Battered Not Broken (12 page)

No response.

When she faced the living room, he was in the same position as before, his eyes still closed. She was about to turn away and visually inspect the kitchen floor for any remaining pieces of glass when his lips moved.

No sound escaped, but she could read the word he was mouthing –
thanks
.

A wave of alarm that felt almost like nausea rolled through her belly. Did he even realize he hadn’t spoken out loud? It didn’t seem so, and the realization made her feel like she’d plunged into cold water.

She’d expected to share dinner with him, maybe taste the lingering spice from their meal on his lips. Standing in his apartment and wondering if he was fully conscious left her feeling distinctly as if she were in over her head. The walls almost seemed to draw closer together as uncertainty bubbled inside her.

“Ryan?” She took a few tentative steps toward the couch. The final floor inspection could wait – he didn’t look like he’d be getting up any time soon, and he still had his shoes on.

When she reached the couch, she settled down beside him.

The sight of him sitting slumped and seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d said his name was infinitely more intimidating than watching him knock somebody out cold with a single punch in the ring. On one hand, her instincts urged her to get closer – to make sure that he was okay. But on the other, seeing him so subdued by something she couldn’t control was frightening.

What if he didn’t want her to get close – what if he didn’t want her to bother him?

Trusting her first instincts, she reached for one of his hands and grasped it.

His thick fingers trembled inside her more slender ones, sending little shivers of anxiety through her. She maintained her hold, as if she could somehow absorb the affliction that was shaking him.

Maybe it worked, or maybe the passage of time and the effects of whatever pills he’d taken were to be credited, but after twenty or so long minutes, he opened his eyes.

His blue eyes were dulled by an uncharacteristic haze that more or less erased what relief Ally had felt when he’d opened them. Still, he met her gaze. “Sorry. I didn’t know – I mean, I can’t predict when this is going to happen.” He motioned briefly toward his head as his words tumbled out, slightly slurred.

“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, my aunt gets migraines – I know they’re unpredictable and can be intense.” Her words were a show of courage that she didn’t really feel. In reality, what he was experiencing seemed more extreme than what she’d seen Elsa deal with. That fact was magnified by the knowledge that he probably had a pain tolerance a hundred times greater than Elsa’s.

He nodded, then grimaced as if it had hurt, which it probably had.

Ally rose from the couch. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to use your restroom if that’s okay.” She didn’t wait for his reply, or ask him where it was – she didn’t want to trouble him and there were only two doors to choose from, anyway.

She guessed correctly. The door to the left opened into a small bathroom that featured a sink, toilet, narrow closet door and a shower stall. She pulled the door shut behind herself as softly as she could, remembering that her aunt’s headaches were sometimes worsened by loud or sudden noises.

A minute later, a noise that was both loud and sudden resounded throughout the apartment. She jumped, splashing warm water all over the front of her jacket.

“Fuck!” A strangled expletive followed the bang that had startled her.

Without pausing to dry her hands, Ally hastily shut off the faucet and reached for the doorknob.

Chapter 7

When she emerged from the bathroom, Ryan wasn’t resting on the couch anymore. Instead, he was slumped on the kitchen floor, by the end of the small island countertop that divided the kitchenette from the living room. He’d pressed a palm flat against the side of his head and was muttering curses under his breath.

Ally hurried to him, a blend of adrenaline and wariness coursing through her veins. By the time she crouched beside him, redness had begun to well between his fingers.

“You’re bleeding.” She tried to keep her voice soft, for his sake, though it came out a little more strained than she’d meant it too.

Before she could say or do anything else, he rose, standing on unsteady feet.

“You need to sit back down.” A smudge of redness glared bright and stark from the corner of the counter, where he’d hit his head. If he didn’t get off his feet, he’d probably fall again. Gathering every last bit of her willpower, she gripped him by his free arm and did her best to guide him in the direction of the couch.

The way he growled another curse word under his breath and the way his hard muscles shifted beneath her grip made it feel as if she were trying to wrangle a pissed-off lion. Maybe an MMA fighter with a migraine was basically the same thing.

When they reached it, he sank down at her urging with a sound of frustration.

“Wait right here,” she said in her best assuring tone, struggling to mask the fact that she didn’t know what the hell she was doing. “I’m going to get a towel.”

She hurried to the bathroom and opened the narrow closet next to the shower. Thankfully, there was a small stack of towels inside. A very small one, but she grabbed one anyway. He could worry about how he’d dry his hands later – right now, he needed something to stanch the flow of blood from his head.

Fortunately, when she emerged from the bathroom, he hadn’t moved from the couch.

“Here.” She wielded the towel like a shield as she approached him. “For your head. If you’ll just move your hand…” Her stomach gave a weird little twist at the thought of seeing how bad the damage was. She prayed it wasn’t severe enough that he’d need to go to the hospital, though maybe he’d be better off there than in his apartment under her inexpert care.

