Page 107 of Pretty Mess

I rise and grab the shampoo. “Shall I do your hair?” I say, and his eyes fly open, his gaze startled as if he’d been dreaming.

“Gently,” he tells me very solemnly.

I hide my smile. “You’re the boss.”

I squeeze a glob out and then reach up to run my soapy fingers through his hair. He bends slightly so I don’t strain myself, and I start to massage his head. I’m careful, but he yelps with pain as I touch one area.

“Shit. Sorry.”

He captures my fingers, giving them a gentle squeeze. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Is that where you hit your head?”

He nods. I part the strands, and he holds very still. It’s almost like tending to a wild animal who permits touch after a lot of cajoling, but you’re left with the feeling it might rip your head off at any moment.

There’s an abrasion and a big lump on his scalp, and I wince in sympathy. “I won’t touch here,” I promise. “Do you trust me to do the rest?”

“Of course I trust you,” he says.

His body tenses as though he might not have wanted to admit that, but I ignore it, wanting to do this quickly because he’s tired and in pain. By the time I rinse the shampoo away, he’s swaying on his feet, looking a little green.

“Out now,” I say briskly, stepping out and grabbing a towel.

I wait with my hand outstretched as he steps gingerly out, and his mouth quirks into a half smile. “What are you actually planning to do if I fall? I’m taller than you and outweigh you.”

“I just want to make sure you don’t knock into my TV,” I say earnestly, just to see him smile. He obliges but then winces. I tsk. “Okay, enough banter out of you.”

“Out ofme?”

I dry him gently, rubbing the towel over him, mopping up the moisture, careful of the bruises on his pale skin. Then I step back. “Done. Let’s get you into bed.”

“Bed?” he echoes.

“Yes, dear. It’s the big thing in the bedroom with a mattress and sheets on it. You can’t miss it.”

He tries a glare, but it’s a pitiful thing. “I’m going home.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Oh no, you’re not.”

He eyes me interestedly. “You’re going to stop me?”

“To be honest, my grandma could manage that tonight.”

His eyes flicker with humour. “Planning to call her?”

“Only with the aid of a medium. She died fifteen years ago. I think even a ghost could take you down tonight, though.”

“You might be right.”

“I’m always right.” I gesture. “Into the bed with you. Spit spot.”

He slinks off, muttering under his breath, but I don’t miss his pleased sound when he climbs onto the bed, relaxing slowly back against the pillows with a pained wince. His hair is inky black against the white linen. I pull the covers over him, watching him snuggle into them.

“Do you want a painkiller?”

His eyes open. Even the blue is faded tonight. “The hospital gave me some stuff.”

“Where is it?”