Chapter 6: The Girl on Kettle Road

I spent the first hour in my old house standing in the kitchen with my coat on.

Rhett had gone upstairs to take a shower.

I heard the water start and stop again too fast.

When he came down he was in a gray T-shirt, and there was a dark stain spreading across the left shoulder blade.

"You're bleeding," I said.

"It's nothing."

"It's on your shirt."

"It's from Thursday," he said. "Mae stitched it. They've pulled."

"What happened Thursday?"

"A rival club's prospect and a bad idea," Rhett said. "It's nothing, Rhona."

I pulled out a kitchen chair and set it in the middle of the floor.

"Sit," I said.

"We said no touching."

"We said no touching for fun," I said. "I'm not a doctor, but I've sewn up worse. Sit down."

He sat, backwards, with his arms across the top of the chair.

I got the first-aid kit from under the sink and a clean needle from the sewing basket, and I peeled the shirt off his back.

I had seen that back a thousand times, and I still had to stop and breathe.

A raw gash ran from his shoulder blade toward his spine, held shut by three crooked black stitches that had half torn out.

"This is going to hurt," I said.

"Good."

I washed it, and he didn't flinch.

I laid my left hand flat on the shoulder to hold him steady.

My thumb slid up toward the ridge of his collarbone and stopped on a lump there, hard and old, where a break had healed wrong.

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