3
JOANNA
The rest of the drive to my property passed in silence. The man made not a peep, and that was just fine by me. He stayed alive, which was what really mattered. It was still a concern of mine at that point--that he could have internal bleeding or something more critical, and then suddenly fall over dead without another word.
But something kept me driving home instead of to town.
It might have been the insistence in his voice, the way he'd reacted when I mentioned hospital. There was a fear there, and more than just a dislike of places full of sick folks. This was more like the fear of... getting caught.
Like a criminal.
I shook away the thought before it could take hold. Let's focus on getting him safe.
But there was another reason I took him home, one I couldn't quite understand. It was as if something were pushing me in that direction, a barrier of air I could just barely not see, requiring me to do what he wanted. Even being aware of it, I didn't stop and turn around. I continued home.
I was probably in shock. I did just hit a guy in my goddamn car.
Nevermind what he looked like.
The property appeared to the left, and I turned down the gravel and dirt road. The snow was falling harder now, drifting through the barren trees like aimless soldiers coming home from war. It was a relief when my cottage appeared in the distance, growing closer as we bumped down the path.
I parked and turned the engine off. We shared a quiet look--he still didn't seem to have anything going on behind his eyes, definitely concussed--and then I sprang into action.
I half-carried him inside, flicking on the lights as I went. Everything was wood: the walls were wood, the floors were hard wood, the furniture and kitchen counters were framed in wood. I only had the one bedroom, so I dragged the strange wounded man over to my couch and dropped him like a sack of potatoes.
Good lord. I'd assumed that in better lighting he would look less like the cover of my book, but somehow he looked more like him. The scruff on his jaw, eyes like caramel...
The eyes locked onto me with greater intensity, and I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
"You, uhh... dude," I said. "What hurts?"
"Hurts?" he repeated in a deep voice. "Nothing. Nothing hurts."
"I hope that's a joke." I went to his right arm and pulled up the shirt. Blood caked his skin from the bicep down past the elbow, already dark and dry. I turned the arm over carefully, methodically, looking for a wound.
"Where are you injured?"
He didn't respond, so I ran my fingers along the skin. I was hoping to feel a gash or wound that way, but nothing stood out. Even when I went up his bicep toward his shoulder--feeling thick muscle the entire way--there was no source for the blood.
Yet when I pulled the sleeve back down I noticed a dime-sized hole in the fabric, aligned with most of the blood. The sight of him on the road, with pale bone exposed through the skin, returned to me.
I discarded the thought.
"Do you know what day it is?" I asked with calm insistence. "Who the President is?"
The man gave a slight shake of the head. He wasn't focusing on me directly; it was like he stared through me to something else only he could see.
"Do you know your name?"
"Name?" he blurted.
"Yes. Your name. The thing we call you. I'm Jo, which means you are...?" All he did was blink. This was bad. What was I doing? He was clearly concussed, and probably had worse internal bleeding. Bringing him home was stupid.
But before I could say as much, he reached up and grabbed my wrist. His fingers were long and smooth, and his touch as warm as the fireplace.
"Eric's. I am Eric's..."
"Eric's what?" Eric was the mechanic in town. "Eric's employee? Eric's cousin?"
"No." He gently tapped his chest with two extended fingers, a gesture that seemed unique and foreign. "Me."
"You're Eric. Got a last name?" He stared at me like I was speaking French, so I shook it off and said, "You claim you're not injured. You say you're not hurting. I'm not sure what to do for you." I turned to glance at the kitchen. "Are you hungry, Eric?"
He ate an entire bowl of leftover venison stew so fast I ended up reheating another one, which he ate only a fraction slower. While he worked on the second I built a fire in the fireplace, making a note to get more starter logs when I went into town tomorrow. Once the fire was roaring and he'd finished the second bowl there seemed to be more light in his eyes. Only then did I begin to relax about his condition.
"So you're sure nothing hurts?" I insisted, sitting on the coffee table across from him. God, he was gorgeous. "You don't need to hide it in a vain attempt at manliness. If something's achy I need to know."
He smiled. It was the first time he had, I realized, because I surely would have remembered such a smile before then. It pinched his eyes and flashed white teeth, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe.
"I am good," he said, sounding almost normal. "Thank you, Jo."
My name on his lips was as intoxicating as all the alcohol in Harry's bar.
I set him up with extra pillows and some blankets, and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom in case he needed it. I retired to my bedroom feeling vaguely uncomfortable about the entire thing.
It's not often you hit a man in your truck and brought him home. Like the female equivalent of a caveman hitting a woman on the head and dragging her back to his cave.
Is that what I want? I let the idea swirl around in my head for a few moments, but no longer than that. I couldn't fantasize about Eric. He would probably try to sue me when he came to his senses.
But as I crawled under my covers, I couldn't banish the image I'd seen on the road: a narrow focus of light as bright as any moon beam. It must have been some sort of optical illusion from the snow and headlights--Eric was very clearly made of warm flesh--but the image remained nonetheless.
The thought that I was doing something wrong persisted. But aside from driving him back to town myself, I didn't like my other options. Jerome, who ran the night shift at the town's small clinic, liked to drink away the boredom of his shift. Calling him out here would likely get both him and Eric killed. Leslie was always a backup, but she was off-duty and probably three beers deep at Harry's bar. I certainly didn't want to disturb her. At least not until the morning.
I resolved to talk to Leslie about it tomorrow, and sleep eventually came.