Yes, I said. I had been dating Teddy “Juice” Jones for over a year. I moved in with him about eleven months ago.
Yes, I said. I had wanted out of the relationship and tried to leave the house with Capone. I hadn’t made it down the front porch steps before his hand grabbed me, pulling me back in. He chained me to the bed and when I wouldn’t stop screaming for him to let me go, he injected me with some type of drug to keep me quiet. I believed he kept me there for three days, naked and chained, only allowing me to go to the bathroom a few times a day. He never touched me sexually during that time and was hardly ever around.
No, I admitted. I wasn’t sure that Juice was the one that started the fire. Without giving away names, I heard through the grapevine that Juice had been upset about the fire and said he knew who did it and would make them pay.
No, I concluded. I had nothing else to add.
My words seem to be enough for Detective Matheson because he didn’t push me further, although he said he might be back in touch with more questions. To my relief, he told me that he felt there was enough based on my statement for probable cause to arrest him—at least for the kidnapping charges.
The only other thing he did was encourage Flynn to get some medical attention, but Flynn declined. He said he was fine, but I know he wasn’t. We walked back to the train in silence. He rested with his head against the window and his eyes closed for the entire ride back to his neighborhood.
And other than his short announcement that he was going to take a shower, there hasn’t been any other conversation. I feel nauseated over it because I’m seeing my first real opportunity at a friendship starting to circle the drain. Why would someone like Flynn even want to have a freak of a friend like me? I’m sure none of his other friends have psycho kidnapping, drug-dealing ex-boyfriends stalking them.
So lost in my thoughts, I’m unprepared when the door opens and a waft of spicy, scented steam billows out of the bathroom. Flynn steps out and my tongue practically sticks to the top of my mouth. He wears only a blue towel wrapped around his waist, with another smaller one hanging around his neck. I can’t help it when my eyes flick across his chest, taking in the beads of water still clinging there before I meet his eyes.
“You shaved,” I say with surprise.
For the past three days, Flynn has let his beard grow in, claiming I ruined his blade when I shaved my legs. It was only after I was headed out the door to buy him a new razor that he laughingly told me he was joking, and that he’s just too lazy to shave on his days off.
Flynn rubs his fingertips over his chin. “Yeah. I figured I’d go ahead and knock it out since I have to be at work early tomorrow.”
“You’re going in to work?” I’m surprised, given the fact he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder.
“Sure, why not?”
I look down at his ribs pointedly. “Maybe because of that.”
His gaze follows mine down to where a dark purple bruise, just about the size of a boot, covers his right ribcage. A slight grimace passes over his face and then he looks at me, shrugging his shoulder, “No biggie. I’ve had worse.”
He moves to the left to walk by me, obviously heading to his room. My hand snakes out and wraps around his forearm. His warm, moist skin is almost electric against mine but I hold on. He stops and looks at me in question.
“Are you mad at me?” I don’t know why I blurt that out but if he’s going to end this short-lived friendship, I’d rather get it out on the table.
Flynn looks genuinely surprised. “Why would you think that?”
My hand falls away from his arm and I jam both of my hands in my pockets. My gaze lowers and I stare at the tips of my combat boots, shrugging my shoulders like a shy child.
Gah... since when is Rowan Page at a loss for words? Or since when does Rowan Page lower her gaze in embarrassment to anyone?
Flynn sticks his forefinger under my chin and pushes up. My head follows and the last thing I raise is my eyes to his. When I do, he’s looking at me with understanding, warmth, and amusement.
Amusement?
Yes, there it is.
I amuse the man and that fact immediately causes the constrictive feeling in my chest to ease up.
“You find me funny?”
“I find it adorable that you would think I was mad.”
His words send a course of pleasure through me, not only because he has reiterated our friendship is intact, but because he thinks I’m adorable.
Suddenly, I’m no longer focused on my own insecurity but I become painfully area of his closeness and near-naked state. I can smell his soap and feel the warmth radiating off his skin as he stands near me. We just stare at each other, both of our eyes locked.
When he starts to lean in toward me, his eyes lower to my lips and I know he’s going to kiss me. I am both elated and scared all at once. I want him to kiss me but I don’t want to hurt our friendship.
Panicking, I take a quick step back and blurt, “Did you disinfect your cuts?”
The heat stays in his eyes for just a few seconds and then simmers down. His lips curl upward in a smirk, but he shakes his head no.
Moving past him into the bathroom, I reach under his sink, where I had seen a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I grab a few cotton balls, a box of Band-Aids, and turn to him.
“Sit down on the toilet and I’ll patch you up.”
He turns his back on me and walks to his bedroom. “Come patch me up in here. It’s too damn hot in the bathroom.”
My eyes close briefly at the thought of sitting in his bedroom with him while he wears nothing but a towel to cover himself. I utter a small prayer for the strength not to drool over him and head that way.
When I enter his bedroom, I find him sitting with his butt perched on the very edge of his bed, his legs slightly apart. The position causes the towel to gape open over his right thigh, exposing several inches of powerful muscle. Just a few more inches of movement, and I’ll be seeing what is in between his thighs. I hope he holds absolutely still for the sake of my sanity.
I walk to stand beside him and lay my supplies on the bed near his hip. Pulling his left arm out, I look at the elbow I had noticed was bleeding. I briefly flick my eyes over the tattoo on the inside of his bicep. It’s in the same size and font as the “Semper” tattoo on his other bicep, except this one says “Fidelis”. I start to ask him what the words mean when my gaze captures the gash on his elbow. It’s oozing blood from the ragged wound.
“You got a really nasty cut back here,” I tell him as I reach for the cotton balls and alcohol.
He turns his shoulder inward, causing his arm to rotate so he can see his elbow. “Good. I thought I caught that motherfucker in his mouth. I hope he lost some teeth.”
I try to keep a stern look on my face but I smile inside. Opening the alcohol, I warn him, “This may sting.”
Glancing at him, I see his eyes are leveled at me and I wonder what he’s thinking at this moment. I break the connection and look down to his elbow. Holding a few cotton balls underneath the cut, I tip the bottle and pour some alcohol over it. I expect him to wince, or hiss, or even try to pull his arm away. I sneak a peek at him and he’s still just staring at me. He hasn’t even flinched. I quickly avert my eyes down and watch as the alcohol mixes with this blood and runs away from his wound in a pink river.
Sopping the mess up with another cotton ball, I open up one of the larger Band-Aids and stick it firmly on his elbow.
Clearing my throat, I stand straight. “All right...any other open wounds?”