When he dropped his hand, blood surged forward and began streaking down his forehead.

It was difficult to assess the wound with the red mess in the way, so she pressed the towel against his head, where the counter’s sharp corner had cut him at his hairline, just above his left temple. As gently as she could manage, she blotted the blood away.

When she lifted the towel, it revealed a gash that was maybe three quarters of an inch long. Width-wise, it was narrow, but she couldn’t really tell how deep it was. The blood welled too quickly to gauge depth – a common problem for head wounds.

“I’m no expert, but you might want to think about stiches,” she said, pressing the towel against his skull again.

“No. No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Are you sure? I could drive you. You have to be in so much pain.” She hated to nag, but worry was turning her blood cold. What if he needed medical attention more badly than she realized – what if she was being stupid by not making sure he received it?

And what if she was overreacting and making him angry? She hated the thought of adding unnecessarily to his misery.

“I’m sure. I’ve got butterfly bandages in the medicine cabinet.” He said it like that settled everything.

Still, worry ate away at her from the inside. Had he been hurt like this before? She was gripped by the urge to run her fingers through his hair, searching for any tell-tale lines of scar tissue that might answer the question. Instead, she gripped the towel a little more tightly as she continued doing the only thing that seemed like a surefire way to help – blotting away the blood that kept seeping from his wound. It was a good thing she’d never been one to feel faint at the sight of the stuff.

After a few minutes, her nervousness lost its manic edge. The bleeding had slowed significantly. “If you can hold the towel against your head, I’ll go look for those butterfly bandages.”

His fingers fumbled over hers as he took over towel-holding duty.

When she was sure he had a steady hold on it, she withdrew her own hand and headed for the bathroom.

The bandages were right where he’d said they would be, in the cabinet behind the mirror above the sink. She grabbed the box and found that it had already been opened. The thought of him falling with no one around and having to patch himself up made her feel devastatingly hollow, as if the bottom had fallen out of her stomach. Was that where the first few bandages had gone? According to the count on the outside of the box, he’d already used about half of them.

With her pulse fluttering and thoughts whirling, she pulled one bandage out and carried it back to where Ryan waited on the couch.

“Let me see that towel.” Before doing anything with the bandage, she took the towel, dampened it with warm water from the kitchen faucet and dabbed his wound clean. Hopefully, that would be enough – she hadn’t seen any antibacterial ointments or other disinfecting products in the cabinet.

After patting the cut dry, she removed the backing from the butterfly bandage and painstakingly positioned it at what was hopefully an optimally effective angle. “All done.”

He breathed a sigh, his eyelids fluttering. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She practically mauled the inside of her lower lip as she stood there in front of him. What the hell was she supposed to do next? The thought of leaving him alone and half-conscious on the couch was as bitter as cyanide. “Was there something you wanted from the kitchen?” Presumably, he hadn’t tried to make his way out there for the fun of taking a stroll.

“A glass of water.”

No wonder he was thirsty. A fine sheen of sweat shone on his forehead – not surprising after the agonizing and stressful hour he’d just experienced.

“I’ll get it for you.”

In the cupboard above the kitchen sink, she found a tumbler just like the one that had broken when he’d dropped it. She filled it halfway with water from the tap before returning to him.

He took the glass from her hand, his fingers creating friction as they brushed hers. He didn’t drop the glass this time, but finished it in a few quick swallows.

“More?” she asked, working the glass free from his tight grip.

“No.”

After returning the glass to the counter beside the sink and finally giving the kitchen floor a final visual inspection, she was left with absolutely no idea what to do next.

Ryan rested on the couch, his head tipped back and his eyes shut. What if the flimsy butterfly bandage she’d used to seal his wound didn’t hold up? Or what if he tried to rise again and hurt himself? After what had just happened, no nightmare scenario she imagined seemed too extreme. How could she possibly know what was best to do? No date she’d ever been on had turned into anything like her current situation.  But one thing was clear – she couldn’t just leave him.

After removing her cell phone from her jacket pocket, she composed a quick text message to her mother, letting her know that everything was all right and not to expect her home any time soon. Then, taking a deep breath, she returned to the living room.

Walking up to the couch had her more worked up than she usually felt when approaching a fighting ring. Her nerves vibrated like a tightly-strung wire as she sank onto the cushion beside Ryan, whose heavy breathing seemed to indicate he was asleep.

When she reached out and gripped one of his hands, his fingers shook inside hers. For a few moments, anyway. The longer she held his hand, the more subtle the trembling seemed to become. When it finally stopped, she breathed a sigh she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in.

Exhaustion pounced on her like a feral cat, dragging her eyelids down over suddenly dry eyes. She gripped his hand a little more tightly, willing herself not to let go. If he tried to leave the couch, she’d feel his movement and wake up. That thought comforted her as she succumbed to exhaustion, allowing her head to loll against the back of the couch and her thoughts to unravel into a haze of mixed worry and relief.