Chapter 4: Harley

Now’s not the time to barf all over the pretty man, Harley.

Taking a deep breath in through my mouth and releasing it via my nose, I prepare myself for what lies beneath his shirt as I lift it all the way so it settles beneath his armpits.

There is a puncture wound on the left side of his abdomen about 3 inches in length. It looks irritated and sensitive, and there is a faint black discoloration on the ridges of the cut. That doesn’t look normal.

Kneeling next to the sofa, I lay what I suspect I’ll need on the floor beside me so I don’t have to unnecessarily rummage around in the first-aid kit.

I realize with dismay that I don’t have surgical gloves or alcoholic wipes. Shit, how am I going to avoid him getting an infection?

My mind is made up when I spot a bottle of vodka on the shelf above my fridge. That’s how they clean wounds in the movies, right? He hasn’t moved an inch since I plopped him down, but his breathing is steady, causing me to sigh with relief.

I place two fingers over his carotid artery (or where it should be) in the hopes of finding a steady pulse. The only thing, though, is that I can’t seem to find the constant rhythm of how one’s heart beats. Frantically, I switch to the other side of his neck, hoping that my high school biology teacher had taught us the wrong area and placement for our fingers.

No such luck. Fuck!

Okay, breathe, Harley. No need to panic and light up the bat signal. Not yet, at least.

Choosing to ignore his lack of a pulse, I unscrew the vodka bottle, taking a large gulp to fortify my nerves before I play doctor with the giant in my living room. Next, I pour a generous amount over his wound, making his stomach muscles contract. That must be a good sign. A dead body wouldn’t have reflexes, right?

I keep the open bottle next to me in case I need it again as a disinfectant or a cure for my nerves. Better safe than sorry.

Using cotton pads, I clean around the wound first before lightly brushing over the gash itself so a majority of the blood is gone. Has his wound shrunk in size? I could have sworn it was three inches a few minutes ago. Now, it’s closer to two inches.

Smearing some anti-biotic cream around the wound’s smooth edges, I get lost in the feel of his silky skin against my fingertips. There’s a warmth that emanates from him that calms my soul somehow. What would it feel like to run my hands over every inch of his glorious body?

I cover the wound with large waterproof bandages and then sit back to assess my handiwork. Happy that the area is clean and no signs of blood remain, I clean up around me before standing up and throwing all the bits and pieces away in the kitchen garbage bin.

I walk back over to him and decide to remove his shirt, rationalizing it as my not wanting him to wake up in a blood-drenched shirt, effectively causing him to be uncomfortable. Slipping the buttons through their holes slowly but carefully, his golden skin is revealed to me inch by magnificent inch. Lord, have mercy on my ovaries.

Because he is lying on his back, slipping his sleeves off is a bit of a mission, but my momma didn’t raise a quitter. It finally comes free after several lifting, pushing, and pulling attempts. The shirt is ruined and gets thrown into the garbage bin, too. If he insists, I’ll buy him a new one.

I place my hand against his forehead to see if he has started running a fever. Luckily, his skin is not clammy, and some of his coloring has also returned. Slipping his shoes off, I grab one of my throw blankets from the back of my lazy boy recliner and drape it over the lower half of his body.

I run upstairs, jump through the shower, and get comfortable in my flannel short-sleeved pj’s before returning downstairs. Staying by his side till he wakes up does two things: I get to make sure his condition doesn’t deteriorate suddenly, and I can make sure he doesn’t wake up and play Hamburglar with my things.

Sitting in the recliner across from him, I pull up my legs to sit cross-legged. My latest vampire smut novel lays ready on the side table, and I pick it up to continue where I left off. Every few paragraphs, my gaze slides over to him, ensuring his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

The alcohol in my system has burnt off due to the adrenaline of saving a man’s life, so it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open. Common sense dictates I don’t fall asleep with a strange man in my house, but try telling that to my ever-increasing tired eyes.

Eventually, my body loses its fight with sleep, and I nod off with my head slumped backward, dead to the world.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Awareness seeps in through a hazy fog of alcohol-induced and life-saving exhaustion. The marching band in my head makes me groan, and when I attempt to open my eyes, the bright sunlight attacks my eyeballs like a K9 police dog does a perpetrator who tries to flee a crime scene. Fuck, I’m never drinking again until I’m at least 79.

I'm sitting back, deciding if I have to open my eyes today. It is my day off, so going into the store is unnecessary. And if I need to go to the bathroom and kitchen, I can always crawl there with closed eyes. Nothing weird about that – there’s no one else here to judge me in my crazy moment.

But then it hits me like a freight train. I do have someone else in my house.

The fact that he didn’t wake in the night and killed me in my sleep is a definite positive. If I open my eyes right now, will he be standing over me with a kitchen knife, ready to fillet me?

Deciding to bite the bullet, I slowly open my eyes one at a time. The sight that awaits me makes my breath catch.

My houseguest is sitting upright on the sofa, looking, no, staring at me with his arms crossed over his chest. His very manly, defined, chiseled chest. Sigh.

His brows are drawn down, scowling at me. What’s his problem?

“Good morning; I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” I feebly attempt to break the awkward silence that hangs in the room like the stench of piss in the public bathrooms of a truck stop.

“Who the hell are you?” he growls (literally growls) at me, making my hackles go up like a cat in the vicinity of a dog.

“I’m the fucking woman who saved your goddamn life last night. So, instead of being a douche and demanding answers from me, why don’t you try saying thank you.”