Stitch *On Hold*

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Chapter Two

We drove for what felt like hours but in reality, it had probably only been about half an hour. I watched as we rounded the street corner, entering a quiet cul-de-sac in an upscale residential area. He pulled his bike into the driveway of a newer-built house. It was modern, homey looking despite the cool tones of the building.

He cut the engine of the bike. I immediately released him, he let out a soft groan as I awkwardly moved off of the bike. I watched him as he slowly moved from the bike, his hand falling back to his side. He pulled his hand away and looked down at it.

“Just a graze.” He said to himself. “A deep one though.” He let out a sigh before he looked up at me.

“Come on.” He jerked his head towards the house.

“My name’s Ella by the way.” I said as I followed behind him.

“Felix.” He replied as he punched in a key code to unlock the front door.

“You honestly live here?” I asked surprised as I looked around at the glamorous house.

Being a part of an illegal business really pays off.

“What? Just because I’m part of a biker club I must live in a run-down house, play poker with my friends and smoke cigarettes?” He walked into the kitchen, the lights automatically turned on at the detection of movement.

He pulled open a few drawers, his right hand fumbling through them as he searched for something, while his other hand kept the pressure on his side.

“You know how to do stitches, Ella?” He asked as he pulled out a first aid box, then moved to grab a bottle of liquor from a cabinet.

I snorted.

Oh, the irony.

He looked up, his eyebrow raised as he watched me.

“Yeah, I uh…I don’t do that.” I cringed at the thought of having to touch him again.

“What? Stitches?” He moved to sit down at the table.

“No, touch people.” I said. “I don’t touch people.”

“Do you have a phobia?”

I opened my mouth to respond, hesitating before saying, “Sure, something like that.”

“I was hoping you’d stitch me up.” He said as he shrugged off his jacket. “I can do it myself, but I’m more likely to make a mess of it.” He reached down and pulled one arm from his shirt before he reached and slowly pulled it down off the other arm. He let out a soft hiss as his blood-soaked shirt pulled away from his wound.

He tossed the shirt on the ground and sat down. I watched him, admiring the shape of his body. My eyes travelled over his wide chest and down his toned abdomen. My eyes moved to his wound. The bullet grazed his skin, leaving a deeper trail in its path. Less than ideal for an easy clean-up job. I watched as he wiped the trailing blood from his side, cleaning up his skin with a cloth to see what he needed to do.

My eyes paused in their admiration on the medium-sized tattoo that sat halfway between his last rib and hip. The number 97 sat boldly against his fair skin. The 9 a blazing red, and the 7 a bold orange. Like flames in a fire.

I felt my heart drop to my stomach as my mind comprehended what those numbers meant. The bold red 9 telling me he was once at White Valley, the 7 telling me that with just one touch, one flick of his fingers he could set this whole building on fire.

My eyes moved back to his, he was watching me through his pained gaze. Watching my reaction to his tattoo, to his truth. A truth that very many would not understand. To lots of people, those numbers would just be another tattoo. To me…to me, those numbers meant so much more.

He gave me one last hesitant look before he threaded the needle. He grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a large swig before he splashed some on his graze. He pulled out a thick stick of wood, placing it in his mouth to bite down on. Something to distract him from the pain of pulling skin being forced back together.

I watched him as he hesitated before he pushed the needle up through his skin. He groaned loudly against the wood in his mouth. His chest rising in a deep breath as he squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled the needle the rest of the way through.

I swallowed, my throat feeling tight and dry as I watched him make a mess of his stitches. I gave myself a shake, taking a deep slow breath.

It’s okay, I won’t kill him. He’s like me, he’ll be fine. I have control, I know my control. I can help him.

I gave myself a pep talk in my mind as I watched him ready himself for the next go. I moved towards him, my hands reached for the gloves in the first aid kit. I pulled another chair up beside him before I put the gloves on.

He looked at me, a silent thank you was passed between us. I nodded at him, taking the needle from his shaking hand. I took another deep breath before I placed my hand against his skin and proceeded to do what he couldn’t.


By the time I had finished the eight stitches, Felix was slouched in the chair. Sweat creased his skin, exhaustion blanketed his body like a heavy quilt. His breathing was in slow deep breaths as he tried to regain his energy to move from the chair.

I pulled the bloody gloves off my hands and tossed them into the bin full of bloody gauze. I moved to the sink and washed my hands and up my arms removing any blood that was leftover. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

It had been so long since I had touched another person for that long. It had been years since I had touched someone, let alone a half-naked male…a glorious looking half-naked male. I stood there looking down at my hands in silence. I could feel my tense muscles slowly starting to relax after spending so much time tight as I focused not only on Felix’s wound but also making sure I didn’t boil him from the inside out.

I heard him heave a heavy sigh. My gaze moved back to the stranger across the room. He slowly pushed himself from the chair. He slowly moved towards me, his movements slow, stiff. He held his side as he moved. He gathered a glass from the shelf beside me, before swinging the tap in his direction and filling the cup with cold water.

“Thank you.” He rasped before allowing the cool liquid to slip down his throat.

I nodded, unsure of what to say. You’re welcome would have probably done the trick, but that seemed as if it wasn’t good enough.

He set the glass in the sink. He shuffled back, catching himself on the counter as he swayed. I clenched my hands and wrapped my arm through his so he could use me as a crutch. I took in a shaky breath as we walked into the next room.

He collapsed into the black leather couch. His head leaned back against the small pillow. His eyes remained closed. I grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and tossed it over him.

I shifted out of the room. I stood for a long time staring at the photo frames on the wall, awkwardly trying to figure out what to do next.

Do I just leave him here?

The thought crossed my mind a few times before I dismissed it. I felt obligated to stay, watch over him. To make sure that he didn’t pull any stitches in his sleep. But in reality, what really made me want to stay was the fact that he was like me, and for that, I wanted to get to know him.

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