Read My Lips(46)

He frowns, his eyes narrowed as I lead him to the couch, letting him sit. I’d almost call those eyes cute if he didn’t look so damn dangerous all the time.

“Sit here,” I tell him plainly, pretty sure he didn’t catch what I was saying on the way to the couch. “I’m going to rebandage your wounds.”

“No.”

“Yes. But first, a drink.” I leave him on the couch with a frustrated expression, helping myself to his fridge and searching for something safe to drink.

My eyes land on the tequila.

I return with the bottle and two shot glasses. He eyes me suspiciously when I set them on the coffee table in front of us. “To relax,” I explain to him with an innocent shrug. “Where’s your bathroom?”

He meets my eyes late, distracted.

“Bathroom,” I repeat.

He points to the hallway by the kitchen. When I enter it, I pull open the medicine cabinet and find a first aid kit. Upon closing it with a bang, I see my face in the mirror. I look so … tense. Who am I fooling, trying to act like I’m in charge? I’m about to rebandage Clayton Watts’s face. I’m in Clayton Watts’s apartment and I’m about to have my hands all over his face.

I take a deep breath in and blow it out.

When I return to the couch, I find Clayton sitting there with the two shot glasses in his hands, filled. Jaw tightened, he looks up at me with a severe look in his eyes, then offers a glass.

I sit on the coffee table across from him, take the glass, then clink it softly against his. “Bottoms up!”

He kicks his back in one animal gulp. I … slowly sip mine until it’s empty. Holy hell, that shit is strong. I turn my head to cough, my eyes watering instantly. It’s not going to take much, I realize. One’s enough.

But by the time I’ve recovered, he’s already poured us seconds.

“Oh.” My eyes widen. “I was just—”

“Bottoms up,” he says with a smirk, cutting me off, then kicks his second one back.

I give mine one rueful look, then slowly knock it back. Hissing afterward from the back of my throat, I find myself laughing and blinking away the burn. “Wow!” I shout.

When my eyes meet his, I’m instantly sobered. The intensity in his stare reaches deep into me.

Focus, Dessie. I set the shot glass down a skosh too hard. Popping open the little medical supply kit, I fish out a butterfly bandage and a tiny antiseptic wipe.

When I reach to take off his bandage, he recoils. I give him a warning look. His eyes flash challengingly. Is that a snarl on his lips?

When he finally relaxes, I gently peel the bandage off. Why does this feel like I’m negotiating with some wild beast? I frown at the ugly gash underneath. I have this strange blessing of having an iron stomach; nothing makes me sick, not the sight of blood, nor vomit, nor even big gaping wounds. Maybe I’m supposed to be a nurse. Maybe I’ve missed my calling.

“This’ll sting a bit,” I warn him when I’ve taken the antiseptic wipe out of its package.

Clayton lifts a confused brow, having missed my words. Then I touch the wipe to his cheek and he hisses, flinching away.

“Clayton!”

He glares at me, then surrenders, relaxing himself back into position and letting me clean the wound.

I wonder if maybe my effort is totally insufficient and he should, in fact, see a doctor or get stitches. I’m no medic. The most of what I know is from movies and plays I’ve seen, like that one about the nurse in the ER where her love interest dies in the end from rust poisoning.

The thought freezes me. Let’s not kill Clayton.

“Bandage,” I say unnecessarily, applying it.

His eyes haven’t left mine, I realize. Suddenly, my confidence crumbles again. Now that I’ve finished the business of properly bandaging him, I suddenly find I have nothing left for my hands to do. We’re just staring into each other’s eyes, and that look of wariness in his has been exchanged for something far more sinister … something dark and needy …

Something hungry.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly.

The words tickle me somehow, a smile finding my face, perhaps to break the tension. In response, I bring a flat hand to the front of my chin, then let it fall outward—Thank you.

Now it’s Clayton who smiles. After a second, he repeats the sign back to me, except a little differently.

“Oh.” I watch him. “I was doing it wrong?”

He repeats it again.

I mimic the gesture back to him.

“No,” he says, then takes my hand.

The touch of his fingers running over mine sends electricity up my spine, touching the hairs on the back of my neck.

“This,” he murmurs so quietly, it’s hardly a word at all.