Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (19 page)

“Evan...” I whisper. “What happened?”

He doesn't make a move to open his eyes, only lifts his face just a little and draws his left arm up to his chest. The fingers of his right hand claw at his forearm; it's already lined with deep red scratches.

He moans again, and turns his head so the sweat on his forehead and face glistens in the low globe lights embedded in the ceiling. Another moan, one that sounds less human, followed by some more deep breathing. When he exhales, the sound seems like it's coming from the bottom of his lungs.

“Evan?”

“Sorry,” he moans.

He curls over more tightly into himself and brings his right arm behind his head, pushing down against the back of his skull. He whimpers, and I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy watching this.

My hands are itching to touch him, itching to smooth his hair and find out where he’s hurting, but I'm scared to hurt him more.

I shut my eyes as low, hoarse sounds of anguish come from his throat. He's tugging at his hair now, flexing the fingers of his left hand—the one he said he couldn't move. He lets out a bunch of little moans, like someone's hurting him and he just can't get away. Then he pants some more, and I get on my knees and move around him, looking for something to explain this.

“Evan, can you talk to me? I want to help you.”

“Can't,” he grits out.

“Was it the alcohol?”

He presses the palm of his right hand against his forehead, opening his mouth more so he can breathe more deeply. “It's the...wreck.”

His eyes screw shut, and I'm astonished to see tears slip down his cheeks. He gathers his knees up near his chest and bites his lip again, and I'm positive I've never seen anything more painful-looking in my life.

I take my own deep breath, sitting up on my heels beside him. “You don't mean this wreck, do you? You mean the one before. The one where you hurt your neck.”

He sucks back a half-sobbed breath. “It's the nerves.”

He grits his teeth and his body trembles as both of his hands make fists. I shut my eyes and try to process what he's saying. I'm not a doctor or a nurse, but I know the spine is made of vertebrae, the bones; discs; joints; and nerves. When you damage bones and discs and joints, the nerves can get pinched and damaged.

“Does this happen a lot?”

His breathing is faster now, like he's building to something, and I wonder if he's going to hyperventilate.

“Can I get you pain meds? I think there are some here.”

His eyes flip open. “No,” he growls.

His words sound almost slurred, but his eyes hold onto mine until I nod. “Okay. I won't if you don't want it.”

And it's like while he was speaking to me, the pain caught up with him, because he's covering his face and breathing really loudly again now.

“Evan, I want to help.”

“You...can't.” He's panting, and his face is so pale, I wonder if he might pass out.

“What do you do to help the pain?”

He swallows, and there's a faint shake of his head, followed by an awful moan.

“How long does this last?”

He claws at his face, then starts to pull his hair again. “Day…or so.”

I almost fall over. A whole day. That…can’t be real.

“Can I do anything for you? Help you to the bed? Do you want me to rub your back? I do massage sometimes. On children who've been injured. I've helped with pain management before...” and one of the key components is to do a few different stimulating things at once.

“Will it hurt you if I touch you?”

“No...worse,” he pants. His eyes slide open just long enough to meet my own.

“I've got an idea,” I say.

I'm vaguely aware that I'm walking through a room and Merri is holding me around the waist. I'm shaking pretty bad and leaning heavily on her. We come into a bathroom and the black tile is cool on my feet. I'm leaning over, looking down my legs. My left hand burns like a billion needles from the gunshot wound. I spread my fingers wider because the pain of the gunshot is better than the agony coming from my neck.

Pretty soon I get a bolt of pain that makes my knees give out and I'm on the floor again, but she's urging me toward this big room. It's a shower. Big shower room. The tile is cold on my face. I think I like it. There's water. Don't like the water. Then her hands. Those hands on my neck. God, my back. Those hands know what the story is.

Cold water. Hot water.

“Jus' keep rubbing.”

I work his back and alternate cold and hot water from different jets in Jesus's mega-shower. I sometimes whack him on the butt with a back-scratcher and other times I scratch the bottom of his feet. I learned this from Sister Mary Carolina. When someone's in severe pain, you can sometimes distract their brain from processing the pain signals by sending other signals. Signals for things that are only uncomfortable, like water that's a little too hot or icy cold, or long nails scratching the soles of someone's feet. I rub his back hard, like I'm trying to punish him. Most people get a lot of pleasure out of a borderline painful rub, but in Evan's case, that's not the point. I'm just trying to distract his brain from whatever's going on with his nerves.

I remember from the time I caught a bullet near my knee, that when my bed was super comfy and someone was stroking my hair, that's when my wound would hurt the most. I'd notice it less when a lot of things were going on. I would beg Jesus to take me out in his car with him, just to escape the pain.

I don't want Evan to be comfortable enough to feel his pain. I want to throw a million things at him, at once.

I exhaust myself, changing his environment. Hot water, cold water, slapping him, kneading, scratching. At one point he moans, “Pull my hair,” so I go to work on that. The harder I pull, the happier he seems. “That's good,” he moans, and I think I understand why his mouth was bleeding.

