” I say, inspecting the patient’s face. Aidan goes back to framing the new wash stall they decided to build ‘since they’re at it.’
Shane glances at his forearm and sees blood. A nasty gash. “Let me look at it. I used to be a paramedic.”
His expression changes lighting quick. He searches my face while I inspect the wound. “You must’ve thrown out your arm and caught the edge of the table saw blade on your way down. You’re lucky this isn’t worse.” I can feel his eyes on me as I move his arm to get a better view.
Shane gets to his feet and walks to the water hose. Taking it from him, I turn on the water and pour it on the wound.
“I can stitch you back up if you’d like. I have a zip stitch suture kit.”
He looks somewhat surprised. For him, that is. For everyone else, it’s a resting face. Then with no direction from me, he takes his shirt off, peeling it over his head and exposing a chest that makes my fingers itch to explore. No, I am not immune. As much as I hate myself for looking, I look anyway.
His gaze meets mine. “Go ahead.”
My neck goes up in flames. I’m still mad at him, and we’ve already determined that I’m looking for another domesticated animal to share my life with, but he needs to be more careful how he speaks to me. What he just said could be misinterpreted as a green light to do unspeakable things to his body. He has no idea what a ticking time bomb of lust and frustration he’s dealing with.
“Not here.” I clear my throat. “In the office. “My med bag is in there.”
I keep it in the small office attached to the barn because that’s where I usually need it.
Shane follows me there and takes a seat in the armless chair. He inspects the wound with a grimace. It’s a bleeder. Reaching into the bag, I immediately open a sterile gauze package and hand it to him to stop the bleeding.
“You were a paramedic?”
I nod. “In L.A.” I take the supplies I need out of the med bag one by one. Alcohol, sterile cotton, the suture kit.
“Why’d you quit?”
The million-dollar question. I open the sterile cotton package and pour chlorhexidine alcohol on it. He searches my face. “Does it have something to do with the plate you have in your shoulder and the pins in your right leg?”
I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear him say it. He’s always been super observant and I don’t do much to hide the small scars I have on my body as a result of that night. I place the soaked cotton pad on his wound and he flinches.
“Sorry,” I say, fighting a smile.
With his opposite hand, he touches my elbow gently. It’s a fleeting gesture, but I feel it long after he takes his hand back. “We don’t have to talk about it.” His warm brown eyes take me in, flickering to the beauty mark and away.
I want him. I’m tired of pretending I don’t. I’m even more tired of him being stubborn about it because I know he wants me, too.
“I can talk about it. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I just never know how other people will react… that’s why I don’t. Most people have one of two reactions. I either see pity on their face. Or I see the relief that it wasn’t them… nobody ever thinks it can happen to them.”
Watching me closely, he waits for me to speak again.
“I loved being a paramedic. I thought I would do it forever. I was good at it, too.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says with absolute sincerity.
I can see that night––the sounds and the smells––as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Memories are tricky like that. It’s usually the worst ones we remember best.
“I rolled into the parking lot of my old building around 2 a.m. after a double shift. I was living with my fiancé at the time, but his place was in North Hollywood and my dad’s apartment was ten minutes away on Van Nuys… I texted Jaime and told him I was too tired to drive and I’d be home in the morning… I parked my car and walked to the elevators… A homeless guy I knew from the neighborhood was walking back and forth in between buildings.
“I knew him. He was usually sweet.” I lick my lips, nerves making my mouth dry. “Yes, he had mental health and drug issues, but he was never aggressive––not with me.
“Anyway… I was tired and distracted, but the guy obviously needed help. I thought, he’s probably tweaking. I’ll check him out and be on my way. As soon as I got close enough, he punched me in the face. I don’t remember anything after that.”
I do remember the physical pain and the months of rehab, however. The panic attacks and the fights with Jaime about getting on anti-depressants; I didn’t want to and he was practically insisting that I do it. All the talks I had with my dad about going back to work; he wanted me to take more time off and I was desperate to do anything other than sit around and think.
I peel open the suture kit and get to work closing the cut on Shane’s chorded forearm. “He kicked me so hard he broke my shoulder, three ribs, collapsed my lung, and snapped my tibia in two. Then he ran into oncoming traffic and got hit by a bus… he died on the scene.”
I finish with the sutures and run my fingers along the edge of the silicone patch to make sure it adheres properly. Shane grabs my wrist with the opposite hand and squeezes softly. We stare at each other until the tension between us nearly snaps in two, my heart beating so hard it hurts.
I swallow, and the air between us shrinks. So does the distance. He leans in, his attention trained on my mouth with the focus of a sniper. His fingertips on the hand attached to the injured arm skate gently up my bare thigh to the edge of my short shorts, leaving a third-degree burn in their wake. Then he tugs on the hem, pulling me closer.
Aidan bursts through the door of the office and frowns. “Are we working on the barn or are we sitting around making cartoon eyes at each other?”
Shane leans away and stands, while my face flushes a deeply embarrassed cherry red. Aidan watches us like he just caught the fox raiding the chicken coop.
I follow Shane out the door and hear Aidan scream, “Is it something I said?”