Blood Like Poison (16 page)

His movement caused the air to stir around my face.  I felt an unusual wetness all over my skin, on my ears and my neck.  I tried to open my eyes again and this time I succeeded, but I still couldn’t see anything.  We were in the dark.  I couldn’t even see where Bo was in relation to me; I could only feel that he was near.

“Where are we?”

“In the basement,” Bo ground out, it seemed through gritted teeth.

“What happened?”

“A tree fell across the yard, across the steps and hit you.”

“Am I alright?”  A silly question, I know, since I was alive and talking, but somehow, I thought the answer might not be that simple.

“You’ll be fine,” he answered gruffly.

“Why are we in the dark?”

“The, uh, the tree knocked out the lights down here.”

“So, who was that guy?”

“I don’t know.  I think he had me confused with someone else.” Bo’s tone was withdrawn and abrupt.

 “Oh,” I said, feeling absurdly suspicious, but if he didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t press.   “Maybe we should go upstairs.  I feel wet.  I think I might be bleeding.”

Other than an aching head, I didn’t feel like I’d been wounded, fatally or otherwise.  Surely if I was hurt badly, I’d know it.  I probably needed to check anyway.  That was the smart thing to do.

“Here,” he said, sliding an arm beneath my shoulders.  “You shouldn’t walk.  I’ll have to carry you.”

The fact that he didn’t seem too pleased about that hurt my feelings, which then irritated me.  Both feelings were eclipsed, however, by the heavenly feel of his chest pressed against my side when he picked me up. 

When I was firmly in his arms, he gasped.  It hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment that he might be hurt, too.

“Are you alright?  You don’t have to carry me,” I said earnestly, all the while my body was rebelling at the idea of being out of his arms—ever.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured me, though I could tell that his teeth were still gritted.

He carried me remarkably easily up the concrete steps and around to the back door.  Once inside the dark house, Bo walked through to the bathroom and deposited me gently on the toilet.  He didn’t turn on the light.

“I’ll let you get cleaned up.  The sight of your blood…” he trailed off in a very telling manner.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  You’re one of those people that can’t stand the sight of blood?”  I hadn’t even thought of that, but it would explain his behavior and his sharpness.

“Something like that,” he said uncomfortably.  “Holler if you need anything.  There are wash cloths under the sink.”  With that, he closed the door and I was alone in the dark.  

Luckily, it seemed like a tiny bathroom, which made sense in such a small house.  When I reached out, I could feel the sink to my left and walls to my right and in front of me.

I stood and walked my hand around beside the door jamb until I felt a light switch.  I flipped it and turned around to face the mirrored medicine cabinet that hung over the sink.

As soon as I saw my reflection, my heart tripped into a faster cadence.  I looked like Carrie in the scene from that movie where they dump the bucket of pig’s blood on her.  My hair and clothes were saturated with blood, and my face and neck were streaked with thick rivulets of it. 

Reaching up, I felt through my hair for some kind of wound.  One spot on my scalp felt a little sore, bruised almost, but I felt no gashes or punctures.  I’d always heard that the scalp bled a lot; maybe I’d been scraped by the tree and it had broken the skin enough to bleed, but not do any real damage.

I closed my eyes and leaned on the sink, encouraging myself to calm down.  It’s incredibly alarming, the sight of your reflection covered in blood.  Even if the injury isn’t serious, it’s still a scary thing to behold.

Reaching beneath the sink, I took out a rag.  I hated to ruin one of Bo’s wash cloths, but I had to get myself cleaned up so I could get past Bo and get home.  My parents would freak if they saw me like this.  Mom would probably even be home and sober since Dad’s flight got in before lunch.

  I wet the cloth and wiped at my face and neck then rinsed and repeated dozens of times until I’d gotten most of the blood off and had disguised it as much as possible on my uniform top.  Luckily our school colors were black, white and maroon and most of the blood had gotten on my shoulders where the colors were darkest.

When I was once again presentable, I made my way through the house toward the only other light I saw shining.  It was the kitchen light and Bo was standing at the sink.  I would’ve been able to find him anyway, just following my nose.  I could smell his scent like a heavenly musk trail through the house.

Bo was facing the hallway.  He must’ve heard me coming.

“Are you alright?”  As he asked, he walked over to where I’d stopped just inside the doorway.  The closer he got, the harder my pulse drummed in my ears.

Coming to a stop in front of me, he rubbed my arms comfortingly.

“I’m fine.  I can’t really figure out where all that blood came from.”

“Scalp wounds bleed a lot,” he confirmed matter-of-factly.

I couldn’t help but grin.  “That’s what I’ve always heard, too.”

Bo had a smudge of blood across his cheek.  I reached up to wipe it away.

“What is it?”

“You must’ve gotten some blood on you when you carried me up the stairs.”  I looked at his clothes.  There was not a single drop of blood on them. 

