Hot as in a skin-scorching 350 degrees.
I dropped the pan the second I had it level with the countertop. I couldn't help it as the pan clattered down with a bang and cookies scattered everywhere. It happened so fast I didn't even feel my hand crash into the side of the dish cabinet.
My body's response to the burning of skin was reflex. I had zero control over direction of movement—only the instinct to put as much distance between the heat and what was being burned—as quickly as possible.
The fact that I kept a set of very sharp knives attached to a magnetic rack on the side of the dish cabinet in my kitchen?
Bad.
Bad luck.
Bad string of events.
Just REALLY BAD.
The blood didn't start gushing immediately, so I wasn't aware until I felt the tickling sensation of trails flowing down my arm, and the dripping of big, warm, plops onto my leg.
And saw some splash onto the floor.
I stared in horror. The sight of blood was nauseating to me. Always had been. I didn't know why, but I just couldn't handle seeing it. The pain wasn't the worst pain, and I could endure it. But the sight of gushing blood from my body?
Hell, no!
I needed help—and since I was incapable of even managing a simple glance at my hand to assess the damage—I needed help from another person.
My phone was charging in my bedroom. My brother was gone. The closest "help" I knew of was one floor above me working out in his home gym.
I didn't think about it, because if I did, it wouldn't matter when I was passed out still bleeding profusely, and hopefully not to death. I grabbed the first thing I could find to soak up blood. With the hot pad pressed against my hemorrhaging hand, I headed into the hallway and stairwell. Only one flight of stairs. I couldn't look at my hand, but I could climb a single flight of stairs. What the hell have you done to yourself?
When I stumbled out of the stairwell and to James's apartment, I'd just about exhausted my mental reserves. There wasn't a lot left inside me to combat the nausea. I felt myself slide to the floor to land on my ass.
I pushed my feet forward and kicked at the base of his door as hard as I could, and as many times as I could.
And screamed his name.
Chapter Six
JAMES
Tomorrow would suck because my dad would make it suck. This was a simple fact that I knew would play out with the upmost certainty. With AC/DC's Thunderstruck blasting through my headphones, and less than five minutes of treadmill time to go, I went through the possible scenarios of how he'd call me out on the ultimatum he threw at me three weeks ago.
I'd never do anything to hurt my mother. And ignoring my father wouldn't eradicate the problems there, either. Those would never go away. So, I'd go to Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow and put on a show that said he wasn't getting to me.
Maybe alcohol could help with that.
As the song ended, I thought I heard what sounded like a thump, but I dismissed it because I was pounding out the last bit of the incline portion of my run. A hot shower was going to feel so good in a few minutes. So would the whack job while I was in there—
Thump…thump…
Where the fuck was that noise coming from?
I ripped out my headphones, and that's when I heard screaming along with the vicious pounding. "James…James…Jaaaaames!"
I ran toward the screams.
The closer I got, the easier they were to identify.
But the sight of her just about killed me. I'm sure I lost a good five years off my life when I ripped open my front door to find Winter on the other side of it covered in blood.
Oh fuck, no!
"I've got you, baby. I've got you," I repeated as I gathered her from the floor and carried her trembling body inside my apartment. We went straight into the bathroom where the light was good and the first-aid supplies were kept. "Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?"
I got a lot of words, but very little of what she told me came out coherently. I heard parts of explanations as I settled her onto the marble counter like: "baking cookies for Shane" and "so hot it burned" and "the knife rack on the cabinet" and "blood," so I got the gist of it. There was a shit-ton of blood and that scared me, but I also noticed she wasn't completely responsive to my questioning. Her eyes looked a little glazed, and I figured she was probably in shock.
"Whoa, can you sit up here okay? I don't want you falling off and hitting your head."
She focused on my face and nodded slowly. "I can't look. The blood…it makes me sick…" She trailed off weakly before her neck flopped to the side.
"Okay. It's okay, Win. I'm going to help you, but I want you to take some deep breaths and lean on me. Don't worry about a thing right now. Just breathe and try to relax. I've got you." I cradled her head in my hands and held her steady until she focused on me again. "You did the right thing, Win." You came to me for help.
Her beautiful green eyes with their distinctive rings of gold around the iris filled with tears as she looked at me. She was scared and emotional, but I could tell she was trying to be brave, and I felt her relax a bit. "I could h-h-hear you w-working out." She took in a few deep breaths as she tried to calm herself.
"That's it, sweetheart. Breathe for me. I've got you, and I'm going to take a look at your hand, okay?" She whimpered as I talked her through it. "I don't want you to look, though. I want you to keep your eyes on the wall. Just look over my shoulder and focus on the pattern in the tile. Can you do that for me, Win?"
"Y-yesss." Her voice was thready, but I could hear the determination in her one-word answer. I was so grateful she'd come to find me when she needed help. Thank God I heard those thumps on my door. I realized now the sound had been her feet kicking against it. Very resourceful considering she'd been unable to use her hands, with one injured and the other occupied to stem the bleeding.
"You are so brave right now. Badass is a good description for you." I rambled out more words of praise as I gently tugged her hand away from where she clutched it against her stomach. "Let me get a towel—"
"I'll get blood all over it."
I could hear panic settling in. "It's a towel, Win. Who cares?" I grabbed a clean towel off the rack and draped it over her lap and legs, which were also covered in blood. Jesus Christ, how bad was this going to be? Now I was nervous. "I want you to count the tiles on the wall and don't look at your hand. Can you do that for me, baby?"
"Y-y-yesss."
"Good girl," I said as I gently peeled off the kitchen mitt she'd used to wrap her hand. I made a point not to react in any way that might upset her further, but fuuuuck. The cut was at least two inches long and sliced midway between her thumb and index finger on her right hand. Blood began seeping as soon as pressure was removed. It was difficult to see how deep the cut had gone, but judging from the amount of blood still coming out of the wound? Too fucking deep. There might be tendon or nerve damage that could impair her range of motion in that hand for all I knew. I wasn't a doctor, but I was smart enough to know she needed to be seen by one. "I'm going to take you to the ER so they can fix you up."
"Oh, God." Her whole body trembled mightily, but she kept her head facing the wall like I'd told her to. "How bad is it?"
"I think the cut isn't so wide as it is deep. You're going to need stitches, but the docs will know how to take care of it. Let me get it wrapped back up for now, and then I'll take you to the hospital."
She started sobbing again as I quickly washed my hands in the sink, but there was no protest about my plan. I could tell she was trying very hard to deal with the situation even though she was on the verge of falling apart. I needed to get her mind off her injury, and do it quickly.