Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Oh my God. Is she okay?”
“Yeah. Just not feeling one hundred yet. A little out of it. That’s why she forgot until now to have me call.”
“Okay. I need to talk to Bonnie. Now.”
I knew too many women like Courtney to think she was going to give in about this.
I held out the phone to Bonnie.
“Hey, Court. I’m so so—“
“Did you know Pickles was on the schedule today?” I heard Court ask, making my brows pinch. Who the fuck cared what dog was on the schedule when the woman had a head injury?
“No, I’m not under duress,” Bonnie said with a little smile.
So it was some sort of code between them.
That was smart.
“But you hit your head?”
“Hard,” Bonnie agreed.
“And you have a boyfriend named Sully you haven’t told me about?”
“Court…”
“No. No. I won’t pester you now. Go let that man take care of your head. You know, orgasms are really good for pain—“
“Thanks, Courtney. Bye!” Bonnie was quick to talk over her boss before hanging up the phone. “My boyfriend?” she asked, not quite making eye contact.
“Figured we are gonna need an explanation for why I am suddenly around all the time,” I told her. “This is the easiest way to brush it off.”
“But what if she doesn’t…”
“Doesn’t what? Believe it? Why wouldn’t she?”
“Because you’re…” she said, then gestured vaguely at me.
“I’m what?”
“You’re not someone she would expect to see me with,” she said, talking to her lap, her voice a small squeak.
She was feeling… insecure?
Seriously?
Did she not have a mirror?
I was pretty sure I was the ugly one in our dynamic.
But I’d spent a fuckuva lot of time with women in my life. And I knew that some of those insecurity wounds ran deep. No hollow reassurances were going to change her mind.
“Then maybe we will just really have to sell it,” I suggested, watching the color rise in her cheeks again. “Okay. How about you come in the bathroom with me, so I can clean that head of yours?”
She followed without saying anything, closing the toilet lid, then sitting down with her back to me.
“So, are you one of the people who want a blow-by-blow about what is going to happen, so you can mentally prepare, or do you prefer to be in the dark?”
“Leave me in the dark,” she said, her hands curling into fists on her legs as I dug out the first aid kit.
Under the mercilessly bright bathroom light, it was easier to see the damage. She’d gotten whacked really good, but the bleeding was from a relatively cosmetic cut. It wasn’t going to need any sort of closing, just to be cleaned up.
“Out of curiosity,” I said, wetting some gauze with saline solution and starting to dab at the wound and the blood in her hair around it, “when was the last time you had a tetanus booster? Since we don’t know what you were hit with,” I explained.
“Less than a year ago. Courtney wanted me to get one just to make sure if I got scratched or bit, I didn’t have anything to worry about. The dogs all have updated boosters for rabies and whatnot, but tetanus is always a concern.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about,” I said, setting the gauze down when I’d gotten most of the blood out of her hair. “As for the concussion… are you feeling dizzy?”
“Well, when I stood up. But I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday,” she explained.
“Any blurred vision? Ringing in the ears? Memory loss? Confusion?”
“No.”
“Sensitivity to sound or light?”
“The light in here feels like ice picks to the eyes,” she said, dragging a surprised chuckle out of me.
“I think one of the prospects put that in to fuck with me, knowing I wouldn’t get my ass up there to change it. But the light in the bedroom was alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I think you’re alright. But I might check in here and there with the same questions. And you should tell me if you’re feeling any of them.”
“I will,” she said as I swiped a little triple antibiotic on the cut before reaching to separate her hair into thirds. “What are you doing?”
“Braiding your hair, so it doesn’t keep brushing against the cut,” I told her, starting a few inches below the wound.
“Are you French braiding it?” she asked.
“I am. Handy skill to know.”
“You… braid a lot of women’s hair?”
“If you’re asking that literally… not really. If that is figuratively asking if I fuck a lot of women, the answer is more of a yes on that.”
“Oh, um, I meant it, you know, literally,” she stammered as I finished the end of the braid, then reached into one of the drawers. “Oh, I have some ties in my bag.”
“No need,” I said, finding the little jar full of them, popping it off, and grabbing an elastic.
“You have hair ties?” she asked, glancing back. Where she found the second drawer of my cabinet. Full of all the shit overnight guests of the female persuasion could find themselves needing: hair ties, tampons, pads, mini deodorant, spare toothbrushes, makeup wipes, lip balm, and dry shampoo. “Wow,” she said with an airy little laugh.