Shattered Glass(92)

“Home,” he said.

“Whatever.” I answered despairingly.

“I liked it when you called it home.”

My stomach released a swarm of fluttering.

I squinted up at him, trying to understand how he could pack so much into words without a single emotion showing on his face. Then the flood of understanding showered over me. “You could have asked me when I got home.”

A hint of a smile passed over his lips. He looked to the curtains, either in hope or worry that we’d be interrupted again. What was his smile indicative of? That he cared? Peter was robotic only when certain emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

“Come here,” I ordered, the same soft tone I used way back when I realized he hadn’t stolen my money. He didn’t immediately step forward, waiting a few seconds before his hips were parked in front of me. His eyes turned down to watch my thumb brush against the breadth of skin visible between the cargo shorts and t-shirt. “Are these my shorts?”

“My clothes were dirty.” There was no missing the quiver in his voice, even as he tried to muffle it by barely moving his lips.

“You’re such a little shit sometimes,” I said, tugging at his shirt until he crouched in front of me. I searched futilely for anything in his face to tell me what he was thinking. “How many hospitals did you call before finding me?”

A one shoulder shrug, then, “This one was closest to our house.”

“Is it so hard to admit you care?”

I’d never seen such a direct, expectant gaze from him. “You tell me. Is it?”

“Touché,” I replied, pushing still-damp hair off his brow. “You scare the hell out of me.”

“You have all the power, Austin.”

My laugh was rueful. “Is that what you believe? Do you think I have any power when it comes to you?”

Footsteps and a tentative, “Officer Glass?” from the other side of the curtain made Peter straighten and move back. The fist in which he clenched my keys was covering the spot my thumb had traced. I also noticed the ridge of defined flesh above the waistband of his boxers. My clothes, it seemed, were just a bit too large for him. I resolved to buy him a closetful in my size. And…were those my underwear?

“All clear, doctor,” I called out.

With Peter in the room, I stopped taking an interest in how attractive Doctor Wicks was, or what he was saying.

“Let me just get you on your way with the prescriptions. A nurse will be by with some scrubs you can wear home.”

My gaze was constantly floating to Peter’s bare legs and stomach. I succeeded in retaining less than half of the instructions for caring for my wound because of the distraction. Wicks left with his jovial smile and a small chuckle as Peter took the prescriptions and instruction sheet from my hand.

“Are you hard?” Peter eyed my crotch.

“No,” I lied.

“Because of the doctor?”

“I just said I wasn’t hard.”

“He’s a lot older than I am.”

I couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s insecurity. It was about time he had some for a change. “He also smiles a fuck-load more than you. But you’re the one I’m taking home.”

“We could try—”

Nurse Jackson interrupted Peter this time. “Here you are,” she announced, handing me a pair of green scrubs, slippers stacked on top. The cost of both combined could be around $.50, but I had a feeling my bill would move the decimal two places to the right. Good thing cops had decent health insurance. Which only served to remind me, I was probably going to be out of work longer than the week’s suspension.

“How long did he say for these stitches?”

“Seven-to-ten days,” Peter and Nurse Jackson said simultaneously.

Shit.

“No showers for 48 hours, officer,” the nurse added as I toed off my bloody sneakers. “Unless you can tape a plastic watertight seal over the stitches.” The clunk of my sneakers hitting the ground was like a cue at the end of a joke.

A trail of darkened blood caked my ass from cheek to foot, and soot speckled like mold across the rest of my body. The only clean spaces were where the cat claws had ravaged it and the attendants had cleaned around each gash. I leveraged to get a better view. The doctor had warned me to be careful while I was numb, but I hadn’t expected to only feel the slight tug of flesh as I sat up, gingerly leaning to one side. Looking down at my filthy legs and chest, I could only imagine the fun of sponge baths.

“We’ll help him,” Peter assured Nurse Jackson, smirking at me when I raised brows at him.

“He’s lucky to have a brother like you,” she said with a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. I choked out a noise that sounded remotely like Jeffrey the Tailor.