"Oh, G.o.d," I breathe; losing the air I was holding.

"It'll be fine, Sarah."

His hand rests on my knee and I freeze in his arms.

"I need to fix your hand and face." I tell him softly.

He doesn't hesitate with his response. "In a minute, okay? I need you close for a second."

"Okay."

Closing his eyes, I watch Travis as he relaxes. I don't know the extent of his injuries so I make minimal movement until he's ready to let go.

Finally focusing back on me, he moves the hair from my shoulder and lays it behind my back, and demands, "Now go get the s.h.i.t to fix me."

Getting up, I stand above him and pause. I trace my finger around the eye not red from the beating. He smiles and grabs my wrist; I feel his lips kiss my palm briefly. "You used to do that when you were a kid."

"Do what?"

"Trace my face."

"Do you know why?" I ask, unsure if I'll tell him the real reason, but he should know. Especially after what he did this afternoon.

"Do I want to know?"

"I was memorizing it."

"What the f.u.c.k for?" he says with a half laugh and a half wince of pain.

"For when you weren't there and I was scared about something. When Ace was gone all those months, and Bean and I were alone, I knew I had you even if I didn't see you every day."

"You're crazy."

"Maybe, but it helped thinking about you. I knew if you were close, nothing would happen to me or Bean."

"What about Hayden? You do that to his face, too?"

I hear the jealousy and I hate that he remembers my mad crush on Hayden. I can't make it go away, so instead, I try to ignore the comment. "Not nice, Travis."

"I know," he answers, letting me off the hook. "You're almost perfect when you're sweet, you know that?"

"Don't get used to it."

"I would if you'd let me."

When he releases my wrist, I turn to get what I said he needed, thinking that he too is perfect when he's sweet and I could get used to it if he'd let me.

Travis Pulling a beer from the fridge, I use my good hand to crack it open and my chest to keep it steady all while I listen to Sarah in the bathroom rummaging through the medicine cabinet looking for what she needs to patch me up.

To be honest, a visit to the ER would've been a smarter decision, but I didn't want to bother explaining to the staff that I'm an idiot for thinking I could take on three men at once. It took me six hours to find the f.u.c.ker, an hour to wait in the parking lot for him to finish his drink and come out, fifteen minutes to get my a.s.s beat, and a f.u.c.k of a while to get charged for public disturbance and another twenty minutes to be released from the station. I've had a self-induced bad day.

Devon Wilson didn't walk away unscathed, though.

That a.s.shat knew I was p.i.s.sed and before his rich b.i.t.c.hes got to me, I was able to get a few punches in. Thankfully, a pa.s.serby saw what was about to go down and called the cops before the fun really started. The police ended up getting there shortly after s.h.i.t really started to get interesting.

When Hayden and Lacey picked me up downtown, my body was done being numb. I was succ.u.mbing to the pain of the beating I took. Lacey was frantic, Hayden was cautious. I'd never done anything like that without having someone, namely Ace, at my back. I wasn't thinking of what could've happened, only what had already been done to Sarah.

Hayden called his dad on the way to get me. Brian's a lawyer and hopefully he'll help lessen the charges or make them go away.

My phone buzzes in my pocket so I set the beer on the table and carefully pull it out and find it's my sister.

"Are you still okay?" No greeting or salutation offered. Lacey was livid when I called to ask her and Hayden to come get me.

"I'm fine, Lace," I answer, taking a needed drink.

"You're not fine! You're an idiot!"

"You mentioned that in the car, Lacey. Anything else?"

"How's Sarah?"

"Fine."

"Can I talk to her?"

Looking behind me and hearing Sarah cuss from the bathroom, I smile into the phone. "No. She's busy."

"Doing?"

"Getting s.h.i.t to fix my hand."

"Well, okay," she says in a calmer tone.

"Okay."

Her composure doesn't stay intact long. "You're an idiot."

"You've mentioned that twice already."

With a heavy sigh, she offers what she can. "Call me if you guys need anything."

"Kiss my niece for me."

"I'll tell her it's from her idiot uncle," she says right before hanging up on me.

A few minutes later, I move to the couch, trying to ease the ache in my ribs and back. I hear Sarah come out and she's hauling more medical supplies than a soccer team would need for an all-weekend tournament.

"Who was that?" she asks, nodding to the phone beside me.

"Lacey," I answer, then ask, "What the f.u.c.k is all that s.h.i.t?"

"Brought out everything we had," she says as she kneels in front of me, dropping all the s.h.i.t haphazardly on the floor. "I've got alcohol, bandages, tape, these-" she holds up small, thin bandages, "-white b.u.t.terfly-looking things, cotton b.a.l.l.s-"

"Sarah," I stop her because the smile I'm trying to hide hurts my lip. "Can you shut up and just fix me up?"

