The bourbon had a sweet sort of smell, though anyone could tell very potent alcohol lurked in that lovely amber coloring. I found two small juice glasses and poured a dash in mine and two fingers' worth in Ryan's. Not the same ambience as a shot glass, but functional.
"Bottle says it's barrel-aged, whatever that is. Bottom's up." I only sipped my dash.
Ryan chugged his two fingers and exhaled noisily. "Okay, Doc, let's get these butterflies in place."
It was not major surgery, but I was still tentative because I didn't want to press down on the sides of his wound.
"You're dragging it out, Kris, and it hurts more that way. Just press down one side of the strip, then pinch the cut slightly and anchor the other side. Quick as you can. Gimme another splash of that whiskey first."
I poured two more fingers and he threw it back as quickly as the first serving. "Ready?" I didn't wait for his reply. He groaned as I followed his instructions. A little more blood squeezed out from each end of the cut and I gently swabbed with a dry cotton ball. Two more Steri-Strips and I was done. I poured another dash of bourbon in my own glass and sipped again. It was too harsh for my taste. I liked my beer and enjoyed a little wine now and then, but 101 proof whiskey was too intense.
Ryan held up his glass again, so I poured two more fingers. We still had his forehead wound to doctor.
"I need you lying down for this next part." I realized how those words could sound out of context, so I added clarification. "To keep the peroxide and alcohol out of your eyes."
"Right." He looked around. "Where?"
"Couch, I guess, but let me get a towel down first." I hurried to the linen closet for my largest beach towel, a souvenir from an ill-fated trip to Memphis with the Weasel — before I discovered his lust was only for my credit cards. I held up the towel to get a feel for its size.
Ryan noticed the design. "Memphis! I never wanna see that place again!"
He was so emphatic, it startled me. Sounded like Memphis was also part of Ryan's untold long story. I placed the towel face down and motioned for him to move over to the couch. He wasn't terribly steady on his feet anymore. I guess those shots, totaling six fingers, might have been about a finger over his limit. He lay with his right arm facing out.
"Turn your head toward me a bit and let me clean this with peroxide."
When he did, Ryan suddenly looked sleepy.
I made a small dam with cotton to keep any liquid out of his eye. As I leaned across him to minister to the wound above his left temple, my chest was in the way again. Couldn't be helped. After I'd cleaned the wound with peroxide, I could see it was more of an abrasion than a cut. What blood there was had come from a smallish gouge where a sharp edge of that brick chunk had struck him. It was already swollen and I could imagine how it must hurt.
But Ryan didn't seem pained by my fingers around his forehead wound. In fact, he seemed completely preoccupied with my bosom so close to his face that he very nearly looked cross-eyed.
In my expert medical opinion his head wound wouldn't need alcohol, so I dabbed it with a dry cotton ball and leaned back slightly. My knees were on the floor next to the couch.
His face looked funny. No, not humorous. Funny like he was about to do something. What? Couldn't imagine. Slowly his left hand moved from his side and clasped my right bicep. I inhaled sharply, but didn't move. His face looked so funny. He appeared drowsy, but also amorous, usually not a good mix. I felt pressure from his hand like he was pulling me toward him. I didn't resist. It seemed like slow motion as my upper body joined his upper torso. My head was buried just below his left collar bone and his left arm had slipped around my lower back.
My mind had questions and I strained to formulate corresponding words. Did he want to kiss me? Grope me? Make love? Of course, I asked myself the very same questions. I mean, my flesh still tingled from when his forearm had brushed back and forth earlier. I'd figured he hadn't even been aware of it, but maybe…
I pulled back enough to take a look at his face because whatever I had to say needed some eye contact. His left arm slid down from my back and rested near my derrière. I was beginning to think I knew what his answers would be. Then I took a closer look.
Ryan was asleep! There my hormones were crackling like hot buttery popcorn and he was about to start snoring! Despicable brigand!