I wonder why he won't take pills, and I ask him one more time before he rolls onto his side and says, “No more.”

Don't ask him again, because it's too tempting. That's what he means, I think. I wonder why he won’t take anything. Wonder if I should force something down his throat—but I decide to respect his wishes.

I'm straddling his bare back; I've taken to pulling on his hair with one hand and pressing on his upper back with the other. I haven't seen him be this still or quiet in what feels like hours.

Then I realize he's asleep.

No way in hell am I moving him. Lying on an uncomfortable surface is a great way to get through pain. I get a blanket, because he's soaked and I don't want him to get too cold. I get a pillow for myself, and I lie down beside him.

When he wakes an hour or two later, gripping my arm and weeping into the crook of his elbow, I start my no-pain show again. It goes all night. All day. I'm not even sure what time it is.

But nobody comes for us, and he gets through without quite as much moaning. No more screaming. A lot of the time while I work, he's just breathing.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I open my eyes to find myself inside a massive, onyx and gold shower. Not just a shower. This place is like a bathhouse. I can count nine shower heads without moving my head.

I don't want to move my head, because it feels weird. Good weird. I close my eyes before I realize that’s because someone is playing with my hair.

Awareness returns with a jolt, and I stop breathing. I'm in a super-sized shower with Missy King. Meredith Kinsey. I'm in a super-sized shower with Merri, and in the span of one second, a boatload of insane memories populate my brain.

Merri, stripping off my clothes. Merri, rubbing my back and neck. Merri, giving me water and playing with my feet.

“
Anything to distract you.”

God, I know her voice better than I know my own right now. I feel like she spent decades whispering in my ear. I feel like she spent eons lying beside me on the floor. That's what she did, I realize. She must have been in here with me the whole time. How long has it been?

I don't dare move or open my mouth to ask. Her fingers in my hair feel great. I know it's wrong—it’s wrong for so many reasons—but I don't want her to stop.

But all of a sudden, the fingers in my hair go away and I can feel her getting up. When I think she's a few paces away, I slit my eyes and see that she's wearing a short, pale blue cotton nightgown. Since I'm on the floor, I have a nice view of her ass cheeks.

She turns to do something, and I shut my eyes as she sinks back down beside me.

“Can you drink some water for me, Evan?”

She thinks my name is Evan.
Right
.

I don't move, and I feel her small hand touch my shoulder, fingers tickling the skin before settling warmly on it. I think I'm naked under a towel.

“Evan...” I can feel her breath on me. Beneath the towel, I'm getting excited. I try to think about baseball, but I never did like that shit. Maybe I make a weird expression, because she cries, “Evan, are you awake?”

I open my eyes slowly, finding hers and giving her a small smile. “Guilty as charged.” I start to cough because my mouth is dry, and she's right there with a glass. There's a pink straw in it. I raise my right hand to guide it to my mouth but I grab her hand instead.

“Sorry.” A blush spreads across her cheeks. “I'm used to doing this part.”

With her delicious little body half an inch away from mine I’m even thirstier. I gulp the water down. I finish, and she sits up straighter, giving me a great view of her amazing rack. Waves of reddish hair obscure her face. She brushes it back, revealing a smile that looks shy. “This is weird, huh?”

“What, this?” I wave at myself. “Nah. I spend most of my time in showers with beautiful women, so this is just a normal day for me.”

Her eyes widen, and I laugh. “Kidding.” I push myself up on my right elbow, slightly embarrassed to find that, yeah, I'm naked and hiding a boner under a bunch of half-wet towels. “So I’ve been naked for how long?”

She blushes, and I'm surprised she still does that, after everything she’s been through. “In a few hours, it will be twenty-four hours.”

I give a low whistle. “That long.”

She nods. “You had a rough time.”

“So I hear.”

“You don't remember after?”

“Bits and pieces.” I never remember anything coherent. Just sensations. Most of them brain-killingly painful. I'm not gonna say that, though. Don’t want to sound like a pussy.

She tilts her head to the side, then leans closer and smooths my hair back with her palm. She smiles. “It dried standing straight up. Because I was rubbing your head.”

I look into her face and try to picture that. My moaning, sleeping ass, attended to by someone who looks like the nurse you only get in a dirty movie. Someone who, even now, is looking at me with a double dose of concern.

Why does she care?

I like it.

I shouldn't like it. This is my father’s former mistress. That’s just fucking weird as hell. So why is it so hard to remember?

Moving stiffly, I scoot so my back's against the onyx tile wall, making space between us. I rub my right hand over the scruff on my face and look down at my bare legs, sticking out of the towels. I want to say thank you, but I don't know how. I’ve never had anyone around during of my neuralgia attacks. Other than the nurses at NVIR, and all they did was give me Dilaudid and let me ride it out.