Chapter 4
You look up at the girl in front of you, her torso messily wrapped with gauze and her sports bra stained red. She’s both irritating and irresistibly attractive, and that annoys you even more.
But, as you look at her and notice the dark circles under her eyes for the first time, and the bruising along her cheekbone, you realize that as bad as your night has been, hers doesn't seem to have been much better, either.
She also saved your life tonight. And even though you know that she's dangerous, know that the proof of it is right behind the door, you feel like you can trust her. Although maybe that's just the hopelessly desperate part of you talking, looking for something solid to hold on to amidst the waves of panic washing over you.
“I don't even know your name…” You whisper, realizing absurdly that she doesn't know yours either. With everything that's happened in such a short period of time, you feel oddly close to her now. It’s jarring to realize that you're still practically strangers. You suppose there’s something to be said about trauma-bonding, although it's probably one sided, since, wound notwithstanding, she seems to be quite fine.
“Williams.” She says, inclining her head.
“Williams.” You repeat softly. It’s an unusual name for a girl, most likely her last name, but you don't push her for the particulars. “Can I call you Will?” You ask, looking up at her.
She quirks an eyebrow at the request but shrugs. “Darling, you can call me whatever you want if you tell me how to make you stop shaking so bad. I need this done. Tell me how to make that happen.”
You look down, embarrassed. You get the feeling she's not really used to comforting people, and she’s made it clear she’s only sticking around to get the stitches you promised. But honestly? Just her presence and the solidness of her body in front of you is enough to help you slightly relax.
“Just…” You reach out, hesitatingly, and grab her hands, bringing them up to your shoulders. “Just...um...press down here.”
She does as you ask, watching your face as it relaxes a fraction more. “The pressure helps?” She looks skeptical, but doesn't remove her hands, keeping them pressed to your shoulders.
You nod, trying to breathe in through your mouth so you don't inhale the lingering scent of blood that’s perfumed you both, instead trying to focus on her. Unfortunately, you realize for the first time how close she is, standing between your legs, the gun in the waistband of her pants pressing against your knee. It’s terribly distracting, and you open your mouth to reply but she beats you to it.
“Well, then here–” She says, scooping you up off the counter and depositing you on her lap before draping her arms over your shoulders.
The effect is almost dizzying in its immediacy, your body relaxing under the weight of hers, breath leaving you in one big exhale. You slump against her chest and don't have the energy to feel bad about it. Her skin is warm, and for a moment your mind goes blissfully blank. “Aren't you in pain?” You manage to ask, realizing that she's the one with a literal gun shot wound, yet you're the one who's being taken care of. You absentmindedly notice that the floor beneath you is clean, and wonder if she cleaned that up too.
You feel her shrug. “Used to it.” She rests her head on your shoulder, toying with the ends of your hair. “So…” She asks, voice slightly muffled. “Is this doing anything?”
She really has no clue.“Haven't you ever had a panic attack before?” You want to ask.
“Yeah…yeah. It is.” You reply instead, letting yourself savor the feeling for a few more moments before pulling away. It's odd, and surprising, but being held by her feels like the first right thing that's happened all night. “Thank you.” Moving away from her is somehow the hardest thing you've had to do tonight, and you start to regret it until you spy the fresh splotches of red staining her bandages.
Pull yourself together and help her, you admonish yourself.
She shrugs. “I don't really get it, but if it helped, then you're welcome. I suppose it’s the least I could have done given…ya know…” She gestures towards the front of the store with a sheepish look. You still don't quite know what went on out there, and to be honest, you don't really want to.
You laboriously push up to your feet, still a bit unsteady but not enough that you can't hide it now. She stays sitting on the floor, staring up at you as she leans back on her hands, her expression contemplative. For a split second, you get the odd feeling that she might pull you back down to the floor, but it passes and she looks away.
After a moment she jumps up, seating herself on the table once more. If you try, you can pretend that the events of the past hour or so never happened, and you're right back where you started, nervous only because of a bit of blood and a hot girl.
As you reach to undo the impromptu bandage she had applied, you fingers brush her side and you feel your cheeks pink automatically.
She laughs. “Fancy me that much, do ya?”
“And so what if I do?” You ask angrily, ripping away the gauze. She doesn't even wince, and it just makes you feel like a bad nurse.
“Shame we had to meet like this, you and I." She says, and you can feel like unwavering weight of her gaze on you. "I usually lie to girls about what I do for work. I wonder what I would have told you if we met out at a bar or a club.” She seems to consider it for a moment.
