Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
21
SHIRTLESS DRIVER
Wesley
How can one person make so much noise? It’s like a pack of howler monkeys have barged into my home. Are they ripping cabinet doors off hinges? Swinging from the chandelier in the living room?
Rubbing my eyes, I squint at the clock. It’s not even seven-thirty. No one should be up at this hour.
As sunlight streams horrifically bright through the bedroom window, I grab a pillow and yank it over my head. I’ll just go back to sleep in three, two…
“FUCK!”
The scream doesn’t just ring through the home. It echoes through the halls of time, reverberating back to the Stone Age.
I jump out of bed and fly down the stairs as the next round of the soul-rending fuck, fuck, fuck chorus continues from the kitchen. I skid along the tiled floor where Josie’s hopping on one foot, gingerly clutching the other.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says, but she’s clearly not okay, since she’s breathing out frantically and grasping her bare foot. There’s a puck on the floor, along with her canvas bag, where a tube of lipstick has escaped, along with some sunscreen and a glasses case. Ah, shit. I think I know what happened.
“Did you stub your toe on that puck?” I ask, advancing toward her like she’s a thrashing animal.
“Yes. No. I mean, it fell on me,” she bites out, and it’s like she’s trying to hold in all the pain. But no one on the planet can hold in the abject misery of a jammed toe.
“Let me see,” I say.
She peels her hand off the toe. It’s bleeding a little, just along the nail. Still, it’s all my fault.
Grabbing her hips, I lift her onto the counter, then reach for a clean towel and press it to her toe. Carefully, I hold the towel in place as my brave woman fights off some rebel tears. “Just another few seconds, then I’ll get you some ice.”
She nods, and I hold her toe, rubbing her other leg. She’s wearing a flowy skirt today with a white fitted T-shirt. If I’d known librarians looked like her I might have spent more time in the stacks. I check one more time. “No more blood,” I say.
“Good,” she says quietly.
I scoop her up into my arms, and carry her through the kitchen to the living room. She doesn’t protest. She just groans, still in obvious pain as she wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me. I tighten my hold on her, so she feels safe. Yeah. That’s the only reason. “You need ice and a Band-Aid,” I tell her, shifting into triage mode.
“I need to go to work. I have a meeting.”
“It’s gonna swell if you don’t ice it.”
“I’m going to lose my job if I’m late, and the bus comes in fifteen minutes and I already woke up after my alarm.”
When I reach the couch, I set her down gently, sliding my arms out from under her. “Ten minutes of ice, Josie,” I say in a tone that brooks no argument. I hightail it to the bathroom upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and grab a Band-Aid, hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin, and a couple washcloths. Back downstairs, I snag an ice-pack from the freezer.
Briefly I set everything down and slide her glasses case, sunscreen, and that lipstick I’m obsessed with back into her bag, then I pick up the puck—a signed one I left here last night before we went to improv so I wouldn’t forget to drop it off at the animal rescue this morning for a fan who volunteers there—and set it on the counter. She must have put her bag on top of the puck this morning, then it fell off when she grabbed her bag. Just a guess, but it seems logical.
Supplies in hand, I return to Josie, putting the first-aid items on the table. “Lie back on the couch. Let me clean it up.”
She complies, then offers me her foot.
I pour some hydrogen peroxide onto a corner of the towel and clean the cut as she bravely rolls her lips together, keeping in her whimpers. With that done, I gently apply some Neosporin. I wrap the Band-Aid around the little toe. A tiny sound escapes her lips.
“Good job,” I say, then rub my hand along her exposed calf as I reach for the ice. “It’s going to be cold,” I warn.
“I had no idea,” she says dryly, and that’s my Josie. Sassy as fuck.
I press the pack to her toe, and she grits out a long, “Ohhh god.”
“This is my fault,” I say.
“It’s the puck’s fault. But also mine since I grabbed my bag off the counter to get my lipstick at the same time that I was trying to open the fridge for a yogurt, since I was running late. The puck fell off the counter and landed right on my foot,” she says as I keep the ice pressed to her little pink toe.