Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

I can hear the water running. It started five minutes ago at exactly five twenty-five. I hear it so clearly I may as well be lying on the bathroom floor. No way am I getting back to sleep.

To say that my nerves feel scraped raw is putting it lightly. Not only because I will be a wreck tonight when I sling booze until two am, but worse, all I can do as I lay here growing angrier by the second is picture water cascading down his stripper worthy body in slow-mo.

My ovaries are staging a near riot. My lady parts are meeting with their union leader, estrogen, ready to go on strike. For whatever reason, this turkey gets my juices running, something not a single other person has managed to accomplish in the last two and a half years. Go figure.

A loud crash intrudes into my filthy thoughts. Really loud. Curiosity and a touch of worry kick me into action. I jump out of bed and head for the bathroom door. With my ear smashed against solid wood, all I get is the sound of the shower running.

“Fancy? You okay?”

“No.”

I rip open the door and halt. Holy shite. The glass shower door is shattered, broken pieces everywhere, some of them on top of Vaughn who is standing in the middle of it clutching his bleeding hand.

“Don’t move,” I very calmly order.

In a flurry of activity, I run back to my room and shove on sweat pants and sneakers, then I run to Vaughn’s room and locate his. Once I’m back in the bathroom, I gingerly step over the broken glass scattered on the floor and reach into the shower to turn off the water still coming down on him. He’s shivering and the water is hot. I wrap Vaughn’s bleeding hand in a towel.

“I’m going to help you step into your sneakers and then we’ll get you dressed and go to the hospital. He remains quiet, nodding in understanding. This is not good. God help me if he swoons.

“Lean on me while I help get these on you.” I bend and help him step into his running sneakers, lace them tightly. Then I escort him out of the shower, where I locate a towel and wrap it around his waist.

Vaughn follows me into his room. “My sweats are on the top shelf in the walk in closet.”

I grab them and return to find Vaughn calmly sitting on the end of the bed, holding his now blood soaked towel close to his bare chest.

“Keep pressure on it,” I tell him as I help him get his sweatpants on. Next comes his zip up hoody. I hand him a clean towel to replace the blood soaked one and we head downstairs. All the while I keep a close eye on him, looking out for signs of potential swooning. I am screwed if that happens. No way can I handle two hundred pounds of dead weight.

After I help him with his down jacket, I grab mine and bolt outside to hail a cab with my wounded roommate in tow. The extreme quiet is starting to worry me.

“Lenox Hill emergency room. Take Park,” I bark at the cab driver, the adrenaline finally catching up with my mouth. The silent man next to me is unusually pale, his brow furrowed by pain. “Don’t faint on me. Okay? We’re almost there.”

His big brown eyes meet mine, his full lips edge up weakly. He gives me a small nod as we pull up to the emergency room entrance. I throw the driver a twenty and tell him to keep the change. Due to my grandmother’s condition, if it’s one thing I know it’s my way around a hospital. The waiting room is mostly full. I lead Vaughn to an empty seat. “I’ll take care of it. Let me.” His steady gaze holds mine for an amount of time I deem less than comfortable. Then he hands me his wallet.

Silent and serious, he holds my gaze until I walk away, headed for the check in desk, taking the uncomfortable moment with me.

“I had to give you two layers of stitches. The laceration was deep,” the young surgeon states in a perfunctory manner.

“At least, it’s his left hand,” I cheerfully throw out for consideration. Why does that sound dirtier than I intended? God knows this guy does not need to use his hand; he’s got women lining up for that honor.

“Make an appointment to see me in fourteen days to remove them,” adds the doctor.

“I’m supposed to leave for Florida tomorrow,” grumbles the patient. Vaughn’s color has returned. And with it, it brought a hella bad attitude. Sitting on the emergency room gurney, he takes the sweatshirt I hand him and shrugs off the hospital gown.

I am a sicko, a sick human being. Because what do I do? I stare. I stare so openly that I’m surprised I don’t have a cartoon bubble above my head of two people doing it doggy style. For the love of chests, the man is injured. He still has blood smeared on his abdomen and I’m ogling him like we’re at an all male burlesque. Classy.