“I have a doorbell.”
“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”
I sighed. “What the hell is going on, Blue?”
He fell silent again and resumed pacing, like he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. I pushed up off the bed and headed into the bathroom. “I’m going to clean up,” I told him before shutting the door and locking it.
I had no idea if a lock would keep him out, but I did it anyway.
I grabbed a can of Lysol from under the sink and sprayed it around the toilet, closing the lid. Then I stripped off my shirt and threw it in the hamper sitting inside the closet. After grabbing the pink razor off the floor where I dropped it and tossing it in the trash, I took a quick shower.
The cool water felt wonderful against my sticky skin. As I washed, I rinsed out my mouth. I still felt lightly queasy and a little weak, but I knew my throwing up was over. As I dried off and combed out my hair, I wondered if Blue would still be here when I walked out.
He had a tendency of hanging around long enough to mess with my emotions and then disappearing without explanation. After I pulled on a pair of sleep shorts and a T-shirt, I glanced at myself in the mirror.
Do not get sucked in by his good looks, authoritive and sexy demeanor. He will tie you up in a knot that you have no hope of untying.
I glanced at the toilet where the finest hours of my evening were spent (uh, not).
He will also make you tipsy.
Once my self-imposed lecture was over, I pushed away from the sink and opened the door. I half expected the room to be empty.
It wasn’t what I expected.
The bed was remade, the covers all smoothed out perfectly. The small lamp beside the bed provided a bit of illumination, and he was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall.
I flipped off the bathroom light and stepped into the bedroom, my stomach doing that funny flip-flopping thing again.
“Feel better?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yeah.”
He pushed up and grabbed a bottle of water off the nightstand, unscrewed the cap, and held it out.
“Thank you,” I said, taking a dainty sip.
He picked up a bottle of pain reliever and shook out two in his very large palm, which he extended to me.
I plucked them out of his hand. “Looks like you found your way around my kitchen.”
“Figured you could use this.”
I swallowed the pills and noticed the paper towels wrapped around the hand that I gouged with my razor. I also noted the gash on his cheekbone from the hit he took earlier at the club. He was in no better shape than I was.
I retreated into the bathroom, grabbed a first aid kit, and dampened a fresh cloth with cool water. “Sit,” I instructed when I had all my supplies.
He glanced at the only place in the room to sit. The bed.
I sighed. “Go on.”
He turned and walked toward the end of the bed. I couldn’t help but admire the way his butt looked in his jeans. I was totally a butt girl.
Once he was sitting on the end of the bed, I laid out the first aid supplies and then brought the cloth up to his face to wipe away the dried blood. He didn’t say a word. He just watched me intently with that wide indigo stare; his eyes never left my face.
It was a little unnerving.
“This might hurt,” I said quietly because the silence was just too loud.
He didn’t even flinch as I cleaned his skin, lightly stroking over his very smooth cheekbone.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
I noticed his skin felt slightly stiff, and I giggled. I got him good with that hairspray. He raised his eyebrow in silent inquiry as I snickered.
“Your skin is stiff.” I giggled some more.
He cracked a smile. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“That I could blind you with my hairspray, attack you with my razor, and then escape out the front door.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s the best you could come up with when you thought you had an intruder?”
“Hey,” I admonished. “That was not a hasty plan. That was well thought out.”
“You planned that?” he asked incredulously.
“A girl needs to have a plan,” I said sensibly, setting aside the cloth and reaching for a bit of antibacterial cream.
“Let me get this straight.” He began. “You don’t lock your door at night and your idea of a plan to save yourself from a home invasion is a pink razor and a can of hairspray?”
He said it like it was a bad idea.
“The door was an accident,” I explained and leaned closer to dab a little of the cream on his cheek. It wasn’t a bad cut. I figured it would be healed in a week or so.
I pulled back a little to study my handiwork. “I don’t think it needs a bandage.”
“Bandages are for girls.”