Down and Out

It took me less than 72 hours within meeting Declan Whitmore to break my two month long “look, don’t touch” policy. If I wasn’t so disappointed with myself, I’d actually be sort of proud. That’s probably the longest I’ve ever gone before letting someone get into my pants. And I was sober, too.
Yay, for me! I’m only “kind of” a whore now.
My eyes close as I hang my head in shame.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret it—at least not like I normally would. I don’t feel dirty or worse than before, but it still shouldn’t have happened.
Declan’s my boss. I’m staying with him. If this continues, I’ll end up unemployed and out on my ass when things end, and they will end. They always do. I can’t afford to be impulsive with him and any way I look at it, a sexual relationship spells disaster.
End of story.
Sighing, I set aside the last folded towel. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let this happen. What the hell was I thinking?
I just wish it hadn’t been so good. Then I could at least tell myself I’m not missing anything special when he gives me that searing, weak-in-the-vag look that screams, “Any time you want it, it’s yours.”
But nope. It was exactly as mind-blowing and earth-shattering as I’d anticipated. And now, every time I see him, I know exactly what I’m missing: the chance to meet God.
After turning out the lights and grabbing my keys from the office, I head out the back door, pausing to make sure it self-locked when it closed, like Declan showed me. Satisfied, I turn around to head upstairs, but halt when I see a crumpled body at the foot of the concrete steps.
My stomach drops to my knees. I clutch my keys in my hand as I look around the deserted parking lot. Is this some drunk or druggie who’d just passed out in the wrong place or . . . worse?
I bite my lip, my heart thrumming in my chest as I grip the longest key like a knife. His back is to me, and I can’t make out much in the piss-poor lighting from the lone lamplight on the street. “Are you okay?”
He groans and shifts. In the dim light, I catch sight of the markings on his arms that I’d recognize anywhere.
“Declan.”
His name leaves me on a breath and I run over to him, dropping to my knees as panic races through me. “Oh my god.” He’s been severely beaten and his blood litters his clothes.
My frantic hands don’t know where to touch him. Any place I try, he groans.
His breathing’s strained and wheezy. He winces, and the movement tears open the cut on his bottom lip that looks like it was trying to clot.
Jesus, how long has he been out here like this?
Guilt weighs heavily on me for taking so long to come out, and I fight to breathe as I push it away. It’s not my fault. I didn’t know.
“Don’t move.” I pat his pockets, praying whoever did this hasn’t robbed him of his phone. The one time I leave mine upstairs. . .
I sob in relief when I feel the thin rectangle through his jeans and pull it out. The screen’s cracked but still usable. My blood-smeared fingers fumble with accessing the phone app. His list of missed calls pops up, and my heart squeezes when I read “Kitten” near the top. I back out of that and dial 911, the numbers blurring as I absently feel hot tears roll down my cheeks.
“No,” Declan groans, wincing as he tries to take the phone out of my hands. “No hospitals.”
“Are you insane?” I push his hand away. “You need help!”
“Please,” he chokes out. His hand grips my forearm with more strength than I thought he’d have in this condition. “Call Blake.” He grimaces, hissing in a breath between clenched and blood-stained teeth.
I’m torn. A huge part of me feels like I should get him the medical help he so obviously needs, but another, smaller part feels like if he’s aware enough to tell me “no,” maybe I should listen.
Every second that passes weighs on me until I think I might break. I have to do something, and I have to do it now.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, exiting the number pad and going into his contacts. Scrolling through, I find Blake’s number and double-tap it, then hold the phone up to my ear.
It rings twice, and the horrifying realization dawns on me that he might not answer. He could be busy or—
Before I can get too carried away, the line clicks and a deep voice says, “What up?”
Relief floods me, and I exhale a shaky breath. “Blake, it’s Savannah.”
“What’s wrong?” He’s instantly on edge.
“It’s Declan.” I choke on his name. “Someone beat the hell out of him and he won’t let me call nine-one-one. He told me to call you.”
Blake curses and says, “Try to get him upstairs. I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead, and I have half a second to realize he’s validated my choice before I’m shoving Declan’s phone in my pocket. I stand and grab him under his arms. “Can you stand?”
He nods, and when I try to lift, hisses out a breath. I keep pulling and God bless him, he tries to help, but every groan and wince breaks my heart. He weighs a ton and a half, and I use every ounce of strength I have to get him on his feet.
We hobble over to the foot of the stairs, and as I glance up at the impossible height, I wonder how the hell we’re going to make it all the way up.
You can do this.
I make Declan grab the railing for support, and to steady him on his wobbly feet. One agonizing step at a time, we ascend until we reach the top.
Leaning him against the tiny balcony’s railing, I pull out my keys and unlock the door, pushing it open before slinging his arm around my neck again. We stumble into the living room, where he has nothing to hold onto but me, and I almost buckle under his dead weight.
“Shit,” I mutter, staggering to the hallway.
His hand shoots out and braces himself against the wall as we shuffle toward his room. It’s dark inside, but the light pouring in from the hallway is enough to see by, and I lead him over to his bed, gingerly trying to set him down.
It’s about as easy as trying to set down an anvil.
He groans as he hits the mattress, and I have to stop him from trying to lie on his back. “I need you to sit up,” I say, wedging myself between his legs dangling over the edge. “I need to take your clothes off.” They’re covered in blood and if we aren’t careful, it’ll get all over his sheets.