"Shut up," she repeats. "Would've thought you'd have gotten some of your rudeness knocked out of you, but guess not."

She grabs my hand, harder than needed, and spreads my fingers out on my knee. The beer bottle sits in my good hand and I look at the ceiling to relax as she cares for the cuts no longer bleeding.

"Men are stupid," she mumbles.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," she confirms quickly. "Way dumb."

I didn't notice when her hands were full, but when I look down at her, I see what she's wearing.

My shirt.

I half smile where I'm not cut and wait for her to look up. While waiting, I watch how careful she is with the alcohol and cotton, using gentle strokes so she doesn't re-open my middle knuckle. When she exhales after finishing, she looks up to find me staring.

I don't ever like to make a woman feel uncomfortable, but after all the s.h.i.t she's put me through the last few weeks I consider it payback.

"What?" she snaps, questioning my grin.

"My favorite f.u.c.kin' shirt again, Sarah. Why are you wearin' it?"

"Couple of reasons. One, I'm not getting your blood on my clothes. Two, you aren't in a position to do anything about it."

"I'm not?"

"Nope," she states, putting the bandage on my knuckle. "My a.s.s isn't at risk of getting slapped again if your hand is broken." She digs her fingernail into the only uninjured knuckle I've got left on my right hand.

I rest the beer bottle between my thighs and bring up my left palm. "I still have a good hand."

She inhales, her eyes grow wide, and then she asks quietly, "Didn't think that through, did I?"

"Nope."

She sighs and stands, my shirt draping to mid-thigh; her tan legs stand between my knees as she looks down at me. "Now your face."

"My eye and lip," I correct.

"Well, yeah. You can't expect me to fix the whole thing."

"You're a pain."

"You're an a.s.s."

As she starts to use the fresh cotton ball to clean around my eye, I close them both to avoid hurricane Sarah getting alcohol in them and accidentally, or probably not, blinding me.

"Speaking of your foul mouth, thanks for picking up the swear jar disaster."

"No problem. It was a f.u.c.king mess, but as you can see I got through it."

My left hand comes around to swat her a.s.s but she catches the intent before I'm able and giggles as her arm darts out to stop me. Instead of slapping her on the a.s.s, I place my hand on the back of her thigh and she inhales a quick breath. I don't look at her; I just look ahead and smile at how my big shirt swallows her small body.

"Are you going to finish?" I ask when she continues to remain frozen at my touch.

"Suppose I could be if you'd stop thinking about slapping me."

"I'll stop."

"There's a f.u.c.king first."

After she's done, she starts to pick up her mess and carries it to the bathroom. I flip the television on and find a show I know she enjoys watching. A rerun of Gilmore Girls just started. I know she likes this s.h.i.t. Not as much as Snapped, but it'll do.

"You don't have to watch that," she tells me as she comes back to the couch with a beer for me, and water for her. She situates herself at the other end, laying her legs out to cover the distance between us. The bottoms of her feet are lying against my thigh.

Reaching over my body with my left hand, I grab her foot and put it on my lap. She doesn't refuse, only continues staring at the television.

As the ending credits to Gilmore Girls start scrolling along the screen, with flashes of the upcoming episode, I look over and find Sarah sleeping. I give myself a few added seconds to look at her.

Her hands lie under her face and her mouth is open slightly, drawing in breath. She looks at peace when she's this quiet and this still. The ever-in-motion Sarah really does rest when her eyes are closed.

Putting down the empty beer bottle I've been holding for a while now, I gently move her legs from my lap and start to stand. I realize my ribs took the worst of the beating.

Leaning down, I rest my knee on the floor and let my fingers brush through her hair. She doesn't move, but her eyes flutter then settle. I bend down and kiss her forehead before making a move to stand. My back foot rocks the table and the bottles shake against the gla.s.s top.

"Trav?" I see her eyes open; the beautiful blue irises that change color with her mood look up, but can't yet focus on me.

"I'm goin' to bed. I'd carry you there, but . . ."

Sitting up, wiping the hair from her face and neck, her eyes narrow as she takes in the room. "I fell asleep."

"You did."

"I'll go to bed if you are."

Offering my good hand, she takes it and sits up to gather her balance then stands. "I'll see you in the morning," she tells me as she starts to walk away.

When she hits the mouth of the hall, she turns back and stands alone in contemplation.

She's not sure where she's supposed to sleep.

She makes a move to go in her room, so I stop her. "Sleep in my bed, Sarah."