I threw my entire attire (sans shoes) in the fireplace in my room, that's hot enough to burn the entire house, before I went in the bathroom to clean off Lucas' blood off my body. I didn't leave the shower until I was red as a tomato from scrubbing him off.
I didn't know how it happen but I had manage to bring him to his room successfully without suspicious and concerned looks from the help. Daphne, however, stepped in front of us when we were about to take the stairs and asked if I wanted help. Lucas, with all his strength left, shooed her with a dismissing hand.
When Lucas was settled on his bed in one of the guest rooms, he groans in relief as his body relaxed on the soft mattress. I debated if I should remove his clothes and change him into something cleaner, but my pride didn't stoop that low to let me. So I just let him rest and promised to call Sigmund immediately. Immediately was a good thirty minutes since I left Lucas' room. I mean I took my time in the shower and I knew Lucas would survive that thirty minutes.
I picked up my phone to call Sigmund. The devil on my shoulder tells me to wait another fifteen before I call, but even I'm not that cruel.
"Miss Santelli," Sigmund answers on the first ring. Good that we still have respect in order around here. I hear the muffled traffic in the background like Sigmund was either inside a building or a cab. "Funny that you called. I was just about to email Lucas for your follow-up. How are you?"
"I've been better, Sigmund. Thank you." I step inside my WIC, in a robe and plush slippers, picking out a casual attire since the day is far from over for me to choose a nightie. "I called about Lucas."
Sigmund chuckles from the sound of Lucas' name. "How is that boy? Still stubborn, I bet."
"You can say that," I agreed, remembering exactly how hardheaded he was when he I told him to step away from the dummy. Look what happened. "There was a situation and I shot him on his thigh."
"You what?" Sigmund snapped.
"It was friendly fire," I pointed. "He stood in front of the dummy and told me to shoot."
"But I thought you're not well enough to shoot, Caterina."
"I told him exactly that, Sigmund. But he refused to listen."
"Is he okay now? Why didn't you call me immediately?" I get Sigmund's worry. He's the De Marchi's doctor for a very long time and I think he sees Lucas as his own child.
"He's in his room," I said. "I took the bullet out and stitch him up myself. The bleeding stopped but I need you to treat the possibility of an infection."
I heard him curse under his breath. "You should've called me, Caterina." Ms. Santelli, I wanted to correct him but I bit my tongue and reminded myself that it was Sigmund who saved my life when I was dying on the surgical bed.
"I told him you were still in Mexico," I admitted. The truth is, Sigmund isn't in Mexico. He was here in New York for two weeks. I might have let him in on my company as the legal and head surgeon. Yesterday one of the patients needed surgery after cutting himself with a shard of glass from the plate a careless staff left in his room unattended. The staff was fired immediately and I didn't have the luxury to seek a doctor who wouldn't drag the rehab's image down. So I called Sigmund, made him an official staff and made him swore silence to whatever he knows and hears in the facilities. The only reason why I told Lucas that Sigmund was in Mexico was, well, I wanted to be the reason why he squirms in pain. It was therapeutic if you come to think of it.
"You lied to him," he pointed.
"Technically," I admitted. "But he's fine now. He's stable. The wound is clean, the bullet is out. And he's peacefully sleeping in one of my guest bedrooms even though he bled like a pig in my basement. No one bleeding gets out alive in my basement, Sigmund."
I can hear the disbelief in Sigmund's scoff and but I let it go, knowing how far I'd go for something that I want. And Lucas begging for my name was exactly what I wanted.
Twenty minutes later, Sigmund appears on the front steps wearing a long coat, a fedora and holding a brief-case looking bag like we were in a Sherlock film. I suddenly felt underdressed with my skinny jeans and green crop top as I personally welcome him in.
"I'm sure he's still alive when I get inside the room," Sigmund says as he steps inside the foyer. He looked pissed, like I'd expected, but amused at the same time. "I always thought you're a reckless lass, but I never taken you as crazy."
"Good evening, Sigmund," I smirked. "I can accept crazy, but Lucas is the stupid lad who decided to step in front of the dummy I was shooting." If I'm a good hostess, I'd offer him a drink from the kitchen, maybe take his jacket off and hang it on the rack by the entrance, but I'm not. A hostess nor a good person. And I reckon that Sigmund isn't the one who'd join the facade of bullshits. So I take the stairs instead, knowing full well that he'd be following behind me and immediately tend to Lucas.
Lucas had his eyes close when Sigmund and I entered the room. His forearms resting on his forehead, on his back, his chest bare, perfectly chiseled like an old statue. I wanted to jump on top of him if it weren't for Sigmund being with us. I didn't even care that he was injured. He still wore the slacks he did earlier, with a huge rip on the thigh, the fabric probably dried with blood. I knocked twice on the open door to let him know there was company. He groans and sighs deep like he was annoyed.
