Feeling Awful

Beck POV I still felt terrible about her arm. I had gone home at dawn and lain on top of the covers, and I had seen it every time I shut my eyes. I saw her going down, and the branch, and the blood running to her elbow. I saw her wrapping it with her teeth because nobody was there. I had also put my plate in the bowl and left them by her door. I don't know why. My mother raised me. At eight I called the doctor. "I need you to look at somebody's arm tonight," I said. "At the bar." "Whose?" "My bartender's." There was a pause. I could hear him deciding not to ask. "I'll come by after I close," he said. He didn't argue. Nobody ever does. It's the one part of this job I don't mind. She came in at a quarter to four, just like clockwork. "Hey," she said. I didn't answer. I was busy. She had her black hair pulled up in a ponytail. It swung when she walked, long and thick, and the first thing I thought was how easy it would be to get a fist in it. I could wrap it around my hand once, tip her head back, and hold her right where I wanted her while I f*cked her from behind. It left her neck bare. It left everything bare, all the way down her throat to the low scoop of her top and the soft curve of cleavage there. And she had worn shorts. They were denim, and short, with her boots, and there was a mile of bare thigh between the two. Those shorts were going to get me in trouble tonight. Every man in the pack was going to look at those legs, and I was going to have to stand there and not put anybody through a wall. I tracked her all the way across the room and into the back. I'm not proud of it. Then I saw the gauze. It ran from her wrist to her elbow, clean and white, wrapped fresh. I could smell the cut under it. That took care of everything below my belt. I got myself together. When she came back out, tying her apron, I managed it. "Hey. Everything okay?" "Yeah." She looked confused. "Why?" I pointed at her arm. "Oh. Yeah." She laughed a little, like she had forgotten it was there. "I fell last night. But I'm good. It's not bleeding anymore." She held it up to show me. She turned it over so I could see the whole length of it, cheerful about it, like a kid with a scraped knee. I felt worse. I fell. That was all she gave me. She didn't mention being scared half to death, or a dog the size of a truck, or sitting on her back steps until two in the morning telling it things. She just said "I'm good." I already knew what "I'm good" was worth, coming from her. She went to take the chairs down. She did it one-handed, mostly, favoring the arm and trying to look like she wasn't. I stood behind the bar and worked up to it. How did you fall? It was four words. I had run a pack for four years. I could ask a woman four words. I had my mouth open when the door swung in. Walt was first. "Now, what happened there, darlin'?" "Oh, I fell." "How?" "I tripped over some boxes." Gene asked. Opal asked, and patted her hand. The man from the hardware store didn't ask, but he looked at the gauze for so long that she told him anyway. By six o'clock she had said "I tripped over some boxes" nine times, in the same bright voice, and I had flinched at every one. The doctor came in at six thirty. He stopped inside the door and looked at me. I tipped my head toward Lainey. He nodded, took a stool at the bar in front of her, and set a small black bag down by his foot. I stayed at my end and listened. So did everybody else. Nobody turned their head, but the room got quieter. "What can I get you?" she asked. "Rum and Coke." She looked down the row of whiskey. Then she crouched, dug around under the register, and came up with a bottle I had never seen before. She blew the dust off it. I had not known we owned rum. "That looks bad," the doctor said, while she poured. "What happened?" She laughed. "At this point, maybe I should write it on the board, like a special." He chuckled. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm the town doctor. Owen Pruitt. I could take a look at it, if you like." "Oh. Well, I cleaned it and wrapped it. It doesn't need stitches." "Then humor an old man." She gave a nervous little laugh and glanced around the room. Nobody needed a drink. They were all too busy pretending not to listen. "Okay. Sure. Let me let Beck know." He picked up his drink and his bag and moved to an empty booth. She came down the bar to me, close enough that I could smell the soap on her skin. "The doctor wants to look at my arm. It shouldn't take long, if that's okay?" "Of course. I've got the bar." She slid into the booth across from him and laid her arm on the table. He unwound the gauze slowly. "You did a nice job with this." "I worked at a vet's office." "Then we're practically colleagues." He turned her wrist toward the light. "So how did you fall?" "I tripped over some cardboard." "In the house?" "No. Outside. In the backyard." She hesitated. "It was late. I couldn't sleep, so I was taking some things out to the bins." "And you just went over." "Something startled me." "What kind of something?" She was quiet for a second. He had the bag open, and he was cleaning the cut with something that made her suck in a breath. "To be honest," she said, "I don't even believe it myself." "Well. Try me." So she told him.