A Chicago Christmas story
Photo by Andre Benz on Unsplash
While waiting for Diesel to emerge from the bathroom, Shiloh curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace. Spiked coffee in hand, she gazed into the flames and let her thoughts wander.
There was no one in the world she’d rather be snowed in with than Diesel. No matter how frustrating he could be, he was her best friend. At least, until that damned kiss… she thought. She pressed her lips against the side of her mug, remembering the warmth of his against hers. She thought of that night more often than she’d admit out loud.
Before that, she could write off her attraction to him as just that – simple attraction. No strings attached, nothing complicated, just her hot friend she had no problem admitting was hot. But that kiss… it changed everything.
She loved him. She wanted him.
She pulled the fleece blanket closed around her to ward off a chill. That revelation had been haunting her for months. Especially after the accident… and almost losing him.
Blinded by the oncoming headlights, she screamed his name. The ear-splitting sounds of screeching tires and crunching metal flipped her world upside down and into the ravine below.
She unbuckled and dropped to the ground onto a blanket of glass.
“God, Diesel, wake up—”
He moaned.
Voices approached. “Diesel, please—”
They dragged her out of the wreckage by her feet and aimed a gun at him.
"No, please!”
She shivered, a hot tear trickling down her cheek. The rest she’d rather forget. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself and wiped her cheek with it. If there was one thing that night made utterly apparent, it was that she couldn’t live without him.
And a relationship? If they crossed that line and they didn’t work out, she would lose him for good. So, she couldn’t, no matter how much she wanted to.
And, oh, did she want to.
Diesel finally came out of the bathroom. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”
“Well—” she cleared her throat, “—that sounds dangerous.”
“We’ve got the whole bar to ourselves.”
She shrugged as he came into view on her left. “Stating the obvious.”
“And we have all these games at our disposal, that we’ve never actually played,” he continued, wildly gesturing to the wall of board games. “The possibilities are endless.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
He grinned at her, dropping his bag by the couch before sauntering over to the shelves. “Now, I need you to keep an open mind…” He trailed off, tracing his fingers along the boxes. She squinted suspiciously as his hand rested on a box. “…because I think it’s time you and I finally play a little one-on-one—”
“I swear to God,” she interrupted with a shake of her head and a wag of her finger, “if you say—”
“Strip poker.”
“—I am going to kill you.” She tried and failed to glare at him as he laughed. “Why are you always like this?”
He scoffed. “Like what?”
“Dirty. Don’t you have an ‘off’ button?”
He pointed to his lap. She screamed at him before launching a pillow at his head. He ducked and howled with laughter, clutching his stomach and leaning on the couch for support. She couldn’t help but laugh with him. As gross as his humor was, he could always make her laugh when she didn’t want to.
She ran her hands over her blushing face. “I hate you,” she lied through her fingers.
“Ah, no, you don’t,” he groaned as his laughter died down.
Her stomach twisted at the sound. She threw a pillow at him. That couldn’t have hurt. She lowered her hands as he turned his attention away from her and to the wall of games. She watched him rattle off titles… and favor his right side.
Heart racing, she threw off her blanket and rushed over to him. How didn’t she notice before? She grabbed at his sweatshirt, but he pulled away from her.
“Gee, if you want me to take my shirt off, just ask,” he joked, but his eyes grew dark.
She ignored him. “Show me,” she ordered, closing the space between them.
His back hit the shelves as he swatted her hands away. “Okay, as much as I love being backed into a wall by a pretty girl—”
She huffed in frustration. It wasn’t funny anymore. “Diesel—”
“—I really wish you’d buy me dinner first.” He smirked at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know, in the spirit of foreplay.”
“You’re hurt,” she snapped, her voice piercing the air like a knife.
He sighed, façade dropping. His eyes fell shut, but he kept his hands up. “It’s not a big deal, Princess.”
She glared up at him. “Considering you thought getting shot in the head wasn’t a big deal—” He bit his tongue and glared at something above her head. “—I’m not very comforted by what you think. Show me.”
“Shiloh—”
“Show me,” she repeated. Her voice was firm, but when he finally met her eyes, they glistened. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes darted between hers, transfixed and speechless.
A lump lodged in her throat as she silently pleaded with him. Let me take care of you, she wanted to say. She set her jaw to keep it from trembling as uncertainty and desperation seeped through her. Did he get shot again? Was he trying to spare her? Was the danger more imminent than he let on?
“Wyatt,” she whispered tearfully, earning a frustrated huff from him.
“Don’t call me that,” he begged, backing further into the shelves as she blindly reached for the hem of his sweatshirt.
“Please,” she asked again, tugging at the cloth, “show me.”
His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “I hate you,” he muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
He chuckled, looking back down at her just in time to see her smirk back at him. “Nah, you’re right,” he agreed, softly. “I could never.” She bit her lip, a blush rising to her cheeks. He wagged a finger at her. “But you gotta stop saying my name like that when you want shit. It’s not fair.”
She grinned. “I will when it stops working.”
He shook his head but pulled his shirt up. “I swear, it’s not that bad,” he told her.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she answered, inspecting the thin line of blood seeping through the bandage above his hip. With delicate fingers, she peeled away the tape and gauze from his body. Her skin tingled as she inspected the gash in his side. She cringed. “You lose a knife fight recently?”
“Me? Lose?” He scoffed. “Please.”