"I'm not hungry, Da—" he stopped mid-sentence after he removes his arms and saw that it was us. I try not to twitch with Lucas' unfinished sentence. I'm tired, but I wasn't stupid. That wretched bitch, trying to take what's not hers. I reminded myself to put her in place when I have the opportunity. "Sigmund." Lucas frowns, trying to sit up, but the doctor stopped him.
I shut the door behind me, locking it in case Daphne decides to parade inside like she owns the place. Sigmund goes around the bed, sets his bag on the floor and sits by Lucas' leg. The latter eyes me accusingly, perhaps calculating in his mind how Sigmund was here so quick. I smiled at him proudly.
"Let's see that wound, shall we?" Sigmund asks, then peeks at the tattered fabric. He hissed when he saw my masterpiece. "That must have hurt."
"Like a fucking bitch," Lucas agrees, still staring at me, his jaw tightening. I take the chair by door, decided patiently that I would wait even though I'd kill for a class of wine. But no, I'll stay like a devoted soon-to-be wife. Like I wasn't the one who shot the man lying on the bed.
"Quite an impressive stitch you did, Ms. Santelli," Sigmund praised. Oh so we're back to being formal now?
"In my line of work, I had to learn."
"What did you disinfect it with?" Sigmund asked, examining the flesh.
"Whiskey," I answered nonchalantly, raising an eyebrow at Lucas before I snapped my attention to Sigmund.
"Whiskey," Sigmund echoes, snapping his head at me and glasses at me like I just didn't stop Lucas from bleeding with my process. "That's quite unsanitary."
"You gotta work with what you have."
Sigmund was about to answer but Lucas' voice came first. "Mari," he called. "Why don't you get Sigmund something to drink while he cleans the wound again."
"He doesn't need to, though," I argued. "The wound is at clean as they come."
"It's best we double check, Ms. Santelli."
I stare at them for a moment, waiting for Lucas to take back his order. I know that if I leave, they'll have a conversation about me I would never know about and I hate that. But Lucas mouthed a 'please' and I know that whatever it was he wanted to talk about, he didn't want me to hear.
"Fine," I signed, standing up from the chair. "What is it that you want, Sigmund? Coffee? Booze?"
"Coffee, please. Black. It's quite chilly out," Sigmund answers, taking his surgical tools out of his bag. I was about to leave when Lucas calls behind me.
"Bourbon for me, please, Mari."
I wanted to snap the door out of its hinges and throw it at both of them. But I take a deep breath instead, reminding myself of my goal. It'll all be over soon.
After slamming the door when I left the room, I stomp my way to the kitchen and told the help that was there to bring the men their drinks. Thankfully, it wasn't Daphne because if it was her, I'd let my steam out on her. I went to the Great Room, slump on a couch by the liquor table and lit a cigarette. Just one, I told myself. And one drink. Twenty minutes later, I finished the entire bottle of whiskey and smoke four sticks of nicotine, flipping emptily on a wedding magazine I've never seen before.
I woke again with a jolt. And a yelp as my body fall on the floor with a subtle thud, the magazine following a second behind, hitting my face. I grunt, rubbing my head. What time is it? I squint at the grandfather clock in the room and was surprised to see that it was a few minutes after twelve. How much did I drink? The answer was an empty bottle whistle on the floor above me and another half-empty glass of scotch on the coffee table. Jesus Christ, I thought. So much for trying to have one drink.
The house was quiet and faintly lit when I manage to gather myself and look around. Perhaps Sigmund has left already. Did he saw the way I was passed out drunk? I terribly hope not because that would be embarrassing. And disappointing, really.
I shake the thought away, putting the empty bottle of whiskey on the bottom of the liquor table before gather the strength to stand. Which was a bad idea, I realized a little too late, as my head spun like I just got off a roller coaster that has been spinning around and around for hours. Cursing under my breath, I grab the couch's arm for support and manage to take the stairs without falling backwards.
I groan, massaging the pain away from my head, smelling the musky scent of cigarette on my clothes and the faint whiskey on my breath.
Before, I didn't care that Lucas was in the house and in the room across from mine, but tonight, something urged me to go and check on him. Perhaps I wanted to check if Sigmund change the stitches. Or if Lucas was still alive. I mean two stitches in under an hour without proper anesthesia? God, that must suck. It's too much. The funny thing, though, is that I felt a breath of guilt since it was me who shot him. But the rational me reasoned that it was Lucas who stupidly decided to stand in front of the dummy.
I halt just outside his door, debating whether or not I should go in. Just check and go, my inner bitch hisses impatiently, perhaps wanting to lie on a bed and rest. So I grabbed the the knob, getting it over with, and pushed it down, the door clicked as it softly creaks open.
