Cash (The Henchmen MC 2)

I made the top landing what felt like an hour later, slumping slightly forward and deep breathing through the pain. Reassuring myself that the pain meds would kick in before I knew it, I pushed down the hall past the open door to the bathroom and to the only other door upstairs. I squished the knowledge that that meant I was going to be sleeping in the master bedroom, in Cash's bed, and forced myself to step into the doorway.

Well then.

That was how you did a bedroom.

The walls were a deep brown, all the trim and ceiling painted a soft beige. The mammoth California king bed was on top of a high dark (almost black) wood platform with matching headboard. There were extra pillows for overnight guests (of which, I was sure he had many) and the comforter was a crisp white seersucker material that made me want to bury underneath it and never come out.

“Kick outta those shoes,” Cash said, back turned to me as he looked inside his closet. Dumbly, without any other option, I kicked out of my shoes. Cash turned, moving toward me, an oversize oatmeal-colored thermal bunched up in his hands. Without even explaining, he stopped in front of me and pushed it over my head, reaching for my hands and guiding them into the sleeves. I was too stunned to even think about brushing him away to do it myself. That was, until his hands pulled the material down my torso and his fingers moved to my button and zip.

“What are you doing?” I half gasped, half yelped, trying to brush his hands away.

But they stayed put and his gaze lifted to mine. “Baby, just let me fucking help you, okay?”

Knowing leaning down to push my pants down would be nothing short of excruciating and having someone willing to help me would save me a lot of pain and frustration, well, it didn't leave me room to argue.

Seeing my decision made, he ducked his head again and his hands slipped slightly into my waistband as he pushed the button through. The brush of his fingers against my belly had a slight tremble moving through my body and I prayed he didn't feel it. But then his gaze lifted to mine, questioning, searching, and I knew he did. He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it, and ducked his head again. He pushed down the zip and his hands moved to my hips, grabbing my jeans and pulling them down carefully, watching as if not sure if there were any injuries anywhere else.

When he had my jeans down to my knees, his fingers brushed over my thighs that were somehow bruise-free. “Thank fuck,” he murmured to himself.

“What?” I asked, watching the top of his head.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head, and pulling my feet out of the legs. “Come on, sweetheart, let's get you in bed,” he said, touching my hip and gently pushing me forward.

By the time I got myself under the blankets and into a position that didn't hurt, the drugs were making the throbbing and stabbing sensations completely dull and making my eyes get heavy. The blankets got pulled up under my chin and tucked gently under my shoulders. The bed depressed and my eyes fluttered open to see Cash sitting off the edge, looking down at me. His hand moved toward my face, hesitated, then stroked through my hair instead. Even half-numb from whatever heaven-sent drugs Cash had given me, I felt a tingle spread across my scalp.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked, his voice quiet. I made some kind of murmuring sound that he took for agreement and pressed on, “The fucker didn't rape you, did he?”

The word sent a jolt through my body and Cash's hand froze its stroking of my hair. “No,” I said, the word firm, a little horrified.

“Didn't think so,” he said to himself, brushing through my hair and I had to fight to keep my eyes open. “Sleep, baby.”

“'Kay,” I heard myself say and my eyes drifted closed easily.

Just before sleep claimed me, I heard a low chuckle. “I think I like you better all drugged-out complacent,” he mumbled, but I was too tired to yell at him, so I didn't.–I woke up slowly, my body feeling sluggish, my brain feeling like it was wading through mud to get a thought to form properly. My eyes opened, squinting at the near-darkness of the only vaguely familiar room and I moved to bolt upward, disoriented. The stab through my ribs had me yelping loudly, as I lie back down and brushed a stray tear off my cheek.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” I whimpered, the pain returning fast and furious, taking me by surprise and completely overwhelming me.

A light flicked on and I turned my head to see Cash leaning against the doorjamb. “Waking up is the worst,” he said quietly, pausing before he moved into the room. “Drugs wear off?”

“Everything hurts,” I admitted, surprising myself more than him. That wasn't something I did, sharing how I was feeling, not even when I was hurt. I didn't do that. It was admitting weakness.

At my words, his face fell slightly and I wished I could suck them back in and see the jovial, carefree Cash again. “I ordered food,” he admitted, surprising me. “You want to take a shower first?”

God, how did he guess so right so easily?

“Yeah,” I admitted, clenching my teeth and getting up out of bed.

“Easy,” he said, reaching for me when I swayed on my feet. “You ain't gonna impress me by being all badass so take your time.”

I flashed my eyes at him though inside, I was grateful. I followed him into the hall and through to the bath and watched as he rummaged around in his linen closet and pulled out: two towels (yes, two, as if he knew I would need one to wrap my hair up in), a toothbrush in its packaging, a brush, a small basket full of first aid supplies, and a spare t-shirt that would work as a dress despite how tall I was.