Slide by Garrett Leigh Read Free Book Online Page B

was done, just like Pete had warned me it would. I held it up and peered at it. It hurt, a lot. “Yeah, I just cut myself last night. It’s fine.”
    Ted shrugged easily. “Shit happens. It didn’t affect your work. I’m impressed… really impressed. I’ve got to split, but I’ll check back with you next week when we go over those catalogue pieces. Good work, Ash. Well done.”
    I thanked him, but he was already walking away. It didn’t matter, though—his words were enough. Ted didn’t waste his time saying stuff he didn’t mean, and despite the ache in my arm and the lingering disquiet from the night before, I walked home with the barest hint of a smile on my face.
    Pete was out when I got back to the apartment, and we didn’t link up until the following day, when I came home to find him on the couch eating takeout. He waved a fork at me in greeting.
    “Come eat,” he said. “How’s the hand? Sore?”
    I slid over the arm onto the couch and peered into the containers on the coffee table. The sharp pain in my palm was exacerbating the dull ache in my shoulder from the tetanus shot, but I didn’t want to complain. “It’s not so bad.”
    Pete snorted. “Whatever. You look fucked. Here, take two of these and eat up.”
    I took the pill bottle and studied it warily. “What are they?”
    “Advil,” he said. “Ibuprofen? They’re anti-inflammatory.”
    “Anti what? Is that like Tylenol?” I remembered that from when I had flu in rehab. It was the only drug they’d give out, and after five years of benzos and heroin, it didn’t do shit.
    “Similar.”
    I bit my lip and eyed the bottle. I had two choices: Ask him outright, or just leave the pills. Either way, I’d have to explain myself. I took a deep breath. “Um, is it, like, an opiate?”
    He didn’t even blink. “No. It’s just an over-the-counter pain med.”
    I relaxed slightly, opened the bottle, and shook out two pills. I reached for Pete’s beer to chase them down, but he stopped me with a lightning-fast snap of his hand.
    “Drugs and booze don’t mix. Go get some water.”
    I rolled my eyes, but I got up anyway. He had his sensible face on, and after the last few days I knew better than to argue.
    After we ate, I decided to take a shower, and came back into the living room half an hour later to find him still on the couch. He looked really tired, slouched down with his eyes half-shut. I considered leaving him to it, but he sat up when he saw me coming and gestured for me to show him my hand.
    I sat on the coffee table and extended my arm. I stared at the floor while he unwrapped the bandages and poked about. I didn’t want to see the wound again, and with his hands on my skin I was thoroughly distracted. His hands were warm and smooth, but his touch made me shiver… a strange shiver so intense it was almost painful. I jammed my teeth into my bottom lip, the only thing that stopped me from moaning out loud.
    Pete lowered my arm when he was done, but he didn’t release it from his grip. “Try not to flex it too much.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said absently.
    “What were you using to cut yourself so bad?”
    His question caught me off guard. Up until now, he hadn’t asked me any questions—he’d just babysat me and gotten me fixed up. I pulled my hand away from him. “A craft knife. I was working on something for the shop and my hand slipped.”
    He nodded slowly and dropped his hand to his lap. “And the cigarette burn?”
    I didn’t have an answer and my silence spoke volumes. An image of my scorched palm suddenly appeared in my mind, and it was all I could do not to gag. I looked away as I tried to think of a plausible explanation. None came, and nausea rolled as I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. I wanted to run, but just as my courage deserted me, he let out an abrupt whoosh of air.
    “I need to tell you something.”
    I tore my gaze from the floor and forced myself to meet his gaze. I knew what was coming.