Off Limits ✔

10. Date Night

Dean was late. It was eight-thirty in the evening, and he hadn't shown up; he didn't even call. Even though he wasn't the most punctual person in the world, two hours late without a heads-up was just not okay.

In the first hour, I was just slightly annoyed. I snuggled on the couch with the remote control in my hand, switching from one TV channel to another. By eight o'clock on the dot, anger crawled in me, and that my tummy had been screaming for food didn't help my situation.

After several attempts to call him, which went straight to his voicemail, worry started to creep in. I considered calling Susie to find out what was the deal with Dean, but I decided to wait a bit more while nuking the leftover pasta from last night. At this point, I was not going to wait for him. I needed to feed myself.

It was past nine when my phone rang. As big as life and twice as ugly, Dean's name blinked on my screen, and I was so tempted to ignore it, but my curiosity won.

"Jen..." He sounded breathless. "I'm so sorry. I left my phone in my car."

"I see."

"I was, I-uh," he stammered, "I got caught in a situation."

"Of course."

"Okay. You're mad."

"Wow, very observant of you."

"Wait. I'm almost there."

"Oh, don't bother! Just go home, Dean. It's late."

"Jen–"

And I hung up before he finished his line and switched my phone off. He'd better not come if he knew what was good for him, but of course, he didn't. Five minutes later, the banging on the front door rattled my whole flat.

"Jen! Open the door!"

He had no idea how much noise he was making in the hall this late. And how the hell did he get into the building, to begin with? I swear this boy was going to give me gray hair before I turned twenty-two. I stormed to the door and yanked it open.

"Are you out of your damn–" My mouth hung open at the sight before my eyes.

Dean's hair was disheveled, and his left jaw was bruised and beginning to swell. The white shirt that clung to his torso was partly torn and covered with dirt. Or was it blood stains? As my eyes trailed down, I saw his ruined knuckles, and dry blood all over. "What the hell, Dean?"

"Can I come in and wash up a bit?" he pleaded.

Speechless, I stood aside to let him in and watched him head to the bathroom. I stuck my head into the corridor to make sure no one followed him and closed the door behind me. He stood shirtless by the basin when I joined him, washing his face and hair. Without asking, he opened the cabinet under the basin to retract the first aid box and groaned when he poured an antiseptic wash over his knuckles.

Dean glanced at me. "I owe you an apology."

I stood by the door, leaning on its frame and watching him. "The hell you do," I said. "Now I want to know what happened, and whose blood is on your hand?"

He looked down at his knuckles. "It's just a little incident at work."

"What incident? Did you punch your colleague's face or something? Dean, did someone get hurt?"

He flinched. "Let's go talk on the couch?"

"Fine. Let me get you something to wear."

No matter how pissed I was at him, I always got nervous every time I saw him like this. Dean was always physical, and it was just a matter of time until he got a serious injury from a fight.