Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Where’s the blood coming from?” I ask JR when droplets dribble to my brow. “I can’t see a gash.” He pulls me back from the mirror before he weaves his fingers through my hair. It’s a little matted since I forgot to brush it this morning, but he finds the tear in a remarkably quick time. “Do you think it’ll need stitches?”
I stop praying for him to say no when he shakes his head two seconds later. Instead, I focus on not crying when he pinches the wound with a swatch of animal fur to slow the bleed by pretending we’re in the bathroom for a completely different reason—like a retake of this morning’s riveting performance.
I’ll always be a wimp when it comes to pain but shifting my focus to something else works better than expected. Within seconds of locking my eyes with JR’s bushy beard, I’m more fixated on a tiny twig entwined in his facial hair than my throbbing head.
It’s somehow twisted itself through the dark, wiry strands, but it doesn’t appear suffocated by the unusual conditions it finds itself in.
Kind of like me.
Only days ago, JR scared the living hell out of me. I’m not facing the same issues now. He fascinates me, but even more than that, he intrigues me. That’s a rare feat for someone like me. I rarely have time to assess someone’s qualities, much less rate them on a scale of one to ten. I don’t face the same challenge here. I have all the time in the world, and most of it has been spent trying to figure out JR instead of far more pressing matters like letting my family and friends know that I’m safe.
What can I say? A broken libido isn’t a nonexistent one, and this is the first time in a long time I’ve allowed it to take center stage for a change.
“Y-You have a twig,” I stammer out when my endeavor to free the stick from his beard sees JR snatching up my hand. “It’s right there. I was going to get it out for you.”
Although his eyes continue to show his unease, he releases my wrist from his grasp, wordlessly permitting me to remove the twig.
With one extraction comes another and another and another until his beard is as clear as my soul feels for helping him. I’ll never be able to fully repay him for pulling me out of the wreckage before it exploded, and something so simple as de-fleecing his beard shouldn’t feel so impacting, but it’s the god honest truth that my soul feels brighter from helping him, prompting me to ask, “Can I wash your hair?”
As my eyes follow the bounce routine of his, I whisper, “Please. We could do it here… over the vanity. Once you grab the dining room chair and the travel-size shampoo and conditioner out of my bag, it’ll be like a real-life salon.” Nothing but honesty rings in my tone when I add, “I’m sure you’ve washed it plenty of times, but it isn’t the same as when someone does it for you.” I shrug. “It’s nice to be pampered occasionally.”
In my excitement to continue paying my penance, I forget that my foot is fucked up. I slip off the vanity straight onto my bunged foot, my hiss of pain only hidden because JR follows orders as if he likes the idea of my hands on him even more than I’m dying to watch him touch himself again.
After dragging the dining chair from the kitchen to the bathroom, he snatches up my medical bag and dumps its contents on a wooden shelf at the side.
“That isn’t as it seems,” I assure him when a box of magnum condoms is the first thing to fall out. “They’re for a friend who went from wanting no kids to craving half a dozen.” When JR’s brow pops, I mutter with a smile, “His wife had baby number four last month, so I figured he’d want some form of protection. When he didn’t, I stored them in my bag for a rainy day.”
Is a snow day close enough?
Disturbed by my inner monologue and JR’s frozen stance, I place the chair where I want it by pushing him onto it. The water ram system installed outside of the house rattles into gear when I turn on the tap. With JR installing the pipes to pass through the fireplace during circulation, the first blast of water comes out steaming hot.
Once it settles to a pleasant temperature, I gather up JR’s hair and place it under the flow of water. He has even more strands than I realized. They hog the vanity sink, and more than a handful of times, my fingers get caught in the knots of my soothing massage.
“Have you ever had your hair washed before?” When the insensitive nature of my question dawns on me, I attempt a quick back pedal. “By a professional? I’m not really a wash-and-blow-dry type of girl. I barely have time for a trim. I haven’t cut my hair in years.” When silence reigns supreme, I mutter, “I guess it’s the same for you?” I lock my eyes with his, smiling when I notice how relaxed he looks. “Although I have a feeling you rocked the long-hair gig no matter how close you lived to a hairdresser.”