Page 4

Saylor

I felt like I’d been run over by fifty dump trucks, then backed over for good measure. Every inch of my body ached like I’d gone twelve rounds in a bar fight—and lost. My shoulders throbbed, my ribs felt like they were held together with twine, and there were bruises on top of bruises, layered like a damn lasagna of pain. Even breathing felt like too much effort.

I dropped a sock on the floor and, without thinking, bent over to grab it.

Big mistake.

Pain shot up my spine and flared in every joint like firecrackers. I gasped and froze halfway down, paralyzed by the searing ache that flared across my back and shoulders.

“Baby,” Pirate scolded gently from behind me. “Let me get that.”

I slowly sat back up like I was made of rusted metal. My eyes followed him as he bent down without a wince and retrieved the sock like it was nothing.

Must be nice to have a body that wasn’t trying to retire from existence.

He knelt in front of me and held the sock. “Give me your foot.”

“You’re crazy,” I breathed and tried to laugh but only managed a pained wheeze.

Pirate looked up at me. His dark eyes soft but serious. “You almost passed out from bending over. I’ll put your socks and shoes on.”

I stared at him like he was speaking another language. I knew he was trying to help, but my pride was hanging on by a thread. Still, yesterday after Mac had come by, she went back to my tiny house and packed a bag for me. I saw what she grabbed —my favorite vintage Nirvana tee, black jeans, black socks, and my scuffed black Chucks. My normal armor. My normal vibe. Something that looked like me, unlike this drafty hospital gown.

“You can’t put my shoes on,” I sighed and pushed the sweaty strands of hair out of my face.

“Why not?” he asked without missing a beat.

“Because I don’t have pants on, Pirate. I don’t think I should be walking around with just a shirt and shoes on.”

A slow smile crept onto his lips. “Yeah, you might be right about that one.”

He managed to slide my socks on gently and was careful not to touch a bruise or put pressure anywhere that would make me wince. Then he stood and held my jeans.

“Let’s get these pants on, baby.”

“I doubt you’ve ever said those words before,” I mumbled and snatched the jeans from him. “I can get them. You can wait in the hallway.”

He shook his head. “Not happening. You couldn’t bend over to grab your sock. You’re not going to be able to stand and get dressed.”

He reached for the jeans again, but I clutched them to my chest.

“I’m fine.”

He met my eyes, and his voice was calm but firm. “You’re not fine. You had the shit beat out of you not even forty-eight hours ago. You haven’t even felt the rock bottom yet. I’m helping you.”

“I can do it myself,” I insisted.

“Stand,” he challenged. “If you can stand for one minute without stumbling or falling over, you can dress yourself.”

I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t take me a minute to put on pants.”

“Then stand for a minute, and I’ll know you’re good.”

I wanted to scream. Not at him, really—just in general. I was so tired, sore, and humiliated. If I didn’t just try to do this, he was going to keep hovering like an overprotective hawk. And as much as I kind of liked it, I really wanted him to give me a few seconds of space so I could at least dress myself with a shred of dignity.

“Fine,” I grumbled.

I pushed off the bed and stood. Pain flared across my thighs and hips, and my legs trembled like a baby deer. I swayed slightly, and my arms flailed for balance. My entire body screamed at me to sit back down, but I fought through it. Got my balance and took a shaky breath.

“See?” I said and held out my arms for dramatic effect. “Totally—”

I lost my balance. My knee gave out. The room tilted.

Shit.

Pirate moved fast and wrapped his arms around me just as I started to fall. One arm around my shoulders and one around my waist. I crashed against his chest, and his warmth was immediate. His scent—leather and soap and something undeniably him—washed over me. My face ended up just inches from his, and our eyes locked.

I was embarrassed… but also? A little breathless for a completely different reason.

“Maybe I’m not the most steady,” I whispered.

Pirate chuckled, and his chest vibrated against mine. “I think you need to rest some more, baby. Let’s get you dressed and back to the clubhouse.”

“Clubhouse?” I asked and frowned as he gently steadied me. “What do you mean?”

Pirate kept his arm around me as he took the pants from my hand. “Until we get things settled, everyone’s staying at the clubhouse.”

“Settled? What does that mean?” I asked, my heart skipping.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said simply.

“I think that’s impossible to do.” I had been worried before I had been attacked, and now I was whatever was worse than worrying.

He knelt in front of me again with my pants in hand. “Let’s get your pants on, baby.”

I gave him a warning look. He stayed in front of me but didn’t back down and crouched to guide my feet into the legs of the jeans one at a time. Then he lifted the hem of my hospital gown slightly to pull them up.

“Why does your knee say ‘It’s Brit Bitch’?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh Jesus,” I muttered and covered my face with my hands. I peeked down at him between my fingers.

He tipped his head back and looked up at me, amused.

“It’s Brit-KNEE, bitch,” I corrected, my voice muffled through my fingers. “Brit. Knee. As in Britney Spears.”

Pirate raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing that’s from a song?”

“Yeah,” I said weakly. I had no idea if Pirate even knew who Britney Spears was. He seemed more like an AC/DC kind of guy. I had much more eclectic tastes. My playlist ranged from Britney Spears to Papa Roach and everything in between.

“It’s from a song… never mind.”

He laughed softly. “Okay. Not sure I get it, but as long as you like it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Maybe a stick of butter with wings is more your style.”

He blinked, confused. “You have a stick of butter with wings tattooed on your body?”

Maybe I should’ve stopped while I was ahead.

“Yes,” I said like he was the one being weird. “It’s a Butter-Fly.”

He actually laughed, full and unguarded. I liked that sound more than I wanted to admit.

Pirate pulled my pants up the rest of the way, and his fingers brushed against the skin at my hips. The light touch sent a flicker of warmth through me, and I fought the urge to blush. Then he fastened the button, zipped the fly, and looked up at me.

“You’ll have to give me a tattoo tour.”

My stomach flipped. His voice was low and gravelly, and that little smirk of his was dangerous.

“Sure,” I whispered.

His gaze held mine. It was intense and unreadable. My breath caught in my throat.

“You need help with your shirt?” he asked.

“Um, I think I should be able to handle that,” I whispered and finally looked away.

He nodded. “I’ll pack up your toothbrush and stuff in the bathroom while you do that.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. As sweet and gentle as Pirate was being, there were some things I really wanted to do without an audience—like wrestle a hospital gown off my aching body and try not to pass out in the process.

Once he disappeared into the bathroom, I slowly peeled off the gown and tossed it to the foot of the bed. Thank God they hadn’t taken my bra off. That would’ve been a whole new level of awkward. I was going to have to figure out how to take it off later, but I could deal with that in the future.

Grunting softly, I grabbed the Nirvana shirt and started pulling the gown off. Every movement was an effort. The gown thankfully slipped off with some ease. Now it was time for the shirt.

My shoulders screamed. My ribs protested. I groaned and winced my way through it, but eventually, I got the shirt on and slumped forward, exhausted.

“Got it?” Pirate called from the bathroom.

“Got it,” I panted.

A moment later, he stepped out of the bathroom and took one look at me.

“Looks like you need a good ten-hour nap,” he chuckled.

“Make it twelve,” I muttered and leaned back on my hands.

He dropped to his knees again in front of me and grabbed my Chucks. He slid them on with practiced ease and laced them up. When he was done, he sat back on his heels and smiled up at me.

“Let’s get you home and in bed, baby.”

That didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.