7: Cold Against My Skin

"Sam." I didn't know why I said his name, because it only caused my throat to flare up in pain once more. But I just wanted to feel the syllable on my tongue, and I was relieved when he looked at me. Because before, his expression was distant and his eyes were clouded over. As much as it was crazy for me to admit, I was worried that maybe he had a concussion or something.

He didn't respond, just standing up and holding out a hand for me to take. It was a weird experience in almost every way, because I never thought of him as the type of person to offer me help before. But there we were, both in pain and complete disarray. I allowed him to pull me to my feet, and we stood in front of each for a long moment.

Sam was looking at me closely, as though searching for something that only he could find. Then he closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. His head was clearly hurting, which was not at all shocking judging by the sheer amount of bruises he had managed to accumulate. So I put an arm around his waist to keep him from possibly collapsing. I wouldn't have been that shocked if he did.

We walked like that back to Sam's car, only separating when it came time for us to get inside. I left Sam at the passenger door, because I didn't want him to drive if he really did have some sort of head injury. My own head was pounding, but I could tolerate it.

He didn't protest me driving his car, and neither of us spoke a word on the way back to his house. It was a surreal experience. There was no other way to put it. But I was scared that Sam was more hurt than he was letting on, and I didn't know what to do about that. Going to the hospital would then lead to our parents getting involved, and then it could even end with the police. There was no way I was going to be able to talk Sam into going with a risk like that.

Fortunately, we were close to his home. I parked and went around to his side of the car. I didn't know if he needed my help, but I really didn't want him to be too dizzy to walk properly, so I supported him anyway. Again, he didn't try to stop me.

He unlocked the door and locked it once more behind us. Then I allowed him to take some form of precedence, since I didn't really know the layout of his house. He guided the both of us over to a door near the staircase. Light filled the room to accompany the sound of the switch.

There was a huge walk-in shower that was as big as a sauna, accompanied by a marble backsplash. A vanity that could fit all of my belongings inside, with a mirror stretching the length of the wall. I ignored all of that though, forcing Sam to sit down on the toilet lid.

The blood was drying to his face, gruesome and brutal on someone who was usually sought out by every girl in school. I wanted to wipe it off, because it didn't belong there. I wished that I could take the bruises along with it. Sam looked better when his face was his own and not marred by fists.

I pushed that thought away.

Maybe I just wanted to focus on something else. I wanted a sense of purpose to keep me from drowning in the seriousness of everything happening. So I grabbed a folded washcloth hung near the sink, getting it damp with warm water. Then I turned back to Sam, using the cloth to gently wipe the blood from his face.

It was weirdly intimate, to be standing over him, making sure to be as soft with my touch as possible because I didn't want to press too hard and hurt him more. Removing the blood from his eye and cheek, off of his chin and lips.

Once I finished with that, I lowered the washcloth. Sam was pretty. Everyone knew it, and I wasn't stupid, so I knew it too. But I never really wanted to preserve his beauty in my mind before.

His eyes were framed by thick blonde eyelashes, his eyebrows unruly but kempt. His nose wasn't perfectly sloped, instead interrupted by a bump along the ridge. His lips were heart shaped, just like his smile. He had a few dark specks on his face, birthmarks that he would bear for his entire life. The imperfection of it only made him more beautiful.

As soon as I realized how long I had been staring, I moved away and put the washcloth in the sink. I was about to ask him where the peroxide or bandages were kept, but he seemed to know exactly what was on my mind since he pointed to a specific cabinet. My face was warm, but I tried to ignore it.

I dabbed some peroxide onto a fresh washcloth and then looked at him. "This will sting a little, so hold still."

Sam nodded, tilting his head back so that I would have an easier time applying it to the few cuts. One crested the top of his cheekbone, scarily close to his eye. It was the biggest one, so I made sure to take care of it first. My hand shook slightly, but I did my best to still it as I applied the cleaning solution. The corner of Sam's eyes crinkled as he grimaced from the feeling of it, but he didn't tell me to stop.

Originally, I thought the other cut was just a result of his lips being chewed, but after wiping away the blood I found that another gash was actually on his chin. So I made sure to clean that as well.

