The Risks

May: Chapter 4

"Alright," he sighed. "You're going to have to take off the jeans."

And have some strange guy see me in my underwear? Ha! No. I glared at him.

"The wound needs cleaned and stitched and I can't do that if I can't see it clearly," he explained in a guarded and slightly impatient tone.

"Fine," I grimaced.

I first took off my shoes then, trying not to overthink it, I quickly shimmied out of my jeans. I felt my face flush, but he wasn't looking at my partial nakedness. In fact, he instructed me to press the hand towel against my leg as he stood and went back into the kitchen.

When he came back a moment later, he had a bottle of alcohol. He poured a plentiful amount into a washcloth and used it to clean the wound. I grimaced at the pain. After that I looked over my right shoulder, away from him working.

I could feel him stitching, but I refused to look. I felt that, somehow, looking would make the pain worse. I did my best to hold still and keep quiet, knowing that fighting it would make it worse.

After he finished, he sat back. One hand still sat on top of my thigh as he checked at the stitching. I wished he'd move it.

"It's going to scar," he said softly. I thought at first he'd said it to himself, bu then he glanced up at me.

I shrugged. Does it matter?

He removed his hand and pulled some gauze and bandaging from the medical kit. "It needs wrapped."

"Got it." I took the supplies from him and he left, shutting the door behind him.

My wrapping job was sloppy and not as tight as it probably should be, but it would do. Back on went my ruined jeans and the job was done.

In the kitchen, I placed the medical kit on the round kitchen table. He was sitting on the couch in the living room. I made my way to the chair opposite him and sat.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He had been sitting with his elbows on his knees with one hand hanging between them and the other next to his face, his thumb pressed against his pursed lips. He looked like he was seriously thinking, but I interrupted him with my question and he looked at me.

"Uh, my name's Parker," he said, sitting up.

"Did you follow me?"

He squinted in confusion. "What?"

"Did you follow me to the store?" I repeated, enunciating the words clearly and brusquely.

He kept his guarded, dark brown eyes on mine. "I was headed to that area, looking to supplies. I heard the struggle. I stepped in."

"Mm," I answered, unconvinced. It seemed ironic that he was heading to the same store as I was. Hadn't he seen that I was headed inthat direction when I fled the house? I rested my chin in my cupped hand, setting my elbow on my knee and suddenly realized I was mimicking his previous posture almost perfectly. My other hand rested on my lower back as I skimmed my thumb along the pistol's handle.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Claire," I told him, deciding it didn't matter if he knew my name or not.

"Can I ask you something, Claire?"

I looked at him.

"That pistol you've got behind your back, have you ever fired it before?"

I scoffed. "Yes."

"Before today?"

I pressed my lips together.