Bad Boy's Queen

7; Taking Care of The Bad Boy

The tension in the air is thick and suffocating as I sit on the edge of Hunter's bed, unmoving, but aware. I hear the trickling of water whenever he dips the cloth inside the water and brings it up to his face. I turn my head, watching Hunter stand in front of the mirror in his bathroom, dabbing the cuts on his cheek and lips with a wet cloth.

My eyes scan across his room. Not much has changed since I was last here, although his desk isn't scattered with papers anymore. Only his MacBook and a desk lamp rest on it now.

I uncross my legs and stand, making my way to the bathroom, feeling somehow responsible for what had happened even though he hasn't told me why he came back looking like he just dragged himself through a war.

"Hunter," I speak as I lean against the doorframe. He glances at me in the mirror, lips pulled down into a frown. He hisses underneath his breath when he dabs the wound just a little too hard.

My mind wanders back to when we were in the car, his bloodied knuckles rushing to shift the clutch when the car engine came to life. We passed the red brick building and I turn my head a fraction to see three men leaning against the wall of the building. They were all dressed in black just like Hunter was but it was hard to see their faces in the dark. We don't speak until we get back to his house. He only mutters a quiet 'my family's out' when he looks down at his phone. He then proceeds to cringe and close his eyes before tilting his neck back and rolling his shoulders.

The sink is filled with pink water. I can almost taste the metallic taste in the air when I notice a drop of blood from the cut on his cheek trickling down his jawline before falling into the water-filled sink. I never did like blood. Anything related to the human anatomy isn't exactly my cup of tea, but seeing him all covered in blood like that makes me want to help.

He had stripped down from his all-black attire into a pair of grey sweatpants and white cotton shirt. I, on the other hand, am still in my school uniform.

"Let me help," I mumble, knowing there's a better chance he'll just ignore me and continue trying to stop the blood from oozing out. So imagine my surprise when he turns and hands the bloody washcloth to me.

He looks at anything else but my eyes when he hands me the cloth, hanging his head down in what I assume is shame. I almost close our gap and embrace him but decide to do otherwise because I know he wouldn't appreciate that very much. Actually, he wouldn't appreciate that at all.

I move slowly, almost hesitantly. I don't want to do something wrong to screw this up. I need him to trust me long enough to at least let me clean him up. I want to make him feel better after whatever the hell happened back there.

He leans against the bathroom counter facing away from the mirror, almost like he doesn't want to see himself in the reflection. I drain the basin with the push of a button and wash the bloodstained cloth he had handed to me. After wringing the excess water I fill the basin once more with clean water.

He doesn't look at me when I close our gap, standing so close to him in between his knees I can feel his hot unsteady breath against my ear. I shiver, neck heating up with embarrassment. He's so close I can smell him. Musky with a hint of spice.

I crane my neck to look up at his face which is still perfect even if his lip is split open and his cheek looks like someone had thrown a metal chair right at his face.

His eyes are hollow, almost empty, and just now I decide I like him better when he's throwing insults at me like he usually would. I like him better when I can see the fire in his eyes and the burning passion in them when they mischievously scan across my face, the corner of his lips lifting slightly when he sees the redness tinting my cheeks.