Finishing up with it, I didn't know where to go from there. His bottom lip was a wasteland of scabs and scars, and I felt awful for how painful that must have been. Maybe that was why he wasn't saying anything. It was a result of his awful habit, as well as the impact of a fist against his face. I decided to leave it alone, because I didn't want to make it worse.

So I grabbed a bandaid for the cut on his cheekbone, since that one was by far the biggest and deepest. I was pretty confident that it would end up reopening if I left it the way it was. I opened the bandage and got ready to place it, but Sam squirmed slightly under my touch. I frowned. I was trying to be gentle, but he was not being helpful.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing." Sam mumbled in response. I hesitated, because that definitely wasn't true at all. There was something in his eyes that wasn't entirely accessible to me. As if he was trying to make a decision or something.

"Just hold still, alright? I'm almost done." I warned him. If I placed the bandage wrong, I would have to peel it off of his bruised skin. It would not be a pleasant feeling.

Again, I began to position it. However, it took only a moment for Sam to shift beneath my touch a second time, and I pulled back. "Sam? What is going on?"

"Sorry." The second that I spotted his tooth going for his lip, I placed my thumb in its place. Which was definitely a bit more intimate than I had intended, but it kept him from removing the scabs and furthering the damage.

"Don't do that. I just cleaned everything up."

His eyes were watching me much more closely than they had been before, and something was clearly being debated within himself. I didn't know what it was, or why he was suddenly making it so difficult for me.

"Why won't you sit still?" I asked him, because I wanted him to tell me what was bothering him. Despite the years of pent up hatred between us, I could feel the slightest bit of change. Perhaps it was a product of watching him get beat up in front of me, or the fact that I almost died. Whatever it was, it caused me to feel more sympathy for him than I ever thought I would.

"Because." He said simply, studying me with precision that felt incredibly out of place.

"Because?"

"Because I want to look at you."

I just stared at him, completely bewildered by such a ridiculous statement. At first I didn't even process his words. They didn't seem real, and I wondered why my brain would make up such a peculiar sentence. But Sam was looking at me. There was something intense about his gaze, and I felt my breath hitch.

Did he actually have a concussion?

My face was heating up again, and I tried to ignore it. There was no way that Sam actually said those words. I swallowed down the panic and asked, "What did you say?"

The next series of events were even more shocking than the first. Sam's palm lifted to rest on my cheek, fingertips slightly cold against my skin. My whole body stilled under his touch, unsure of what to do. "I thought you were going to die."

"What?" My voice was small and my mind was pure anarchy as I tried to keep up with him.

"Sawyer, I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, I know." I furrowed my brow. My brain was malfunctioning, because I couldn't figure out if I should force him to take his hand off of me or who knows what else. It resulted in me staying in the same position for way too long.

"But I don't want to be anymore."

Then he leaned forward, using the hand on my cheek to guide me towards him. And he kissed me, right on the lips.

A few seconds passed, my body frozen as his warmth transferred to me. His lips weren't soft, it couldn't have felt good for him to press them against mine like that. My heartbeat was drumming rapidly in my ears, playing a song that matched the shock I felt. When I didn't kiss him back, Sam pulled away. His eyes quickly opened, searching my face for something important.

He didn't let go of me, and I didn't force him to. I just stood there like a deer in headlights, my lips buzzing and my thoughts whirring.

Why did he kiss me? Why did he feel so warm? Why were my hands shaking? There were too many questions that I wanted to find answers to, so I just waited for him to say something. Anything to help clear my thoughts a little.

Instead, his other hand rose to accompany my empty cheek. And he sat a bit straighter, using the control he had over me — because why else would I not be fighting to get away from him? — to allow for his forehead to lightly touch mine. His eyes were wandering over my face, over my lips and flushed cheeks. And I couldn't help it. I was looking at him too. At those lips that were on mine only moments ago, at the seriousness in his expression.

Our breath became one, and I knew that he was going to kiss me again. I could have said no. I could have backed away and told him that I didn't want that. But I didn't. Some unknown force inside of me told me that it was okay.

It terrified me.

