Page 69 of Salt Kiss
“Ah, Tristan,” says Mark, noticing me. “I seem to have run into some trouble with my shoulder.”
And yes, he has. As I come closer, I can see that somehow the stitches have pulled and several of them have ripped. The skin is a torn and ragged mess, like a gaping maw below his clavicle, and streaks of dried crimson track down his pectoral muscle to his stomach.
Fear and worry join the anger and heartbreak, and there’s a cold, choppy storm in my chest of emotions I can’t possibly separate. “I was only gone for two hours,” I say. “How?”
“I thought I’d carry one of the damaged chairs out from the hall to the lobby,” Mark says like it’s no big deal, like he’s explaining how he got a splinter. “It was heavier than I thought, and it just happened.”
“It just happened?” Dr. Sutcliff demands, setting his bag onto the table with a pissythunk. “You are so fucking lucky I’m free today, or I would have just let you suffer. I would have told you to go to the goddamn hospital, I don’t care who wants you dead because Idon’t have timeto be redoing my work every time you think about playing HGTV in your goddamn pervert clubhouse—”
The doctor’s invective continues as he rips open sterile packages of needles and filament and as he starts removing the old stitches to make way for the new ones. He only pauses once—when he’s pouring the alcohol over the torn skin and Mark sucks air through his teeth—and it’s only to give Mark a vindicated glare.
And then he’s off again, muttering and grumbling as he grabs his curved needle and needle holder, and Mark settles on the table in front of him.
“You’re going to have an ugly fucking scar,” Dr. Sutcliff says. “And I don’t want to hear any bitching about it because I already tried to give you a nice scar, and this is what you get for not listening.”
“Do the mafiosos and Russian vory give you this much trouble, Sutcliff?”
“Never,” Sutcliff answers crisply, stabbing the needle unceremoniously into Mark’s skin. Mark blinks up at the ceiling, giving no outward sign that he feels anything. “You know why? Because they have some respect for my profession. You don’t respect anything that can’t be turned into a game at your little club.”
“Medical kink is very popular,” says Mark, sounding offended for the first time. “I own a lot of speculums.”
“You,” the doctor tells me, ignoring him. “Go get a glass of ice water, a wet washcloth, and a towel. He’ll need to get cleaned up after I’m done.”
I obey, and I linger for a moment in front of Mark’s bathroom mirror, washcloth and towel in hand, my eyes on the drawer between sinks.
Despite the bloody scene just outside, my mind stalls, slicing at itself in midst of the domestic reality of Mark getting married.
My toothbrush is in here, my deodorant.
Will he ask me to take them back to my apartment? Will they get shoved to the back of the drawer to make room forIsolde’s toothbrush?Isolde’sdeodorant?
Will Mark still want me to—
No. No, even he can’t be that sadistic. To expect me to give him my mouth or my body, to be available for his needs, when he’ll be married to someone else. Even if he is polyamorous and even if his wife is okay with it, I don’t think I could ever...share—
The jealousy would eat me alive. It’s already eating me alive.
And imagining him bending me over and wedging his cock inside me for a fast fuck while his wife is just a room away...
My cock gives a quick, urgent stir, like it’s trying to hoist a flag to get my attention, and I spin away from the bathroom counter and stalk out into the hallway, trying to outpace my body’s reaction to the scenario. Even if I were desperate enough to let Mark use me after his deception, I could never be a party to infidelity.
I go out to the large space that contains the kitchen, dining room, and living room, and see that Dr. Sutcliff has finished the stitches and is sealing a fresh, clear bandage over the wound. He pulls out a syringe, vial, and alcohol swab and starts prepping Mark’s elbow. I notice that the IV catheter on the back of Mark’s hand is gone now, a small bandage in its place.
“You’ll need IV antibiotics for the next few days, and since you’re so keen to be done with IV bags, I’ll come by myself and give you the shots. Not like I don’t have better things to do, but patient knows best, right? Make a fist.” He pulls the medicine from the vial, presses the plunger to remove the excess air, and then slips the needle into Mark’s elbow. He pushes the medicine in slowly, looking at his watch as he does. “You also need torest, and I swear to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that if you tear asecondset of stitches, I’m duct-taping you closed next time.”
Mark relaxes his hand, and I hate how my eyes automatically track the movement, the strong fingers, the taut muscles lengthening under the inked skin of his forearm.
“How long do I need to rest?” Mark asks. “I occasionally have other things to do aside from having a shoulder, you know.”
Dr. Sutcliff doesn’t lift his gaze from his watch, his other hand still slowly pressing the medicine into Mark’s arm. “I’d tell you two weeks, but I know you won’t listen. Give me a week. Just give me a week to make sure we’re not going to get an infection that wants to spread to your heart and kill you. Okay?”
A put-upon sigh. “Fine.”
Dr. Sutcliff finishes with the syringe, presses a square of gauze to the punctured skin, and then nods to Mark to press his own fingers over the gauze instead.
“So...hypothetically, a three-week yacht trip across the Atlantic,” Mark says casually, coming to sit upright on the table. “Starting this weekend. You’d say no to that?”
Three-week yacht trip...
