Finding Our Reality (The Reality Duet #2)

Chapter 40

CRUTCH

How can something so small hurt so bad.

Even to this day, I’m amazed at the pain.

I twist my arm, trying to decide the best angle to cut. The angry scar on my shoulder has been even angrier the past week. What started as a small, tender bump now looks like a bright red volcano. I open the first-aid kit and pull out the small black medical bag where I keep the sealed disposable scalpels.

I freeze the second I hear her feet padding down the stairs. I was hoping she wouldn’t wake up. That’s why I waited until the middle of the night. “Ry?”

“In here. In the kitchen.”

The second she walks into the room, my heart melts. I swear this woman makes me feel like I’ve grown a vagina. I’m so damn mushy all the time. I can’t even think straight when I’m around her.

Her wavy hair is pointing in a thousand different directions and her Harlan’s T-shirt grazes the tops of her thighs, drawing attention to every inch of those mile-long legs that I love so much. She rubs her sleep-swollen eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’ll be up in a minute.”

She takes a step closer, peeking around at the makeshift hospital I set up on the kitchen bar. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” She scurries over in front of me, scanning her eyes across my face and bare chest, searching for an injury. Her eyes widen and a blush covers her cheeks. It happens every time she studies my body.

Forget the vagina. That definitely makes me feel like a man.

When she finally eyes my shoulder, she jumps back. “Holy shit!”

“Language, language,” I tsk.

“That’s why you’ve been wearing a shirt?”

“I always wear a shirt.”

She cocks her hands on her hips. “Not around here you don’t.”

I smile. “And why do you think that is?”

She smirks, pointing her little chin in the air. “Because you love it when I ogle you like you’re some kind of male stripper. I’m just waiting on you to put a tip jar on the counter so I have to start filling it with dollar bills.”

I laugh, rubbing my hand across my stubble. “That’s not a bad idea.”

She takes a step closer and points at the jagged red bump protruding from my skin. “Something’s working its way out, isn’t it? What is it?”

“Plastic, metal, glass.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Is it infected?”

“No. But it could get infected if I don’t get it out. It’s ready. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Why aren’t you going to the hospital for this?”

“I can’t go to the hospital every time this happens. It’s not feasible, Lulu.”

She swallows loudly. “Okay. Tell me what to do.”

“Are you sure you wanna be here for this? Based on your reaction when you first saw my injury, it might not be the best thing.”

“It wasn’t the scar that upset me. It was the thought of losing you.” She reaches out, gently brushing her fingers across my collarbone. “Am I in danger of losing you?”

Grabbing her hand, I kiss her fingertips. “Never.”

“Well, then, we have nothing to worry about it.” She sighs and looks at all of the supplies. “Sounds like this will be a part of my life now. I need to know what happens.”

I lick my lips. “Alright.” I point to a small bag of needles. “Grab that shot of lidocaine. You need to inject it very slowly all around the bump.”

We give the medicine a few minutes to take effect, and she cleans the area with antiseptic wipes. “We need to cut with a scalpel. Can you do that?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. What if I cut too deep?” She chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve researched too many medical malpractice suits. I don’t wanna be on the receiving end.”

“It’s fine, I can do the cutting.” Hell, I’m an old pro by now. Looking over my shoulder, I make a small incision with steady hand. I guess if part of me had to get blown up, I’m glad it was my left side. I’m right-handed. I can’t imagine having to cut with my left hand. I tell Lulu to hold the gauze over the wound until the bleeding settles down.

By the third pile of gauze, the blood flow has slowed. “Won’t you need stitches?” she asks.

“I have some alternative suture kits. It’s kind of like butterfly tape except there are little brackets that you pull together to keep the skin closed.” I check the wound. Whatever it is, it’s green. I can see the edge of it already peeking through my filleted skin. “Grab the forceps.”

She picks them up, her fingers stained with my blood. “Okay, now what?”

“Dig it out.”

Her eyes widen and she holds her breath.

Laughing, I try to wrangle the instrument from her hand. “Here, I’ll do it.”

She yanks away. “No, I’ll do it.” Pushing my knees apart, she steps between my spread legs to get a better angle. “I just grab it?”

“Grab it and pull it out.” I wink. “And then get the shit out of my arm.”

She lifts an eyebrow, not amused.

She bends her head and investigates my shoulder. Unable to help myself, my free arm snakes around her waist and my hand travels to her ass, cupping it. All I feel is T-shirt. I don’t think she’s wearing any panties.

“Ry,” she warns.

“Sorry. I’ll stop.”

She bites her lip. “Okay. Here goes.” The second the forceps pierce inside my arm, she asks if I’m okay. She’s so nervous she actually yells the question, nearly bursting my eardrum.

“I’m fine. That’s what the lidocaine was for.”

Nodding, I watch as she grabs the very edge of the object and tries to pull it out.

Well, that’s never gonna work.

Sure enough, my blood makes it too slippery, and the shrapnel slips from the forceps and dives back into my skin, making her gasp in horror.

“It’s okay. Try again. You have to dig deeper.”

