Starlee's Home (The Wayward Sons 3)

“What happened?” Dex asks, pulling me close.

“A fight with his dad. It must have started with Charlie going to the tournament today and escalated from there. He’s got a bad cut, but he’s refusing to go to the hospital.”

“I brought a small first aid kit from the bathroom at home but didn’t want to risk getting the one from the kitchen. There’s a few things in there—ointment, gauze, Band-aids. But he’s probably going to need bigger bandages. Maybe one of those kinds that closes cuts. George used one of those before when he fell rock climbing.”

“And food,” I add. “They’ll be here for a few days.”

Dexter thinks about it. “You stay here. We’ll run to the store to get a few things.”

“Are you sure? I can go.”

“Stay with George. Charlie may need some talking down anyway.”

I nod. “Oh, take Leelee’s car and please clean out the back seat. There has to be blood on the leather.”

I fish my car keys out of my jacket pocket and hand them over just as Jake opens the cottage door.

“Get him in the shower,” I say. I need him cleaned up so I can see how bad the cut is. If it’s really bad, we’re going to the hospital if he likes it or not.”

Charlie helps him in the back and Jake takes him the bag of clothing. Charlie returns a few minutes later alone, pulling on a clean shirt. He’s also in new jeans that are slightly short at the ankles. They must be Dexter’s. “He’s got it. H

e’s doing a lot better now that he’s warmed up.”

Dexter nods. “Good. The three of us are going for supplies. Starlee is staying here just in case someone gets curious.”

They don’t hesitate, other than Charlie stopping to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Of course,” I say, not wanting to mention how many times they’d gone above and beyond for me. “Be careful.”

I lock the door behind them and take off my coat. I grab the first-aid kit, walking down the short hall to the bathroom door. I hear the shower running. I knock and call out, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, almost done.”

I wait for him, leaning against the wall, itching to go inside and check on him. Finally, I hear the squeak of the shower knobs turning and the water shutting off. The curtain scrapes against the rod and I say, “How does it look?”

“You can come see for yourself,” he replies. The door swings open and George stands in the opening, white towel wrapped around his hips. My eyes start there, at his waistline and travel up, along the hair leading to his belly button, over the cut abs and chest more defined from working out and football season. Water glides down his skin and over the scars from past accidents. When I make it past his jaw, then lips, to the wound on his temple I gasp, seeing the painful gash in his skin.

“That looks awful,” I say, clutching the first-aid kit. “Sit down so I can see it better.”

He lowers the toilet seat and sits on the lid. His eyes, ringed in red, watch me as I open the kit and pick through a few things, feeling clueless. “It’s not bleeding anymore,” he says. “Which may or may not be good. Sometimes head injuries just bleed a lot at first, making it seem worse than it is.”

I step forward between his legs, touching his chin and cheek. He grimaces. “I’ll be gentle,” I promise.

“I trust you,” he says.

His admission at a time like this makes my soul ache. I know how hard it is for him to say that about anyone. His hands move behind my legs, gripping tightly, and I inspect the wound. There are a few cuts—but I don’t see any glass—and although they may require a better bandage, none are deep enough for stitches. “How does it look?”

“Like you got hit in the head.”

He tilts his head, a little bit of the shine in his eyes coming back. “Can you put a little ointment on it and tape the gauze over it. Once the guys get back, I can strip it closed.”

I find the ointment and a Q-tip to spread out the gel. George hisses when I apply the goo, his thumbs pressing into the back of my thighs. I use my teeth to tear the tape and place a small pad of gauze over the wound, then tape it against his forehead. “I’m not sure that’s going to stick.”

“It’s better than nothing.” He leans his head back and I bend down, kissing him quick on the lips. He smiles weakly, the first time all night, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let me get some clothes on.”

My cheeks heat at the reminder that he’s nearly naked. “Good idea.” I gather up the kit and exit the room, giving him privacy.

I wait for him in the bedroom, the light dim, coming from a bedside lamp. When he walks in he’s still shirtless, hair damp and ruffled, the bandage holding. Gray sweatpants hang at his waist, Jake’s number and a football stamped on the hip. He doesn’t speak as he crawls into the double bed, patting the empty side. “Come here.”