But I let him press his lips to mine a second time anyway, and I didn't freeze. I kissed him back, making sure to be gentle because I didn't want to hurt him. It was the first time I ever kissed someone like that, and I never knew how it could feel to be that close to another person. To feel their heat, their passion, their gentleness. To be entrusted with something intimate.

I didn't want to touch his face and end up accidentally applying pressure to a bruise, so I instead placed my hands on the front of his shirt, feeling the muscles hidden beneath. The muscles previously unknown to me. Apart of him I suddenly knew, and that only horrified me more.

Carefully, I parted from him to take a breath. My throat still felt scratchy and raw, but I didn't care.

"What the fuck is going on?" I deadpanned.

Suddenly, all of the solemnity disappeared from Sam's face as he laughed at my bluntness. At least he found it amusing, because I did not. The absurdity of everything was starting to hit me full-force, and I felt a little bit like I was going to throw up. Which was unfortunate, because Sam was sitting on the toilet so I really didn't have anywhere to puke if I did. Maybe puking on Sam would pay him back for all of the stress he was causing me.

"Do you like me?" Sam asked once he finished laughing. His eyes lit up like a puppy.

I shrugged, removing my hands from him and backing away just enough for his hands to leave my skin. "Do you like me?"

His smile faded just a bit. "Yes."

I gaped at him. "Why? I thought you hated me."

"Sometimes. But not always."

"What?" I felt a little bit dizzy from such an unexpected revelation. Or perhaps it was still the effects of nearly dying earlier.

"I like you." He replied quite simply. "I need you to know that."

"Why?" I felt stupid.

"Because I thought you were going to die."

It was hard to tell whether or not he was as scared as I was, because his face went back to being more blank than anything else. He was just waiting patiently for me to respond, but I really didn't know what to say. Everything that had ever happened between us was prodding at my brain, trying to remind me of how much I hated him.

But I liked how it felt when he was pressed to me. And no druggies or being nearly choked to death could possibly compare to something as terrifying as that. Or I was just being dramatic, but it didn't really feel that way at the moment.

"Sam, I'm confused."

He grabbed the bottom of my shirt, softly pulling me towards him. And he wrapped his arms around me, making sure to avoid the part of my throat that was probably going to be bruised — not that I ever bothered to see what it looked like because I had been too preoccupied with helping Sam to even think about it. And he rested his head on my shoulder, which was yet another thing I never thought would happen.

A list that only seemed to grow.

"I've been confused for years, but right now I'm not. I think." He mumbled.

"Years?" There was no way any of this was real.

"Years."

I didn't know if I liked him back, but I didn't want to force him away from me and that seemed to mean something. But it was all a bit too much for me, and I was struggling to grasp it.

I had kissed other people before. At least, if being kissed in second grade by some girl who decided she didn't like me anymore less than an hour later counted. Or kissing a girl in sophomore year because Kiera dared me to, even though I didn't know her name and all I did was give her an embarrassing peck. I never saw her again, since we were only camping.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn't really get crushes. It was something that Millie joked about a lot, because she had no trouble swooning over the boys she saw. I didn't really swoon over anyone. Sure, I could gauge when a person was attractive. But I never had the urge to be with anyone. Not to say that I was asexual or aromantic, because Millie once offered that suggestion after some research. I didn't think that was the answer, since I did crave the idea of physical and romantic intimacy. I just never found a reason to engage in it.

So where did Sam fall into all of that? Millie once pointed out the fact that I knew almost everything about him, and maybe she was right. I knew that he purposely styled his hair to look messy, and that he bit his lip whenever he was thinking deeply. I knew that he almost always wore the same sweatshirt with a rose over his heart. I knew that he cared more about his friends than himself. I knew that he was smarter than he let on, often pretending as though he was just a pretty face and nothing more. But he was more than that, because he was one of the smartest students in our grade, and he always answered effortlessly whenever the teacher called on him.

It occurred to me that I paid more attention to him than I originally thought, because why the hell did I notice the rate of his correct answers whenever he was called on in class? That was a bit ridiculous, but it never crossed my mind before.

Did I like him? I thought I hated him.

"Sawyer?" He asked when I didn't say anything.

Then a different thought prodded at me, so I let it pass my lips. "What money do you owe those guys? They were talking about money."