As I watched Ryan doze, I sat back on my haunches and tried to regain control of my breathing. I thought we were about to engage in something I'd nearly forgotten about. Well, not forgotten, but figured it was permanently forfeit. Oh, not really forfeit. I mean, I still possessed the possibility of those delicious sensations, but I'd kept them stowed up on a high shelf in a darkened room. They needed some heavy dusting to be operable again. And, for a few luxurious seconds, I'd thought Ryan might just be the man to dust them.
But he fell asleep! If I ever had another chance at this, I'd definitely cut back on the bourbon. The new guy in town couldn't hold his liquor. I sighed heavily and rubbed my palms on the denim of my upper thighs. Oh, Ryan, Ryan.
As I studied his sleeping form I realized we should have taken off his bloodied T-shirt before I worked on his arm cut.
Through that thin, tight tee I watched his muscular chest rise and fall slowly. His nipples were clearly erect. Hmm. I pondered what that meant with men — maybe he was simply chilly. But it made me wonder if anything else was, uh, irregular. I was tempted to take a peek, but didn't. Why? Because if I'd fallen asleep on his couch, I wouldn't want him peering under my clothes.
There — my fifteen seconds of nobility. But I was still curious. I realized some folks would think poorly of me for even considering visual investigations, but it wasn't like I'd robbed any graves!
Well, any good Greene County hostess would at least blot up the blood which soaked through from the arm wound. His shirt was too tight to raise enough to view his chest, but while it was up as far as it went, I couldn't help but check on those abs. Hmm. Flat, though not overly defined. Nice, without being obsessively managed. I put three very absorbent paper towels between his ribs and the inside of the bloody tee. Good job, Nurse Kristen. After a final long look, I laid down his shirt front.
Then I located a bottle of disinfectant spray and gave the stain a few squirts. I didn't know if it would work on blood, but it was my good housekeeping duty to try.
I sighed heavily and wished he was awake. Maybe.
Couldn't hold his bourbon. Six fingers' worth in less than ten minutes. "Oh well, sleep tight, Captain Blood." I leaned over and kissed his lips softly. No tongue. No passion, just gratitude. Passion would have to wait… at least until he woke up to dust it off for me.
****
I locked the front door, cleaned the blood off my jacket, and straightened up some of the mess in the kitchen. Good thing there was nothing but pond and forest behind my rented house. I'd hate to explain to noisy neighbors why I was wiping blood off the floor.
I put away the bourbon but left out the first aid supplies in case we needed to redo the Steri-Strips on Saturday. It was a strange, nearly forgotten notion to think of a tomorrow… with a man.
I covered Ryan's sleeping form with an old single sheet which didn't match any of my other bedding, so there was no loss if it got a little bloody. I set the thermostat so it wouldn't get cold enough inside for him to need more covers.
Then I checked on Elvis' kibble and took a long, hot shower.
I won't pretend I didn't reflect on Ryan's rather clumsy touches or how deliciously novel they felt after such a long time. That's exactly what I thought about. In fact, I could hardly get those images out of my mind.
But I was also exhausted. It had been one horrible day and night. I'd begun at the bank brooding that I'd probably never see Ryan again. Then my phone conversation with Ellen had raised my spirits a bit. I went to the game partly because our bank was a big sponsor of the team, and I'd stepped into a nightmare with three violent drunks. I ended the long day with Ryan back in Verdeville after his mysterious absence. To a ranch, he'd said. Working on fences, he'd said. And what a reaction to Memphis! He'd nearly coughed up a lung when he saw my souvenir towel. Obviously Memphis was a negative part of Ryan's long story.
Would I ever hear that tale? Until this evening I would have said, "probably not". But after our first aid interaction and Ryan's clumsy embrace that was almost more, perhaps the current answer was "maybe so".
We'd have to see what Saturday brought our way.
If Ryan was still on my couch in the morning.
After a final long look at the softly snoring buccaneer, I crawled into my own bed and was asleep before I'd turned over twice.