infection and the edges of the wound looked better now, if a bit jagged.
“I’m afraid it’s going to leave a scar, though.” I patted the wound dry and squeezed some superstrength antibiotic ointment into it, being sure to smear the grease on the front and back of his shoulder.
“That’s okay. I’ve been through worse.” His mouth titled up into a smile. “Besides, chicks dig scars. Or so I’ve been told.”
I laughed. Any chick who didn’t dig him would have to be stone-cold dead. I didn’t tell him, though. I didn’t want Talon to think I was some weird Slaves for Superhero Sex groupie. I’d already stripped him naked. That was weird enough.
“Well, if chicks dig scars, they’ll be swarming all over you when they get a load of this one,” I replied, sticking a large, thick cotton bandage over the wound and taping it down. I repeated the process on his back.
“There. You’re all patched up.”
Talon grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, his fingers even warmer than the water around him. “Thank you, Wren. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“No problem.” I pulled my hand away and ignored the hot tingles spreading through my body at his slight touch.
“Now, let’s see what we can do about your eyes. Can you see anything? “Anything at all?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. The blinding gas is something new Bandit’s been using. The last time he hit me with it, I couldn’t see for two days.”
“But it’s not permanent, then?”
“No,” he said. “Just annoying.”
I let out a quiet sigh. In other words, I was stuck with a superhero for the night.
#
I left Talon alone in the bathroom so he could take off his visor and flush out his eyes with some warm water. He opened the door ten minutes later. His visor still covered his face, but the two metal bars that had clamped it to his head were gone. I guess the superhero thought he could trust me not to lunge forward and yank it off his face. Or he just knew I didn’t want to get shocked again.
Then came another problem—finding something for him to put on. I might be used to planning for every emergency, but having a naked, wounded superhero wearing nothing but a damp towel in my apartment was one even I’d never dreamed of.
My gaze traveled up and down Talon’s body, taking in his long torso, tight muscles, and white scars. Did this really qualify as an emergency? Because I could get used to this view—easily.
“I can just put my clothes back on,” Talon said. “It’s not a big deal. They’ve been dirty before.”
I looked at the shirt. To my sensitive nose, it reeked of blood, metal, and gunpowder. The boots and pants weren’t so bad. They just smelled like wet leather. But I shuddered at the thought of Talon putting that nasty shirt against his smooth, gorgeous skin—and clean wounds.
“Trust me. You don’t want to put your clothes back on. At least, not your shirt until I wash it.”
“You can’t wash leather,” he pointed out.
“Oh. Right.”
I knew that. I’d told Fiona Fine the same thing when she’d shown up wearing a white leather sundress at a barbecue I’d planned for Nate Norris. I’d warned Fiona her pristine leather probably wouldn’t make it through the day stain-free, but the flamboyant fashion designer insisted dirt wouldn’t dare stick to her clothes. Sure enough, ten minutes into the barbecue, someone jostled Fiona, causing her to spill a bucket of baked beans onto her dress—ruining it. I’d had to chew gum the rest of the day to keep from telling Fiona I told you so .
But something about Talon made me tongue-tied. Normally, I had no problem talking to people, even confronting them, no matter who they were, as long as it was in a professional capacity. I’d gone toe-to-toe with Joanne James, Johnny Bulluci, and all the other Bigtime wheelers and dealers. Maybe it was because he was paying so much attention to me, but I felt different around Talon. A
“I’m afraid it’s going to leave a scar, though.” I patted the wound dry and squeezed some superstrength antibiotic ointment into it, being sure to smear the grease on the front and back of his shoulder.
“That’s okay. I’ve been through worse.” His mouth titled up into a smile. “Besides, chicks dig scars. Or so I’ve been told.”
I laughed. Any chick who didn’t dig him would have to be stone-cold dead. I didn’t tell him, though. I didn’t want Talon to think I was some weird Slaves for Superhero Sex groupie. I’d already stripped him naked. That was weird enough.
“Well, if chicks dig scars, they’ll be swarming all over you when they get a load of this one,” I replied, sticking a large, thick cotton bandage over the wound and taping it down. I repeated the process on his back.
“There. You’re all patched up.”
Talon grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, his fingers even warmer than the water around him. “Thank you, Wren. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“No problem.” I pulled my hand away and ignored the hot tingles spreading through my body at his slight touch.
“Now, let’s see what we can do about your eyes. Can you see anything? “Anything at all?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. The blinding gas is something new Bandit’s been using. The last time he hit me with it, I couldn’t see for two days.”
“But it’s not permanent, then?”
“No,” he said. “Just annoying.”
I let out a quiet sigh. In other words, I was stuck with a superhero for the night.
#
I left Talon alone in the bathroom so he could take off his visor and flush out his eyes with some warm water. He opened the door ten minutes later. His visor still covered his face, but the two metal bars that had clamped it to his head were gone. I guess the superhero thought he could trust me not to lunge forward and yank it off his face. Or he just knew I didn’t want to get shocked again.
Then came another problem—finding something for him to put on. I might be used to planning for every emergency, but having a naked, wounded superhero wearing nothing but a damp towel in my apartment was one even I’d never dreamed of.
My gaze traveled up and down Talon’s body, taking in his long torso, tight muscles, and white scars. Did this really qualify as an emergency? Because I could get used to this view—easily.
“I can just put my clothes back on,” Talon said. “It’s not a big deal. They’ve been dirty before.”
I looked at the shirt. To my sensitive nose, it reeked of blood, metal, and gunpowder. The boots and pants weren’t so bad. They just smelled like wet leather. But I shuddered at the thought of Talon putting that nasty shirt against his smooth, gorgeous skin—and clean wounds.
“Trust me. You don’t want to put your clothes back on. At least, not your shirt until I wash it.”
“You can’t wash leather,” he pointed out.
“Oh. Right.”
I knew that. I’d told Fiona Fine the same thing when she’d shown up wearing a white leather sundress at a barbecue I’d planned for Nate Norris. I’d warned Fiona her pristine leather probably wouldn’t make it through the day stain-free, but the flamboyant fashion designer insisted dirt wouldn’t dare stick to her clothes. Sure enough, ten minutes into the barbecue, someone jostled Fiona, causing her to spill a bucket of baked beans onto her dress—ruining it. I’d had to chew gum the rest of the day to keep from telling Fiona I told you so .
But something about Talon made me tongue-tied. Normally, I had no problem talking to people, even confronting them, no matter who they were, as long as it was in a professional capacity. I’d gone toe-to-toe with Joanne James, Johnny Bulluci, and all the other Bigtime wheelers and dealers. Maybe it was because he was paying so much attention to me, but I felt different around Talon. A
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