chapter 4

*Now’s not the tme 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.”