14. Libido Loco

Walking through the lobby on our way up to the suite, Sands and I meet George, on his way out of the small general store the hotel boasts. He's found a clean shirt somewhere, is freshly shaved and his mahogany hair is pulled neatly back.

"Let's take another look at your arm," he suggests, once we've gotten upstairs. The bag of stuff he's procured includes more peroxide, a souvenir tee-shirt and a fresh can of root beer. I'm touched.

With the Dixie Chicks shirt off again, and the gauze unwrapped, the wound looks really nasty. George is shaking his head. "Are you allergic to penicillin?" he asks. I shake my head. "Good, take two of these."

"You know, if you've got the kind in capsule form, you can pour it directly into the wound," Sands offers.

"All they had was tablets."

"I'm sure this'll be fine," I say, and knock them back with some pop. I hope so; my arm doesn't look good.

"I don't like the way it's inflamed," George broods. "I'd try to get the bullet out, but they didn't have any tweezers."

Once again, I go purse-diving. "Manicure kit!" I say, triumpant, as I pull it out.

A grin from the big Mexican. "Nice work. I don't suppose you've got a needle and a couple feet of catgut in there, do you?" He's floored when my compact sewing kit produces a curved needle - I've never used it on myself, but it came in handy once on a wilderness trip. No catgut, but I've got waxed dental floss. He blinks.

Guys. They just don't get it. That's what purses are for - so you have the stuff you need with you when you need it. Sheesh.

First there's peroxide, then there's prodding. My right hand is grasping my left shoulder as he probes the wound. I clench my teeth - I can be as macho as the next guy: I'm gonna prove it. Sweet fuck, that hurts, and so far, all George is doing is finding the damn bullet. He's found it, alright. Okay, it hurts, all three of us know it hurts, but I am not going to cry like a girl, I'm not, I'm not !

"You won't believe how much this is going to hurt," he says quietly. His left hand braces my injured arm against my side, and I take a deep breath. The tweezers are about an inch deep under my skin, looking tiny in George's big, blunt fingers.

"Oh, God, I can't watch!" Sands wails theatrically, and as I look toward him to cuss him out, George wrenches the bullet free with a good-size chunk of my arm, by the feel of it. My jaw drops, and the next sound out of my mouth is going to be highly soprano and disturb the other guests for several floors around.

Swiftly, George leans forward and covers my mouth with his. As diversions go, this one is magnificent. I concentrate on his velvet lips for all I'm worth. I've discovered a whole new kind of sonar...it echoes from our mouths to the kernel of pleasure between my thighs. The pain is distant; it's happening to someone else, on another planet. His right hand is cupping my left breast and his other hand is around my waist. My left hand is unbuttoning his shirt, while my right hand, oblivious to what's going on north of its elbow, is kneading the front of his tight pants.

Any second now, I'm going to drag him down on top of me and start tearing the rest of our clothes off. I don't care: the three most dangerous words in the English language. Something in my brain has short-circuited. Restraint? Yeah, right! Every female hormone I possess is shrieking more! more - never mind that I'm oozing blood and hurting. I could bleed to death in mid-tryst, and I'd still have a smile on my face.

We get a wake-up call from Sands, who clears his throat. "I'd say get a room, but, ah..."

At that, George and I glare at Sands, who ought to spontaneously combust right then - then look speculatively at the gun on the bedside table. There's a moment of mental telepathy - we're both wondering which of us would get to do the honors - and we simultaneously burst out laughing.

"Was it something I said?" he inquires. "Come on, you guys, I'm blind, not deaf. You're supposed to be sewing up her arm, not taking out her tonsils."

"I haven't had tonsils since I was eight years old," I say primly...then dissolve into helpless laughter again.

"Yeah, well, I'm not even gonna go there," snickers Sands. "You guys quit playing doctor and take care of business, will you?" He walks back through the connecting area and into the other room.

There's an awkward moment as the man I've barely known for twenty-four hours looks back at me. I'm not usually like this; I'm always the one who's in control. Bad things happened the last time I wasn't in control. Now my self-discipline is in splinters, being rinsed away with hydrogen peroxide. Strong fingers pat my shoulder gently. Slowly, I move my right hand to the broad plain of his chest, letting it lie flat against his dark, wiry pelt.

As he takes up the curved needle, his face is intent with concentration. His eyes are amber, with little flecks of gold and copper, his skin the color of mocha. Beneath my hand, I feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. I try to mirror his slow, even breathing. I do my best to let go of the discomfort, concentrating on my breath: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, following his lead. The balcony doors are open; I hear the rush of the surf on the beach, background music to the pulsebeat in my ears. I'm calm. There's nothing I can do about the sensation of pain; it's part of being alive...only a small part... I'm aware of the needle piercing my arm as he stitches the wound closed, aware of his looming presence...the warmth of his skin beneath my fingers...how careful he's being...the lingering desire I feel deep down...he's a fine-looking man, that's the first thing I noticed about him, but he's more than that...I trust him completely, and I don't understand why...

"All done" he says, centuries later. I come back from the warm safe haven I've been floating in...his amber eyes are sanctuary. George eases closer to me, arms encircling me protectively and I rest the side of my face against his chest as he strokes my hair. Warm and safe...I sigh...his lips brush my forehead. It's not about sex this time...it's something else. I'm not sure quite what. This is unfamiliar territory - no maps, no GPS.

The rational Kate who looks at intimacy as a game for suckers is ranting in a sound-proofed room somewhere in the Marianas Trench. I hope she stays there.

Dawnie-7: Yes, everything really does happen for a reason. It wasn't all just an excuse to hook up Kate and El. Honest.