Being reminded that she's most likely a some sort of criminal isn't as concerning as it should have been–not when you're doing a happy little jig inside at the fact that she likes girls too.
Not that it's surprising but, well, you know you’re not supposed to judge someone's sexuality based on their appearance but…Well she looked like a lesbian through and through the second you saw her. It’s nice to know your gaydar is still accurate, all things considered.
“What makes you think I would have talked to you at a bar?" You retort, knowing full well that all it would have taken was a shot or two before you approached someone like her. Tall, confident, and masc, with a pretty face. She's exactly your type. You’d be deluding yourself into thinking otherwise but she doesn't have to know that. “Maybe I’ve got a bad case of Stockholm syndrome or something. You know, extremely traumatic circumstances and all.” You say, gesturing a hand at her abdomen as you disinfect the wound.
“Right,” She says, and the glint in her eye has you tensing up. “It’s the blood that's got you nervous, not me.” She says sarcastically.
“Exactly.” You reply, focusing on threading the needle to avoid meeting her gaze.
“So, it wouldn't have mattered if I approached you and told you all manner of pretty things?” She leans forward, whispering in your ear.
Your breath hitches, despite yourself. “What kind of pretty things?” You ask, hating that you want to know. She’s so close, you can see the details in all of her ear piercings, your gaze falling to a tattoo she has inked on her bicep, which makes you blush more. She has very nice arms.
She sits back and smirks at you. “Guess we’ll never know.”
“Oh fuck you.” You say, blushing furiously, embarrassed and annoyed.
“Who knows, maybe I’d have said something along those lines.” She teases, smiling.
You focus on tying the ends of the sutures, neatly snipping the extra length as you step back to admire your work, trying to ignore her insinuations.
“See?” She says, looking down as well. “All you needed was a little distraction. You’re not actually afraid of blood. Don’t let it stop you from doing what you want.”
You stare at her, realizing for the first time that her teasing had distracted you so much you truly had not thought to be nervous about the blood. “You…you..”
“Did that on purpose? Yes, and you're welcome.” She slides off the table and tugs her jacket on, balling up her bloodied shirt and hoodie and tossing them in the bin. “Well, best of luck with the whole nurse school thing.” She says casually, pulling out her phone and glancing at the screen. “Good news, love, bodies are gone.” She adds, shooting you a thumbs up as she pushes through the door to the store.
You stand there, open mouthed and still clutching the bloodied needle watching as the door starts to swing closed behind her. “Hey!” You shout, rushing after her, but when she turns, you aren't sure what to say.
“I…”
“Your work is good.” She says, patting her side. “Any hospital would be lucky to have you. Do me a favor, ya? Stop working in this shithole and go do what you were meant to. And here,” She tosses you a small brown paper bag from her jacket pocket before heading for the door. “For the stitches…” She says without turning around. “And the pineapple.”
By the time you look up, she’s gone, leaving to the chime of the same bell she had first appeared with.
You glance at the bag in your hands, tentatively opening it. Your eyes widen, almost dropping the bag in your surprise. Inside, stacks of crisp bills are neatly banded together. It’s more money than you've ever seen in your life, certainly much more than anything you've made working at the shop.
She had offered to pay you, but you honestly had forgotten about it, more focused on helping her. Besides, this was certainly too much. You run to the door, hoping to catch her, but the street outside is empty. She’s gone.
You sigh, glancing around the store for the first time, both surprised and impressed that it looks like nothing ever happened. Whoever she had called to clean up, they had done a good job.
Despite that, there’s still work left for you to finish tonight; inventory to count, things to restock. You glance down at the bag of money in your hands, then back up to one of the fluorescent lights flickering in the corner.
What I was ‘meant to do’, hmm? You contemplate her last words to you. The money she gave you is more than enough to cover the rest of your tuition, not to mention the gift of confidence that she gave you in allowing you to practice on her. And despite the horrifying experience of seeing a man shot at point blank range, you think that after tonight, nothing can phase you.
You take one last look around the store, filling your pockets with as many snacks as you can carry, then walk out the front door.
“Thank you, Will.” You whisper into the night air, hoping that the girl who has so suddenly given you a new shot at your dreams made it home safely. After a moment, you realize something that makes you stop and groan, right in the middle of the street.
“Dammit I never even got to kiss her.”