“Look how much blood you’ve lost. You could be cooking up an infection.” I stagger a little as I reposition him against me. “You sound freaking delirious.”
“No hospitals,” Milo repeats. “They’ll ask questions about him.”
He pulls his face close to mine, and for a moment, I’m not staring at Milo the computer builder. I’m staring at Milo the little boy and, somehow, I recognize this Milo even more than the first.
It’s the fear. Both of us understand what it’s like to hide our wounds.
“Just . . . get me through to my room,” Milo grates. “It’s no big deal. Perfectly normal. I’ve got first aid stuff there.”
I roll my eyes. It’s perfectly normal to keep first aid kits in your bedroom? Whatever.
Milo sidesteps to avoid an overstuffed arm chair and his legs buckle. “Shit,” he whispers, arms tightening around me.
“Milo, you’re too heavy. Milo—”
He slumps toward his bed, dragging me with him, and I roll, pushing him backward. It turns me onto my hands and knees. On top of him. I start to scramble off and Milo grabs my sides, pinning my hips to his.
“I think you’re good for me, Wicked.”
“Don’t call me that.”
A shadow falls behind his eyes. Regret? I can’t tell and I don’t think I want to know.
“I think you’re good for me, Wick.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m broken.”
I almost laugh. “Then I’m no good to you at all. I don’t do broken. I’m not the healing type.”
“That’s why you’re perfect.”
I go still.
“I can’t ruin you because you’re already ruined.” Milo eases one hand behind my neck, cradling the base of my skull like I’m fragile. “I can’t corrupt you because you’re already corrupted. It makes you incorruptible.”
He laughs like the word is hilarious . . . or amazing.
And then he kisses me.
37
Milo’s hands are hot against my skin. He holds me carefully, easing me closer like he’s afraid. The kiss is soft . . . sweet. It might even be kind of perfect. If my lips didn’t still expect Griff. If my skin didn’t still burn for him.
He isn’t there, but my body hunts for him like he’s everywhere.
Milo kisses my upper lip, the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose. I’m completely still. He probably thinks it’s because I want him—maybe part of me does. Most of me though is trying not to cry, and when I open my eyes, he’s studying me.
“I would do anything to make you want me,” Milo whispers.
I shake my head hard like I’m sure he couldn’t . . . then again maybe he could. Maybe if things were different and I didn’t want a guy who doesn’t want me.
Milo curves me against him, fitting his mouth to mine. His hands are everywhere, telling stories on my skin.
About how we could be together.
About how all things can be fixed.
Forgiven.
I break away and Milo cradles my cheek with his palm, his thumb rubbing my lower lip. “He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand what you could be.”
I try to laugh and it comes out strangled. “But somehow you get it?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Now is the time to really laugh . . . and realize I can’t. Because he does get me. Milo’s the first person who hasn’t made me feel ashamed for what I am.
I have no idea if that’s a good thing.
“Why did you ask Griff for the security video?”
A shadow slides behind Milo’s eyes. “I wanted to give you something no one else could.”
And be my hero? Of all people, I would have thought Milo would realize we’re the bad guys. “I saw it. Thanks.”
“Bastard gave it to you? Should have known he’d cockblock me.”
“It’s not—” I pull back and Milo sags into the pillows, wincing. “Jesus, you look bad. Where’s the first aid kit?”
He nudges his chin toward the bedside table and I spend a minute rummaging under computer part magazines before finding a white box filled with bandages and antiseptic.
“I’m going to warn you now,” I say, dousing a gauze pad with rubbing alcohol. “I paid absolutely no attention in health class.”
“Lucky me.” Teeth gritted, Milo tugs off his T-shirt, revealing a hardened chest marred with blood. He leans one tattooed forearm against his eyes. “Just do it.”
I press the pad to his side, hold tight even though Milo flinches. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond so I work faster, cleaning the wound until I can cover it with another thick gauze pad and tape it in place. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his skin now, but he doesn’t complain—just takes swallow after swallow of Jameson.
“There. You should be good now.” I tug the bottle out of his hand and set it on the nightstand—just out of reach.
Milo smiles bitterly. “See, Wick? You’re good for me.”
“You’re drunk. Go to sleep.” I push up, ditching him on the bed. Once Griff thought I was good for him too. I’m tired of being good for other people.