What I saw made my stomach turn.
Blood caked over the side of his scalp, crusting and darkened at the edges.
I swallowed, trying not to let Jax see how scared I was. The terrifying memory flashed behind my eyes: Darrel slamming the butt of a pistol against the back of Jax's head, leaving him laid out on the street. I'd never seen someone beaten so badly before. I couldn't imagine the pain he must be in. Or how badly his whole body might be damaged.
In a fit of irrationality, I quickly snapped the light off again, as if blanketing the wound in darkness would somehow take it back to the way it was before I'd seen how bad it was in full light. I had to fight hard against my instinct to take him to the hospital right away. From the way he responded to the guard, I knew Jax was already irritable. If I suggested he needed serious care before even taking a closer look, he'd get stubborn—and that was the last thing either of us needed when the stakes were so high.
"I'll be right back," I said, careful to keep my voice from trembling.
My heart beat anxiously and my hands shook as I ran hot water from the bathroom tap onto a clean washcloth, then brought it back out to Jax.
I turned the light back on before approaching him. He hadn't moved a muscle, and was sitting tiredly on the couch.
"I need to clean this out a little bit," I said softly. "I'm going to try not to hurt you . . . but it looks bad. I can't promise anything."
"Give me that," he said as he grabbed for the washcloth.
I pulled the cloth out of his reach, not surprised by his response. Jax was trying to be tough, but the wound was on his head. He couldn't possibly see it well enough to clean it properly. "Let me. Really," I offered, trying to figure out a way to assuage my worries without wounding his pride. "You helped me clean up when those guys chased us onto the bus, remember? I'm just returning the favor."
His mouth stretched to a thin line, as though he was formulating an objection. But then he closed his eyes and nodded, his body relaxing into the couch.
I forced a small smile past my apprehension. Raising the warm washcloth to his head, I pressed it against the clotted blood on his hair and started to wipe away rust-colored streaks.
When I gently increased the pressure, he flinched.
My touch lightened instantly. "Sorry."
He remained silent, staring at the opposite wall.
After a few moments, I managed to clean most of the surface of his hair. I now needed to see what the actual wound on his scalp looked like. Steeling myself against the possibility of finding something horrible, I parted the black strands of his hair carefully. My eyes darted back and forth between the wound and Jax's restrained expression.
There was a gash. A small one, though. More like a cut. Blood had stopped flowing from the opening, and every wipe of the washcloth sent fresh relief through me. It had made a mess, but there was no way he needed stitches.
I released a deep breath. Thank god. He'd been beaten, but he wasn't broken.
"There," I said, gently wiping the last of the blood away. "That looks a bit better."
Jax let out a low grunt. "Thanks."
The head wound looked like the worst of it, but I knew it wasn't the only place where he'd been hit. "Now . . . can you take off your shirt for me? I need to take a look underneath."
"Later," he said dismissively.
I set the washcloth down on the side table and went to get the first aid kit I'd remembered was stored in a cupboard near the bar. "Better to patch you up now than to wait for morning," I called back.
His eyes closed as he took a long, deep breath. When he opened them again, his voice was soft and low. "Fine, I'll do it. For you."
I squeezed his hand, quietly accepting the significance of his words. Part of his irritability and defensiveness came from the physical pain, but a larger part came from how vulnerable he was feeling at the moment. And as difficult as it was for him, he was willing to lower his guard, to be vulnerable, for me. "Thank you."
Together, we slowly lifted his shirt off. He winced hard as he moved his shoulders, stiffly sliding his muscular arms out. I looked at Jax's torso, naked as the cloth peeled away, and suddenly felt like all the air had been sucked out of me.
An angry bruise, red, green and black, radiated in an irregular circle from his side, a Rorschach blot of pain and suffering. Raw and shiny, the dark splotch stretched halfway across his body.
I'd never seen a bruise so big. I suddenly felt like I'd been the one kicked in the gut.
Jax saw the expression on my face and looked down. He tried to shift his torso away so I couldn't see the bruise, but it was too late.
I sank down near him to take a closer look. Circles within circles patterned his side. This was clearly a lot worse than a normal bruise—it was the result of heavy boots repeatedly kicking at the same unprotected area. It was a bruise with bruises of its own.
"It's really not as bad as it looks," he said quickly, casually sliding his arm over to cover the discolored skin.
I held my hand near a black-purple spot toward the center. I probed the tender skin as gently as I could. "Does this hurt?" I asked, looking into his eyes.
He swallowed stiffly, his body tensing. "Not much."
He was beginning to put up his guard again. I wanted him to see a doctor—and soon. "I need to take you to the hospital to get you checked out."
"I'm fine." His tone was low, with a forceful edge.
I looked at him sitting there on the couch: his hair hanging in limp tangles damp from the washcloth, his body battered.
"Jax, I'm not trying to pressure you, but you don't seem fine." I took his hand into mine and gave it a soft squeeze.
Darkness clouded his face as he pulled his hand away. "Dammit, Riley," he snarled. "I told you I'm fine. I'm not going to spend the night in some hospital just so you can feel better."
The blood drained from my face. Suddenly, my hands were icy cold. I knew Jax was tired, hurt, and upset, but I didn't know why he'd make it so personal when I'd done everything I could to help him. I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
As my eyes began to sting with tears, Jax looked away, a pained expression on his face.
"Fuck." His voice was much quieter now. "I'm . . . sorry. I know you're trying to help. I just . . . I fucking hate hospitals. Can we drop this for tonight?"
I wanted to say yes—but even more than that, I wanted Jax to be okay.
He looked at me tenderly and gave my shoulder a soft squeeze. "I'm fine. Really. I know it looks bad, but it's really not that bad. It's just a bruise. I've had much worse. Trust me."