Free The Switch by JC Emery

brown boots and then, finally, her socks. I pick the scissors back up and cut up the fabric covering her unharmed leg until I hit her hip. I abandon that side in favor of her wounded leg, starting from the ankle and slowly cutting up the inside of her leg. My knuckles drag slowly across the smooth skin of her inner leg. She sucks in a breath.
    “Did I hurt you?” I ask.
    She shakes her head no, and I continue on. I stop at the shirt wrapped around her still jean-clad thigh. I take her hand in mine, and her breath catches. I study her curiously as I place her hand atop the knotted T-shirt.
    “I’m gonna unknot this. Keep pressure on it, okay? I don’t want you gushing blood all over the place.”
    Her hand pushes down on the shirt, and she throws her head back into the pillow. I eye her dark brown leather jacket and her top. She’s sweated through the top, and the jacket must be soaked on the inside, as well. It was close to a hundred outside, and she was running around in this get-up that’s much better suited for fall or winter than for summer.
    Slowly and carefully , my hands work at the knot on the shirt. “Lift up your ass,” I say.
    She does as she’s told, which I can only imagine is one of the few times in this woman’s life that she’s followed instruction without issue. I cut through the rest of the jeans, freeing her healthy leg, and then cut a square around her knife wound.
    “Did you have to destroy my jeans?”
    I stare at her, baffled.
    “I just mean, like, I loved those jeans.”
    “Are you serious right now?” I ask.
    “They were expensive jeans,” she says in all seriousness.
    I shake my head and turn my attention back to her wound. If she’s arguing about stupid shit like clothing, I’m guessing she’s feeling better.
    I don’t know what I’m dealing with , and I want to be able to work unobstructed—and the last thing I want is for the wound to open and for her to lose any more blood. I begin to slide away Shelby’s cut-up jeans, but her other hand shoots down and holds on to the cut-up fabric. Her cheeks are tinged with pink.
    “Um, it’s laundry day,” she says.
    I look down at her covered panties and smirk. “It can’t be that bad.”
    “It’s just that had I known a man would be seeing me in my underwear , I’d have worn something more attractive.”
    I gently coax the jeans from her grip and eye her panties. They’re an off-white pair of Hanes that have seen better days—the waistband is stringy , and the fabric has definitely thinned out since their purchase. I fight back the bubbling laughter that threatens to escape, but it’s no use. My chest shakes, and before I know it, I’m cracking up. Shelby looks on in absolute horror, her eyes as wide as saucers.
    “I have a knife wound and you’re laughing about my underwear!” she shrieks.
    I settle down and narrow my eyes at her, yanking away the last of the discarded fabric. Shelby rubs her thighs together, drawing my attention back to her panties. The look on her face is pure mortification. I guess there’s at least one thing Miss Shelby Connor—scratch that—Brignac doesn’t know about men. A beautiful woman in her underwear is always sexy. It doesn’t matter what that underwear looks like, because all I can think about is the fact that a piece of very thin, worn fabric is the only thing keeping her from being bared before me. And I’m a sick fuck for even thinking of it—she’s trouble in a hundred-pound bag and she’s injured. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t decide to become a doctor, because I think my imagination is breaking some Hippocratic oaths right about now.
    I move Shelby’s hand out of the way, provide pressure to her wound, and then slowly peel back the scrap of jeans and the T-shirt. Her wound has stopped bleeding—and thank God for it, too, because I don’t really know what I’d do if it hadn’t. Some of the blood surrounding the wound has dried and binds the cloth to her skin.