Chapter 3: Harley
To no one’s surprise, I do it.
I creep closer to the person who is obviously in a significant amount of pain. A lone dim bulb flickering over a door about five feet from the guy gives me just enough light to start making out some of his features.
Because it’s most definitely a him. Even slumped over, clutching his side, I can tell he is tall and muscular. His head is dropped forward, but he has inky black hair long enough to cover his eyes from this angle, so I can’t see his face.
He is dressed neatly – dark shoes, dark dress pants, dark dress shirt. Because of the lack of light, I can’t be sure if it’s all black or maybe midnight blue. Why does it matter, Harley? We’re not here as a judge for Project Runway.
“Are you okay?” I tentatively ask as I step closer. Of course, he’s not okay. Aren’t the moans of pain clear enough for you?
Taking a few more steps closer, I stop when I’m by his feet, which are stretched out in front of him. My eyes have adjusted enough to the limited light to see that his shirt is wet underneath the arm tightly clenched over his abdomen. Is that blood? He wouldn’t be writhing in pain if it was water, Harley.
He lifts his head in my general direction, but his eyes stay closed, and he grunts. If that is blood, he probably is losing consciousness. And judging by the large pool of it spreading on the ground underneath him, he won’t leave this alley without help.
I look around frantically but realize the street is too quiet to call someone for help. The nursemaid inside me also won’t allow me to leave this guy to his own devices, to most likely die in this dark and lonely alley. No one deserves that.
“Okay, buddy, I’m going to need your help,” I say, not caring that he probably isn’t coherent enough to comprehend a single word I’m speaking. “I’m going to help you up so we can walk to my house a few yards down the street.” Hopefully, explaining what I plan on doing will deter him from overreacting when he regains consciousness and finds himself in a strange woman’s arms.
My length and size have their advantages – like propping a behemoth of a man over my shoulder so we can walk side by side. But having so much alcohol in my system is counterbalancing those advantages, and I’m struggling to hold his weight and not stumble every few feet.
“Come on, you big lug. Stop being a pansy ass and carry some of your own weight.” Yes, I know it’s not nice of me to be mean to an injured man. But try to carry what I guess is a 250-pound pure-muscle titan on your own, and then come talk to me again.
Something in my tone must have clued him into my frustration because he suddenly gets a burst of energy, and some of his weight lifts. Thatta boy!
The trek home is slow-moving, but we eventually get there without too many swear words on my part. After traversing the walkway to my front door, I come to a disheartening realization. I need to heave his giant ass up three steps, prop him up against the doorway somehow so I can mine for my keys in my purse, unlock my front door, and then get him inside. All while causing him the least amount of pain. This should be interesting.
The walkway is semi-smooth sailing; even the steps cooperate with my mission. But when we reach the top, there is no space against the wall or even a pillar he can lean against. The front door it’ll be then.
I lean him back, and the back of his head thumps against the door. Oops. Keeping one hand on his chest to try and keep him steady, my other delves inside my crossbody purse, fishing around like a mom for her kid’s missing shoe at the bottom of a ball pit.
With a slight victory jiggle of my ass, I pull it out on the second go-around and slide it into the lock. But my commonsense deserts me, and I turn it before placing his arm back over my shoulders.
His weight against the door causes it to swing back, making him go with it. His arm shoots out instinctively and grabs onto mine, probably to steady himself. But due to my unsteadiness and his size, we go down like a house of cards in a tornado.
He lands on his back, hard, with me on top of him, my hands braced against his chest. His very manly, very defined chest. Yummy.
Focus, Harley!
Looking up at his face to see if he noticed me ogling him, my brain stutters to a standstill. Until now, due to the darkness and my concentrating on getting us home without faceplanting the sidewalk, I never really looked at his face.
But now, with the hallway light I left on earlier illuminating his face, I have no other brain function but to stare at him because he is gorgeous.
A strong jawline with a straight nose and high cheekbones a cover model would be jealous of complements his full, kissable lips. His complexion is a bit ashen, but I get the idea that his skin is a rich olive brown when healthy. Like he just returned from a yacht cruise in the Mediterranean, where he sunbathed on the deck the whole day sipping Mai Tais while being fanned by gorgeous Victoria’s Secret models. Note to self: investigate the cost of cruise packages.
His eyes are closed, so I can’t see what color they are, but if this were one of my smutty books, I’d imagine it to be an electric blue or an emerald green – something to offset the deep black of his silky hair.
Shaking my head to get back on track, I push myself into a standing position. Placing my hands on my hips, I scan my surroundings so I can decide my next step. Heaving his big body up my stairs is a no-go. With my luck, we’ll be two steps from the top before we stumble and fall back to the bottom.
The kitchen at the back of the house is too far away, leaving my three-seater couch in the living room off to my right. The sofa it is, then.
Nudging his legs away from the front door with my foot, I close and lock it. Anyone can pass by, and I have no desire to be spotted with an unconscious man lying in my entryway, blood soaking his shirt. I wasn’t made to be someone’s prison bitch.
Grabbing his wrists, I drag him backward towards the couch, thanking myself for putting in laminated flooring a couple of years back. Hauling an unconscious body over carpet would have been real inconvenient. And having a bleeding-out stranger in your house, isn’t Harley?
Before barrel-rolling him onto the couch, I run to the linen closet to grab towels to place underneath him. My leather couch will not be stained with blood, thank you very much.
By the time he’s eventually on the couch, I’m breathing loudly like a Pamplona bull run participant. Another note to self: investigate cardio classes at the local y.
I walk through the living room into the kitchen to get a glass of water and catch my breath, grabbing the first-aid kit from above the fridge on the way back to my patient in the living room.
True to my inherent air-headedness, combined with the alcohol in my system, it completely slipped my mind that I’m not the biggest fan of blood. I realize this when I slowly start lifting his shirt so I can assess the damage, suddenly feeling dizzy and queasy.
How the hell do I keep getting myself into these situations?