My fingers snake under the hem of his shirt and pull it up, exposing giant, fist-sized bruises covering his stomach and sides. I falter briefly, horrified anew that someone would do this to him. Pain twists his face as he lifts his arms and allows me to pull his shirt over his head. As I toss it aside, my eyes roam over the ugly purple splotches dotting his beautiful body. I hope whoever did this to him gets what’s coming to them.
Times ten.
He flops onto his back as soon as his shirt’s gone, and then I pull off his shoes and socks one by one. Now for the pants.
The waistband of his boxers peeks out from his jeans, lying flush against the tautest skin I’ve ever seen. It’s all smooth, sculpted muscle. He even has those little veins popping out near his hip bones that disappear into his boxers. I don’t know why, but some inherent part of me wants to lick them. I swallow and tentatively undo his fly, then push the denim down his hips.
“I always imagined the first time you took off my pants would go a little differently than this.”
Declan’s hoarse voice has my hands faltering, and I look up to see his eyes closed with a faint smile tugging on his lips. I laugh despite myself and continue trying to tug off his jeans without removing his boxers as well. It’s not easy.
Just as I get them off, the front door opens, and I run through the apartment still holding them. The door slams behind Blake, his face paling as he takes in my bloody, disheveled appearance.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“He’s back here,” I say, turning to lead the way.
I flip on the light switch, and Declan groans as brightness floods the room. Blake looks him over while I pick up his discarded shirt from the floor and he says, “There’s a first-aid kit under the bathroom sink. I need that and a damp washcloth.”
Hurrying into the bathroom, I drop his bloody clothes on the floor and grab the items Blake needs, then rush back to the bedroom. “Is there anything else I can do?” I ask, watching him crack open the giant briefcase-like kit.
Pulling out a roll of gauze, some tape, and what appears to be a needle and thread, Blake shakes his head. “I’ve got it from here.”

Blake emerges from Declan’s room an hour later, looking weary as he quietly closes the door behind him. I stand from my spot on the couch, where I’d anxiously waited for him to finish.
“How is he?” My arms wrap around myself, like I can physically hold myself together if I just try.
Blake frowns and rubs his forehead. He looks so much like Declan in that moment that I wonder how I haven’t seen it before.
“He’s fine, best I can tell. Probably has some broken ribs and he’ll feel like shit for a week or two, but that’s it.”
“Are you a doctor?” I don’t think he is, but you never know.
His eyes lift, glancing at me coldly, and I know I have my answer.
“Then how can you stand there and tell me he’ll be okay? He could have brain swelling, or internal bleeding, or—”
“He’d be a lot worse off if that was the case, don’t you think?” He brushes past me and heads into the kitchen. “He’s awake. He’s talking. That’s the most we can hope for.”
“The most we can hope for? Are you serious?” I follow him into the kitchen, watching him grab a beer from the fridge. “We need to take him to a hospital. He needs real medical attention, not a bunch of f*cking Band-Aids!”
I shake my head, angry and pissed off at myself. How could I let them talk me into something so stupid?
Blake takes a long swig and sets the bottle on the counter. “I’m telling you, he’s fine.” The rolled up sleeves of his plaid button-up show off his thick, corded arms as he crosses them. His unmarred skin is so unlike his brother’s, and the weirdest thought pops into my head: I think it looks . . . plain.
I hadn’t realized how much I like Declan’s decorative packaging.
My eyes snap up to Blake. “If he’s fine, then what’s the harm in getting him checked out at the hospital? It’s not like he can’t afford the bill.”
“It’s not about the money, it’s—” He sighs. “It’s hospital policy to report an assault to the cops. Under no circumstances do we want them involved, not with what Declan does for a living.”
“Why? I thought . . . I thought he ran the gym.” I frown as this horrible, sinking feeling settles over me, and I think back to his jeans. His wallet had still been in his back pocket. And his phone was still with him, too. Whoever did this to him hadn’t stolen anything.
My stomach plummets as his refusal for a hospital takes on a whole new meaning.
Blake grabs his beer. “That’s a conversation you and Declan need to have.” He walks around me, into the living room, and sits on the couch.
Biting my lip, I come out of the kitchen as Blake turns on the TV, lowering the volume till it’s almost inaudible. “Is he still awake?”
He keeps his eyes on the flat screen as he takes another drink. “I doubt it. I gave him some Vicodin, and with the ass-kicking he took. . .” His hazel irises flick up to mine as he says, “You can still go back there if you want.”
I nod slowly, then turn and start walking to Declan’s room. Maybe I’ll feel better about this if I just check on him and make sure he’s, you know, still breathing and stuff.
The door eases open, and it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the darkness. The light from the hallway helps, so I leave the door open a crack as I make my way over to his bed.
He’s on his back, asleep, and tucked under the covers. His right eye has swollen shut, and there’s a butterfly bandage on his eyebrow. The cheek below it is puffy and bruised, and purplish blotches line his jaw. The split on his lip looks red and angry.
My heart aches at the sight, and I frown, unable to identify the emotion flooding me. Whatever it is, it’s heavy and unyielding.
Why didn’t he give me his story yesterday? He obviously has one to tell, and now I want to hear it. In fact, I think he kind of owes it to me after the way I found him tonight.
Slowly and carefully, I climb onto the bed, lying next to him above the covers. His face is tilted toward me and I reach up, brushing the dark fringe of his hair off his clammy forehead. Affection is a foreign concept to me, but seeing him like this makes me want to touch him somehow.
I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest for several moments, my throat tightening with every discolored splotch I see. Tears fall down my cheeks as I burrow my face against his arm and slip my hand in his.
“Please be okay.”