“I changed,” he offered, as if reading my mind. 

I nodded, just then noticing the clock that hung on the wall behind Bo’s head.

“Ohmigod!  Is that clock right?”

Bo turned to look at the clock, too.  “Yep.”

It read 2:40.

“I’ve got to go.  My parents are gonna freak!”  Once again, I’d been unconscious longer than I’d thought.  No wonder there was so much blood on me.

“I’ll drive you,’ Bo said, walking with me to the door.

“You don’t have to do that.  I’m fine.  Really,” I promised.  Not that I didn’t want to spend a few more minutes with Bo, but I’d feel terrible that he’d have to walk all the way back home, especially at 3:00 in the morning.

Bo stopped just outside the door, turning to look back at me.  “I’m sure you are, but I’m not willing to take the chance.”

My stomach fluttered and I had to work to suppress the grin that was pulling at my lips.  Bo took my hand and tugged.

“Come on.”

At my car, Bo let go of my hand long enough to get me inside and shut the door.  Once he was seated behind the wheel and had pulled out into the street, however, he casually reached over and wrapped his fingers around mine again. 

Surprisingly, instead of the coolness I’d come to expect from him, his skin was really, really warm where he held my hand over the gear shift, just like the last time I’d awakened at his house.

My house came into view all too soon.  Even though I’d spent most of the night unconscious—again—I still didn’t want my time with Bo to end. 

Both my parents’ vehicles were in the driveway and Bo wasted no time with a lengthy goodbye. 

“I’ll get out of here so you can get inside.  I hope you’re not in too much trouble,” he said genuinely.

“It’ll be fine.”

The way he was staring into my eyes, I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead, Bo brought my fingers to his lips and kissed them.

He asked softly, “Call you tomorrow?”

I nodded and then he was gone, getting quietly out of the car and disappearing into the night.

I sat in the passenger side for a few minutes, thinking of Bo, basking in the lingering scent of him.  If Target had a Bo-scented car freshener, I’d buy one.  Or ten.

The thought was so silly I had to laugh as I got out of the car to go inside.

I stood at the front door, listening for sounds from inside.  Even through the thick wood of the door, I could hear some light snoring.  Dad.

The door was unlocked so I cracked it just enough to squeeze through and then shut it silently behind me.  The house smelled of barbecue sauce and old wine. 

I crept to the door of the living room and peeked inside.  Mom was crashed with her feet in Dad’s lap and he was sound asleep with his head leaned back against the couch cushions.  His mouth was hanging open and he was snoring, just as I’d suspected. 

As I crept to my room, I was surprised I could hear Dad’s snoring outside; it didn’t seem that loud at all.

The first thing I did in my room was to go and raise my window, though I left the screen down this time.  I could hear the frogs and crickets outside, as well as the breeze ruffling the leaves and bending the tree branches.  I inhaled deeply.  The cool night air teased my nostrils, carrying the scent of rain.  Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the patter of a light drizzle.

I was turning away to change into my pajamas when a familiar thrill skittered down my spine, racing through my blood.  A faint hint of citrus tinged the air for just a moment before it was gone. 

I looked out the window, past the grainy grid of the screen, peering into the night.  Other than the gentle shift of foliage, there was no movement, no evidence that someone was out there, that I wasn’t alone in the night.

Shrugging it off as my overactive imagination, I grabbed my pajamas and headed for the bathroom to clean up and wash my hair.

********

The next morning I woke early.  The birds outside my window were cheeping more vivaciously than ever and I could hear Mom banging around in the kitchen like there were no walls between us.

I lay there, feeling the blood pulse beneath my skin, enjoying the remaining scent of Bo in my hair where it was spread across my pillow.

Mom said something to Dad about waking me up for breakfast, so I went ahead and rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

When I stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later, Mom was scooting pancakes off the griddle and onto three plates.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” she chirped cheerfully. 

I eyed her skeptically.  At times, I don’t think I gave her enough credit; she was quite the actress.  Behind her overly bright smile and strategic makeup, I could see the tremble of rising discomfort in her bloodshot eyes.  Her need for a drink was almost a tangible thing.  Dad seemed not to notice, but even if he did, he would do his best to pretend otherwise, which is probably exactly what he was doing. 

With a sigh, I fell in to the recently-established grand tradition of the Heller household and pasted on a fake smile of my own, jumping head first into the façade.

“Smells good,” I said, taking a seat at the perfectly set table.  I took a big gulp of orange juice and thought surely it was the best I’d ever had, the sweetly tart liquid coating my tongue and sliding down my throat like fruity silk. 

Mom served me and Dad then took her seat at the table.  Dad said the blessing and we dug in.  The only thing that ruined the Cleaver-like meal was the depressing squawk of the reporter that was dishing out news from the television on the counter.