I've rehabbed enough kids to know that it's a surgical scar. Because I'm curious, I come up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders. This does freaky things to all my girly parts, and then he moans and I'm pretty much slayed right where I stand.
“I'm sorry,” he says hoarsely. It's half-chuckled, like maybe he's embarrassed by his reaction.
“Don't be sorry.” His back feels warm and hard through the soft, damp shirt, and his shoulders are super tense. I give them a squeeze, and I'm rewarded with another moan, this one deeper than the last. I swear, I can feel it vibrate way low down in my belly. He’s practically lying on the table now, his head resting on his forearm so I can drink in all I want of his satiny dark brown hair and those strong shoulders, that lean, tough back. Just above the waist of his jeans, his shirt is stuck to his skin, so I get a peek of the top of his underwear. The skin they cover looks so soft and smooth... I can only see an inch of it—
Ridiculous.
I direct my wandering eyes back to his scar as I work his trapezius muscles. I see not just one scar, but several. One vertical along his cervical spine, just above where I think his C4-C6 ought to be, and another perpendicular to that, going from the middle of his spine at what I think is C5 level and heading around to the left side of his neck. The scars are thick. Still pink. This must be how he lost the use of his hand.
As I knead his shoulders and he makes delicious sounds, I wonder why on earth anyone would send him on a mission alone to rescue someone from a Mexican cartel. Sure, there are bad-ass seeming things about him, but twice we've crashed on the bike because he can't balance us with his left arm.
Don't get me wrong—I'm grateful. At this point, enough has happened that I'm grateful for Evan's help. I just don't really understand the situation.
I'm still hard at work on his shoulders when I notice the red pool under his left hand, which is lying on the table.
“Evan!” He shoots up so fast his head hits mine. “Ouch.” I rub my sore nose.
He turns to face me. “What's wrong?”
Still covering my nose, I nod at his hand. “You’re bleeding.” I blush so furiously, I feel like there’s a cloud of heat around my head. Sure, it's been a while since I've been around a guy, but this level of oblivion really is embarrassing. Unforgivable. What’s wrong with me?
“Hold your arm up,” I tell him.
He does, and I take a seat beside him with the first aid stuff in hand.
I grab his left elbow, which is propped against the table, causing him to lean a little closer toward me. I scoot closer to him, too. With my hand around his bicep, I look into his blue eyes.
“So you have no feeling in your hand?” He blinks, and I take that as affirmative. “What about your arm?”
“The bicep up,” he says without expression.
“Okay, that's good, because you would feel some of this in your wrist and forearm I think.”
I let go of him and clean my hands with alcohol towelettes, then untie my bloody shirt scrap and reveal his wound again. It looks darker red this time, which means some of the blood is finally clotting.
“I don’t think it hit anything important.”
The radial artery runs into the hand, and its location in the wrist is not too far from where Evan's wound is—but if he’d hit it, there would be even more blood. At least I think that’s true.
I open then unfold two big gauze pads and gently guide his hand down onto them. Instead of spreading out, his fingers stay semi-curled. I study his hand for just a second, admiring the shape of it, before I notice him scowling.
I have the strangest desire to tell him, You have nice hands, but that would just be weird, so I swallow once and try to keep this as professional as I can.
“I'm going to spread your fingers out the way I want them, okay?”
He shrugs, trying to look unaffected. “Do whatever you want.” His lips quirk up. “As long as I can get another back rub.”
I smile a little as I work his fingers into the position that I want them, with thumb and forefinger in an “L” shape.
Evan huffs his breath out as I let go of him and unwrap some Betadine swabs. I glance into his eyes, offering another little smile. “You ready?”
His face is hard. “Go for it.”
I swab around the wound, glancing into his eyes a time or two to be sure it isn't hurting. He looks apathetic. I wonder if he feels the ghost of pain, but as I finish painting the entire wound with orange Betadine, I decide that maybe he's self-conscious.