Lucas was soundly asleep, still on his back. His good foot dangle just off the mattress, his hand on his stomach, the other on his forehead. I can see his defined stomach, the V-line just below. The faint light from the lamp on the table illuminates his face; lips ajar, eyes twitching from whatever dream he's having. If he was beautiful when conscious, then he was serene when he's out. So calm and beautiful like a statue—what the fuck was I talking about? What was I even doing? I scoff to myself, stepped inside the room to turn off the lamp. I can hear his even breaths as I step closer, my bare feet touching the soft rag in the middle of the room. I smell whiskey in the room and the faint scent of blood and sweat and...man.
I shake my head, shooing the thoughts away and clicked the lamp off, the dim hallway light the room from outside. But not enough for me to see Lucas' face anymore.
"You better have all the rest you can get because I'm not marrying you if you have a limp on our wedding day," I mumble to myself as I make my way out of the room.
"I'll try my best," a groggy voice called, making me halt from taking the next step towards the door. I spun to face the bed, just in time to see the lamp come to life again.
Lucas stretches from his position to reach for the lamp with a struggling grunt. I know Lucas is a busy man. He's been handling his family business alongside his father since he was a teenager, but he's never looked this tired before; haggard with hollow spots under his bloodshot eyes. Perhaps he's never been shot by his fiancée before, I reasoned to myself. It sounded weird even in my head to call myself his fiancée. Suddenly the ring on my finger felt heavy. That wretched thing has been making itself comfortable around my finger that sometimes I forget that it's there. I crossed my arms across my chest to hide me fidgeting and turning the ring, like it was calming me down.
"You're still alive," I joked, rounding the bed and retreating from the door as I sat on the vacant space beside Lucas.
"Sorry to burst your bubble," he jests back, shaking his head as he reach for the glass of water on the bedside table. My eyes followed his hand and I saw the orange bottles of medication by the glass. I frowned and picked up the one nearest to me.
"It's for the pain and the other one is for the infection," he points, his voice low and quiet. Was that it? Was he trying to make me feel guilty? Well I would, but I can't help but remember the night I was like this, bleeding and in pain. And I remember the vow that I told myself that for whatever reason, I would make Lucas pay for signing the papers before me that led to my father pushing through with that wretched dinner. Perhaps this was the payback. At least he had someone with him.
"I know," I nodded, returning the bottle back on the table. "I was in your shoes, remember? Except I passed out in the middle of our engagement party."
Lucas chuckles, shifting to get a better spot. "You did."
"I hope Sigmund stays long. He's the only one who can stomach how messed up things are in the family."
"I pay him good money for that."
"You better get some rest," I suggested, changing the subject. I sigh deep before I pushed myself up from the bed. I need to leave before this goes somewhere I wouldn't want. And I so badly wanted to get out of this jeans, get rid of the dry taste of whiskey on my mouth and go to fucking sleep before I pass out from the pain of my throbbing head.
"I need to get to the bathroom," Lucas says just as I was about to turn around and run the other way. "I don't want to sleep on my own blood."
"You'll get used to it," I joked, whispering under my breath.
"I need your help," he admits. He slowly brings his legs on the side of the bed, struggling not to stretch the newly-sewn skin. I know it hurts like a bitch which is why I enjoyed watching him struggle a little. But if he was in serious pain, he didn't looked fazed at all. He still looked confident, like he knows what he's doing and the pain was just an ant's bite. "Are you going to help?" he calls when he notices me just staring at him like an idiot.
"Are you even allowed to take a shower?" I asked, crossing my arms across my shoulder and not moving an inch from where I was standing.
"Not for the next 48 hours but, I don't care as long as I get rid of the blood," he scoffs like I just said something stupid and he wasn't taking any of it at all. "And I'm sure it's fine. It'll hurt like hell but, I think I've reached it's worst today."
"Just rub a clean towel around your leg. You can shower tomorrow," I suggested.
"If you're not going to help me, Mari, you can leave." He shoos me with his hands and I wanted to pick up the pillow on the bed and throw it at him.
"Fine," I said, throwing my hand in the air defeatedly. Sighing, I take a step towards him on the bed and helped him on his feet, bringing his arm around my neck for support as he stands on his good feet. He tries his best, but I can tell that his leg was too much of a burden to even make a step. "Lean on me, Lucas. I can handle your weight." I said, scoffing a little because I didn't want him to feel like I'm suddenly concerned about his well-being. And lean on me, he did. And his weight—muscles and all—was not a fucking joke. He was heavy. Like a wheelbarrow of heavy cement. My small body shouldn't be able to handle it, but it did. Years of workout and training were finally put into good use.
