Her other hand touches my shoulder, and her face comes closer.
“Edgar? Can you get up? Come out to the car?”
Her eyes rest on my hand. I pull it to my chest.
Her eyes bore into mine, and I can’t fucking take her so damn close. I wrench myself up and rush out the door. I stand there for a second, staring at my car. Blood is dripping. I get into the car, and blood is dripping on the seat and on the console.
There she is again. The fog behind my panic attack must be lifting, because I feel my dick twitch at the sight of her, opening the passenger’s side door and getting into the car. She’s buckling up now, and it’s kind of blurry. My eyes are processing a few seconds behind. I watch her reach into the bag. She holds out a small, green towel.
“It’s for cars, so it’s not sterile, but it’s all they had. Except baby wipes. But they were scented, and I thought that would be bad, like give you an infection, so I didn’t get it. Here.” She holds it over my hand, but she is frowning. Cautious. Unsure if she should touch me.
I take the towel and tuck it around the underside of my hand. She leans over it and tilts her head every which way, examining me. “Your middle knuckle… Edgar, is that the bone? I’m worried you need stitches.”
I snort.
I don’t fucking think so. Not today. Not any day.
“Nah.”
I start to put the car in “reverse,” but she throws her hand up, distracting me. “Hang on.”
She peeks into the plastic shopping bag again and comes out with a roll of white medical tape. She holds up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a tube of antibiotic ointment.
“You need to use the Neosporin—”
I snatch the tape out of her hand and start to tape the towel around my hand so we can fucking go.
She touches the elbow of my hurt arm and I throw her off me.
I struggle with the tape and the towel as shame creeps over me again. The sooner I can get her ass to the airport, the better. I can’t do this shit with her. At one time, I used to want to look her up. I thought that… I don’t know what. I was fucking stupid.
“You clearly need some help.” Her voice rings over the low hum of the air conditioning. “Why don’t you let me help you?”
I ignore her, struggling to tape the fucking towel to my hand. When it’s halfway on and it’s catching most of the blood, I throw the car into “reverse” and whip out of the parking lot.
Whoa. Okay. Kind of fucking dizzy. I can drive. The airport’s not that far.
“Would you like me to drive?” she murmurs as I head down the service road, toward the interstate ramp.
“No.”
“Um, Edgar?”
I let my breath out without moving my eyes from the road.
She takes this as an opportunity to talk some more. “I’m sorry I’m just now remembering this…but I can’t go to the airport. My suitcase is at your place.”
I change lanes, moving over into the right one, so I’m well-positioned to take the airport exit. “I can have it overnighted.”
“Yeah…but, I don’t even have my ID. Or like…shoes. Remember?”
My gaze flickers over at her, and shit. I guess she’s right.
I start to take the airport exit. “Back to the club, then. Someone else can bring you back.”
I’m getting tired now. I don’t really care. I make a U-turn at the airport exit, and get back onto the interstate toward downtown Vegas.
Fuck. My hand hurts fucking bad, but it’s keeping me grounded. I train my eyes on the lanes sprawled out in front of me and try to pretend I’m driving by myself.
“Are you really going to Mother’s house? Tonight?” her soft voice asks.
I glance at her and grit my teeth. “It’s not your business.”
The last thing I need is to have her feeling sorry for me. Worrying about me. God for fucking bid, trying to take care of me.
I can’t handle her sympathy, just like I can’t handle her affection. I can’t even handle Leah’s hand around my cock.
I wiggle my fingers and try to keep my focus on the road.
*
Leah
The drive back to Vegas seems to go by on fast-forward. One minute, we’re setting out on the interstate again. He’s not talking to me, and I’m in knots over Shelly.
Clearly, it’s a girlfriend.
I guess I must worry the time away, because the next time I really notice where we are, we’re on The Strip. A look at the clock reveals what the time: it’s getting late now. Almost six-thirty.
“You can just take me to the MGM Grand,” I hear myself tell him.
I fold my arms over my chest. It feels sore from the ache behind my ribs. From knowing this is really it; no more chances. Goodbye comes in just a mile or two. Back there at the gas station maybe.