For a split second she looks upset, but because she’s My Lulu, that doesn’t last long. Stiffening her spine, she squares her shoulders and narrows her eyes into small little beads. She’s gripping the forceps so tightly her knuckles are turning white. She finds the edge of the debris and slides farther down into my body. My flesh makes a sickening squishy sound, like someone’s kneading ground beef through their fingers. She goes a little deeper than the lidocaine went, and I clench my teeth, fighting through the pain, trying not to move. She yanks the remnant from my body, and the wound actually makes a large popping sound, celebrating the expulsion of the foreign object. A large dollop of blood pours from the cut and rolls down my arm, pooling in the crevice of my elbow.

Her mouth falls open as we stare it.

Green glass. Like an old-fashioned soda bottle. About three quarters the size of my thumbnail.

“Glass,” she whispers. “You have glass inside of your body.” Her lip quivers. “Someone tried to kill you.”

Grabbing the forceps from her, I toss them down on the counter. Drops of my blood mar the surface. Wrapping my good hand around her neck, I graze her puffy little scar with my thumb. “Hey. Look at me. I’m fine. Completely fine. We’ll clean me up and throw that shrapnel right in the trash, right where it belongs. It’s not coming between you and me. Nothing is.”

Taking a deep breath, she nods, forcing her emotions in check. “Now what?”

I show her how to flush the wound, pack it with some antibiotic ointment, and close it with the suture alternative. Finally, we cover it with some fresh gauze and a large waterproof bandage. The lidocaine is starting to wear off, so I pop an over-the-counter pain reliver and watch as she cleans up the mess. When everything is tidy, she comes back over to check on her handiwork.

I tug her back between my legs. “How’s it look?”

She nods. “Good.”

“Good?” I snort. “Most of the time, I don’t even think about it. But every once in a while, I’ll pass by a mirror and it catches my attention. It looks like my shoulder went through a meat grinder.”

Cocking her head, she watches me with those mesmerizing eyes. Honey and caramel and maple syrup all swirled into one. Lifting my right hand, she moves my fingertips across the fresh scar on her forearm from her fall at the gas station on our way back from Atlanta. She then moves my hand to her left thigh and forces me to trace the entire length of her hip surgery scar.

She’s definitely not wearing any panties.

Grabbing the hem of her shirt, she yanks it over head and tosses it across the kitchen counter. Her large tits swing in front of my face, causing my mouth to go dry and my dick to go hard. Her nipples immediately peak and the milky skin of her breasts breaks out in chill bumps. My eyes travel down the firm lines and soft curves of her body. Her shaved little pussy is like a magnet. I can’t stay away from it. I couldn’t then, and I sure as hell can’t stay away from it now.

She reaches back out, grabbing my hand again, and places it on her pelvis, right across the soft skin above her pubic bone. Together, we trace the thin white line. It’s barely visible, but I know it’s there. In our time together, I’ve mapped every inch of her perfect body.

“My C-section scar.” Twisting to the left, she moves her head to the side so the glow from the kitchen light illuminates the shadows of her stomach. She points to the small pink lines on either side of her hip bones. “Stretch marks.” She looks up at me. “Sometimes, I see all these things and I think I’m not beautiful.”

Kill. Me. Now.

This woman is mine. She’s all mine. She’s my everything. She’s the epitome of beauty.

And it’s my job to make her feel beautiful every single second of every single day. For the rest of our lives.

“Those scars are proof of your battles, Lulu. You’ve fought war after war, and you’re still standing.” I touch her forearm. “Some mother tucked her little boy into bed tonight because of you.” I caress the vertical lines of her stretch marks. “Our daughter lived inside of this body.” I shake my head in awe. “You grew a human being inside of you. Words can’t describe how amazing that is.” My fingers move over to her C-section scar. “We didn’t get the time with Reality that we wanted, but it doesn’t make it any less real. It doesn’t make her any less real. These scars gave me a child, and they make your body even more remarkable than it was twelve years ago. That seventeen-year-old I met was gorgeous, but this thirty-year-old? She’s absolutely breathtaking.”

Lulu smiles softly. Her hands wrap around my thighs.

I lean forward, whispering to her. “Tell me something. Something no one else knows.”

I can see the wheels spinning in her head and a flash of brilliance sparkles in her eyes when she settles on something. “LMC Forensic Consulting doesn’t stand for Love My Career. LMC stands for Luella Margaret Crutchfield.”

Kill. Me. Again.

Damn… That is one sweet sounding name.

I can’t hold it in any longer. I’m so tired of not saying it. “I love you.”

She gasps. Her hand flies to her chest. Knowing My Lulu, she’s probably checking herself for a heartbeat.

My fingers dig into her hips, and I possessively tug her against me. “I love you, Lulu. I always have. I never stopped, not for one single minute. I will love you until the day I take my last breath. You’re mine. Never before. Never after.”

Her eyes hood with desire, and her face flushes pink with passion. “I lo—”

I cover her mouth with my hand. “I don’t think so,” I scold her. “Remember, we can’t say it at the same time. Your rule.”

She playfully bites my finger. “Well then, how about I just show you.”

Sweeter words have never been spoken.