He rips off the blanket and with ease sweeps me up in his arms, one arm around my ribs, the other under my knees. I waywardly wrap my arms around his neck, careful to keep my palms open.
“I can do this myself,” I grumble.
“Relax. Can’t you just let me help?”
I huff out in frustration, my way of saying ‘okay’. He’s right. How often does someone want to help me? Besides, I’m in serious pain, and I’m not quite sure I’m out of the woods yet with the whole vomiting thing.
His feet pad up the hallway, and he takes his sweet time getting there. “I’m cooking you something decent for dinner, by the way.” His tone is curt, as if he’s pissed off.
“Since when?”
“Since you weigh next to nothing.”
I look down at my torso. When I raise my head to meet his eyes, they’re intently focused on my white lace bra. Typical Rocco. His tongue darts out and wets his lips. It makes me wanna lick my own. I never really noticed before what nice lips he has. I’m more focused on the smart-arse crap coming out of them.
“Lucky for you you’ve still got a good rack.”
“Why, thank you. At least I have something going for me.”
“Shut up,” he says, as he kicks down the toilet seat and lowers me on top of it.
“So this is what I’ve gotta do to get you to put the toilet seat down, huh?” I joke. I don’t know how many times a day I have to put the damn thing in place.
“Ha fucking ha,” he taunts. The shower curtain is whisked back, and he turns on the water.
I look down at my bra and skirt and cross my forearms over my boobs. Suddenly I give a shit that I’m half undressed? “I’m not getting naked,” I spit out like a spoilt brat.
He turns his head to the side, and his eyes wander down to my skirt. “You wearing matching panties with that bra?”
“Of course,” I blurt out. I’m not a sicko. You always have to match. You never know when you could get hit by a bus, or for that matter, knocked over by a felon on a bike.
“Then I’ve seen them before. Take off your skirt.”
Well, aren’t we bossy?
He undoes his jeans and kicks them into the corner, revealing a snug pair of navy blue boxer briefs. He seriously thinks he’s getting in with me? His tank top is whipped off next. Is he trying to distract me with the tattoos?
“I. Can. Do. This,” I grunt out, as I lower the zip at the back of my skirt. In preparation for standing up, I stick my right leg out, only to be met with the shocking reality of streams of blood running down my legs. I look up to the ceiling and close my eyes, taking short, sharp breaths.
Rocco steps forward and grips my waist, bringing me to my feet. He whips my skirt down and swiftly dumps me under the hot stream of water. I gasp for air as the heat shocks my skin, enveloping my head in a cascade of steam.
I growl. “I said—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you said. Let. Me. Do. This,” he orders.
He climbs into the bath and sits at my feet, the water spraying onto him. I position my body to block the water from reaching him. I suppose it’s the least I can do.
“Some view from down here,” he says, and runs his hand back through his wet hair. It’s slicked back now, making him look a little different to his usual scruffy self. Will he wear his hair like that for the wedding? Will he scrub up in a suit? I have a feeling he will.
“How about you concentrate on what you’re in here for.”
As he applies light pressure to my knee with a washcloth, I grip the shower rail to steady myself, wincing as I do. “Fuck, these hands are starting to piss me off,” I mutter as I curl my fingers around the rod.
“Sit if you need to. I don’t want you passing out and diving through the shower curtain. I think you’re injured enough, don’t you?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“I knew I’d get you in the shower one day, just not quite like this.” A soft chuckle echoes from the bottom of the tub. Arse.
“Ouch,” I cry out as he moves the washcloth over my skin with more pressure.
“Relax, I’m nearly done.”
A few moments later he stands up in front of me. Our bodies are still a reasonable distance apart, but within the confines of the shower, with the steam and the water, it’s very intimate. “You’re good as gold. I’ll put a bit of cream on it and some strapping so you’re comfortable enough to sleep.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I don’t like blood.”
“Yeah, no shit. I don’t do vomit, so really, there was no other way we could’ve done this.”
“How convenient,” I say, with an eye roll for extra dramatic effect.
“Pass me the soap,” he says and chuckles.
“Huh?”
“Might as well have a shower while I’m in here.”
I turn around and move the wayward hair from my face. I reach for the soap holder and a slap noise in the bottom of the bath makes me freeze.
“Tell me you didn’t just lose the one thing stopping you from being naked.”
“You want me to lie to you?”
Shit.
My skin prickles all over, and yes, even though I’m hot as anything, my nipples decide yes, let’s perk up and draw attention to ourselves.
The sexual tension in the air has just taken on a whole new level. Rocco is as bare as he was the day he was born and I might as well be too in this white underwear ensemble.
I close my eyes and hand him the soap.
“You’ve seen it before,” he says.
Yes, I have, big boy. And that makes me sad. Sad, because of the state he was in when I found him. I have to help him, and I know exactly where to start.
I open my eyes, and simply focus on his face, as curious as I am to check out the lizard again. Rocco’s gaze is playful, yet his eyes are laden with something else. It’s not as intense as lust, but there’s something there. I probably look like a drowned rat, and because I couldn’t afford the good waterproof mascara, I know I have cheap black ink bleeding down my face.
“Please don’t tell April and Jones about the bike.” My tone is serious now, because all I can think about is Rocco’s addiction.
“Why wouldn’t you wanna tell your friends?”
I step out and grab a towel. With the corner of the soft fabric, I rub it in circles over the fogged-up mirror, confirming my racoon eyes suspicions.
“They have such an exciting time ahead of them, and they don’t need to be worrying about shit that happens to me.” I’m not a charity case. I know my friends don’t see me that way, but knowing I’d been robbed they would both bend over backwards to make sure I had that money replaced.
“Whatever you want, Suds,” he says with a huff, and pulls the white shower curtain across.
With small steps, I make it to my room without slipping over and strip out of my wet underwear. I towel-dry my hair and tie it up in a high ponytail and slip on a pair of pyjama shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt with RELAX written in bold black lettering across the bust. I don’t give a shit about wearing a bra. The best feeling in the world is taking that contraption off at the end of the day. I’m not about to put one back on now.
I return my towel to the bathroom, which is now empty and void of Rocco’s clothing. After wringing out my underwear, I hang it ceremoniously over the shower rail. I have a feeling that this time Rocco won’t bite my head off over it.
****
When I walk into the kitchen, Rocco has a first-aid kit open.
“Okay, let’s patch you up,” he says and points to a stool, which I sit on. He unscrews a small bottle of Dettol and holds a cotton ball on the end, swishing the liquid onto it.
“This is gonna sting a bit,” he says, as he dabs the brown liquid against my skin.
“Ah! You’re not wrong,” I say through clenched teeth.
He’s fast, yet gentle. He squeezes a dollop of white cream onto his finger and smooths it over the wound. In next to know time, he’s tended to both knees and has patched them.