With a sigh, Sam released me and looked up at the ceiling. I could tell that he definitely didn't want to talk about that right then, but I really didn't care. I wanted to know the rest of the story, and at least then I could distract my mind from the other matters.

"I made a really bad mistake, and now I owe them a fuck ton of money." He said.

I huffed. "We both know it's more complicated than that. I want to know the whole story."

"Okay, okay." He nodded, preparing himself for my reaction. "So I was doing this huge drug run with a backpack filled to the brim with cocaine. Which is every bit as nerve-wracking as it sounds."

I could already sense how awful this story was going to be, so I nodded grimly for him to continue.

"And to put it simply, I was mugged on my way there. I lost all of the drugs, and it was thousands of dollars worth of that shit. I tried telling them that I didn't have the kind of money to pay it back, but they only got more pissed with me. If I don't pay it back, they'll never leave me alone."

"How do you know paying it back will even get you anywhere? Won't they just find a new reason to fuck with you?" By the way his expression fell, I felt bad for being so pessimistic. But clearly one of us had to be, because Sam seemed too hopeful for his own good. It was going to be what ultimately killed him.

"I'm trying my best. You never know, maybe it'll work." He almost looked like he was going to cry.

"Maybe..." Though I didn't sound confident, I didn't want to dishearten him anymore. Perhaps his optimism would be the reason that everything worked out in the end.

His fingers went to my neck, grazing the skin that was still sore with the subtle touch of a ghost. I shuddered. There would never be anything as weird as feeling Sam touch me like that. His brow furrowed. "Do you like me?" He asked me again.

"I don't know, Sam." I told him honestly.

There was a lot that I was going to have to think about going forward, because it never even crossed my mind before that I might have had a crush on Sam this whole time. There were plenty of questions that I wanted to ask him for an ounce of clarification, but I was too busy trying to answer my own questions inside of myself.

"It's okay." He told me, and I could see just how genuine those words were. "You can think about it."

"Okay." I never thought a conversation like that would be exchanged between us, but there I stood. His fingers softly traced the lines on my neck — the result of the most traumatizing thing I had ever faced. Yet he didn't run in fear of it. He just touched it as though to give me a new memory to try to mask the old one.

"Here, I'll let you clean yourself up if you need to. I should probably drive you home soon." Sam stood, startling me by the suddenness of it.

I vaguely nodded in response, watching as he left the bathroom and closed the door behind him. It was possible that he wasn't as indifferent to my reply as he wanted me to think, which was probably why he left so suddenly.

Walking to the mirror, I peered at my reflection. I was more disheveled than I realized, since I was too preoccupied to even think about what state I could have been in. My hair was usually a complete mess because I never really styled it, but it was especially bad right then. It was sticking up in every direction, absolutely unflattering. But my neck was the real problem.

There was a darkening red line across the front due to the way he pressed his arm into me. It would only grow more obvious as the bruise progressed into purples and yellows. I frowned at it, trying to think of a way that I might be able to hide it. My mom definitely didn't have any concealer, since she rarely wore makeup other than mascara or lipstick. Neither did Millie.

I also definitely didn't own a turtle neck. My fashion sense was limited to sweatshirts and plain crew neck tees, and even those I didn't bother to try to style.

I had no idea what I was going to tell people if they asked. I sighed, grabbing a bar of soap and putting some on my hands. There weren't any washcloths that I could see, so I did my best without one. Then I transferred some of the soap to my neck, lightly scrubbing at my skin to try to get any feeling of that man's touch off of me. Having a moment to think about what happened to me made me feel deep levels of disgust. I felt violated — my life nearly being ripped from me.

So I washed and rinsed and washed again. Until I was at least a little bit satisfied with my work, though I knew it meant nothing at all. Then I looked at myself once more. The front of my shirt was damp from my efforts and my eyes were tired.

It was only four days after that man decided to make me a target. Yet I already had a near-death experience. And I already learned things about Sam I never thought I would.

My mind wandered back to the way his lips felt.

I shook the thought off.

There were more pressing matters.

I knew that getting close to Sam like that would ultimately be our downfall.

•O•O•