Thankfully, the guest bathroom was dry because if it wasn't, I was sure we both would've slipped.
"This wasn't how I imagined me ending my day," I said as I let Lucas sit on the side of the tub.
"In sickness and in health, baby," he jokes, then grunts as he hits a sore spot.
"Don't push it," I warned. "Were not married yet. And remind me to cross that off my wedding vows." I turn the shower on, testing the water with my hands. It was cold, and a voice inside me calls to pull a joke on Lucas, tell him the water was good and he'd shiver from the cold shower. But the reasonable voice in me snarls, reminding me that he was already and pain.
Then something hit me like a lightning in the middle of an open field. I turn, and I watch him slowly as he undress, carful not to put any pressure on his wound. This was fucking bullshit. He knows it, I know it. He was pushing my buttons again, seeing how far I would go. He knows that I couldn't leave him to wash himself alone, and I also would not help him get into the shower.
"You really like to play, don't you, Lucas?" I said, crossing my hands against my chest, the shower running behind me. Lucas throws off his shirt on the floor, looking up at me slowly, amusement and seduction laced his eyes.
"What do you mean?" he asks innocently as he starts to unbutton his pants.
"Fuck, Lucas. None of that!" I called, pointing at his fingers on his bottoms to stop him from completely going commando in front if me. "I don't want to do this, okay? I'm tired. I'm drunk and I want to sleep."
"Mari," he stops me. "I told you to leave if you don't want to help me take a shower. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Can you stand on your own?" I asked.
"I can try," he answers.
"No, you can't," I said. "It'll hurt like hell. So, no, Lucas, a shower is not an option for you unless you want to actually crawl your way in. That, I'll happily stay to watch."
"Mari—"
"Shut up, Lucas," I interrupted, turning off the now hot shower behind me. Lucas frowns at me, but I ignore him. I paraded past him and walked towards the cabinet under the sink, grabbed a towelette and wet it with tap water. Is this how it feels like taking care of a child? If so, count me out. I have no patience for them. I wash the towel with soap, rinse it, and wring it dry. "Here," I said to Lucas, offering him the damp towelette. "Clean yourself up with this. It's your only option." He picks up the towel from my hand but didn't do anything with it. "Five minutes." I raised my hands in front of his face before I spun, close the translucent glass divider and storm out of the bathroom to find him a change of clothes.
Lucas is a neat man. His things are well folded in the drawers, all color coordinated like he was a fucking boy scout. I grab a gray shirt that I found on top of the pile and a pair of boxers from the top drawer. If he doesn't sleep with a boxer then he had no choice. He needed me, and this was me letting him need me.
I shut the drawer aggressively and the moment the room was rid of my cursing whispers, I hear the shower running. What the fuck? I stomp my way towards the bathroom, pissed as fuck, tired and just completely cranky from the lack of sleep.
Just as I thought. Lucas was bullshitting me.
Through the translucent glass, I can see Lucas' hazy outline under the shower, stark naked, scrubbing his hair as he supports himself with his good leg, the injured on stretching out to not get in the way. He hums lowly like he knew I was there and he was fanning the fire that is my temper.
"You son of a bitch!" I yelled. Grabbing the glass door handle, only to find it locked from the inside. Ugh! "You can play with me De Marchi, but not when I'm fucking sleep deprived! Not when I'm actually being nice to you!" There was no answer, instead, his humming only got louder. I growled under my breath and I kick the glass between us. I must be so tired that the glass didn't bulge. It only vibrates with the impact. Then water finally stops and I can make up Lucas drying his hair with a towel before wrapping it around his pelvis. I can see him limp his way out of the shower with zero need of support. He can walk and lied about it? He really likes to see my bad side. I can feel my face heating from the booze I drank earlier, and from anger that's now steaming out of my nostrils. Lucas reaches for the lock and the divider clicks before he pushed it to the side and it slides open.
He stares down at me and I felt my eyes twitch as I saw the obnoxious smirk on his face.
"Oh great," he smiles and eyes the things in my hands. "You brought me clothes."
Dear Lord, give the strength not to kick him down on his ass and plunge a finger in his stitched wound.
I hand Lucas his clothes like I was a polite little girl, and when he reaches for them, I let them drop onto the wet floor. Lucas snorts, shakes his head. Was he actually enjoying this? "I prefer to sleep naked, anyway," he says.
I growl at him, stopping myself from pouncing at him. Instead, I flip him the bird, turn the light off before I shut the bathroom door behind me. I grabbed two of his pillows and tossed them across the room with a scream. Grabbing his duvet, I dragged it with me as I leave his room.
He thinks he's so smart? We'll he'll be staying cold the rest of the night. Like I told him, a shower wasn't an option.