She frowned at the still-oozing wound, crouching to get a better look at it. “When did this happen?” she asked, tossing the bandage on the table.
“Last night.”
She exhaled through her nose. “I think you need stitches.” He groaned, but she cut him off before he could protest. “Twenty-four hours later and you’re still bleeding? You’re getting stitches. End of story.” She snapped her finger and pointed to the couch. “Sit.”
He glared at her. “Bite me.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Much better than stitches.”
“Sit,” she repeated. He grumbled about hating needles more than he hated her on his way over to the couch. “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” he snapped.
As she rushed back behind the bar to grab the emergency first aid kit, she gulped down the cotton in her mouth. This life wasn't kind to him. He may like fighting, but she still wished he didn’t have to fight this much. With every new “super-top-secret mission” came a new scar to match.
She hated it as much as Diesel hated needles.
She swiped a bottle of Jack Daniels on her way back to his side. They were both going to need it; the cut looked deep, and she needed to drown out her harrowing thoughts long enough to close it up. Thoughts like, I’d rather him come home with scars than not come home at all.
Did that make her a terrible friend? When the most recent scars on his body were all from protecting her? He swore up and down he didn’t mind them, but she could never tell who he was lying to: her or himself. He’d toss her a wink and a chicks dig scars comment as if she didn’t notice him growing out his hair to hide the new one across the side of his head. He’s never been a self-conscious man – in fact, quite the opposite – but she of all people knew the effects scars had on one’s self-esteem. She still couldn’t face her naked self in the mirror some days.
She took a long swig of the Jack before handing it off to him. “You’re gonna need this,” she said and dropped the kit down on the table. He accepted the liquor and took two long swigs of his own as she knelt in front of him.
“Let’s just get it over with,” he muttered and pulled his sweatshirt over his head, discarding it on the floor.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight. Grotesque purple bruises littered his chest and stomach, alongside other minor cuts, all barely scabbed over.
She gulped down hot tears. “And you won, huh?” she asked, her voice deceptively steady.
“You should see the other guys,” he quipped, but his forlorn eyes didn’t leave her face as her eyes skimmed over his broken body. They fell on a particularly nasty bruise on his left side; the kind she’d seen on him a million times before.
“I’d be surprised if these—” she pressed her fingers into his swollen ribs, making him howl, “—weren’t broken.”
“Yeah, go ahead—” he wheezed, “—push them farther into my lungs. That’ll help.”
Her throat tightened at the sound, and she muttered an apology. Thirty minutes ago, he’d been dancing carelessly around the bar when he must’ve been in serious pain. How he’d managed to mask it until now was equally as terrifying as it was impressive. And now, it was time for her to mask hers. For his sake.
“You should’ve told me it was this bad,” she chastised him, standing up to examine his back. Seeing it in the same condition as his front, her stomach churned.
“You and I both know I’ve had worse,” he replied, sucking in a short breath as she pressed into another deep bruise on his shoulder blade.
“And at least they didn’t break your beautiful face, right?” she asked with half-hearted mirth.
He smirked through a wince. “Exactly.”
She turned her attention to his scalp with a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart. He was such a typical “tough guy”, treating an amputated limb like a papercut, or a gunshot wound like a pinprick. Everything was “I’ve had worse”.
Perhaps, it was a defense mechanism. He couldn’t accept the severity of his injuries without it consuming him, without the reality of this dangerous life crushing him. It was easier to brush off as another war story to tell around a barrel fire at the Shadow Yard. One could only endure so many life-and-death experiences without losing their sanity.
This must be how he preserved his.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, searching for any hidden cuts or goose eggs. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your big-ass head?”
A genuine chuckle escaped his lips. “I’m positive,” he promised, and her fingertips confirmed it. She felt nothing out of the ordinary, save for the new scar above his left ear, on which she lingered for slightly longer than necessary. His blue eyes stormed at her touch, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “That one doesn’t count.”
Her eyes burned as she gazed into his. It would always count to her. He’d stared down the barrel of death for her. Then, wounded and weary, followed her down to the brink just to pull her back from it – back to him.
She knelt back down in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. She hadn’t known what it felt like to be truly, unconditionally loved until that night. She traced his chiseled jawline with her thumbs, but the words failed to reach her lips. She gulped them back down, too afraid of the damage those words might cause.
A soft smile appeared on his lips, and he leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes fluttering closed. She closed hers too, breathing him in and shivering as his fingertips brushed up and down her arms.
“I’ll always come home to you, you know,” he whispered to her, his breath warm on her already-rosy cheeks. “No matter how bad the damage is.”
Goosebumps rushed down her back, as did a tear down her cheek. Relief flooded through her, even though she knew it was a promise he wouldn’t always be able to keep. But hearing him say it… was all the comfort she needed. Her hands fell from his neck to his shoulders, instinctively grasping for the cloth of his shirt, only to meet skin. He brushed her lone tear away with his thumb, and when she finally opened her eyes, his were smiling down at her.
She smiled back. “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘I’ll always be home for Christmas’?” she asked. He groaned while she laughed at his dismay, her heart feeling much lighter.
“How did I miss that?” he asked, running his hand over his face.
“I’m sure you’ll get the opportunity again,” she reassured him, turning back to the first aid kit. “Now, lie back.”
“With pleasure.” He laid back, all smiles until she pulled out the curved needle and thread. He cringed and started to sit back up. “On second thought—”
She stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder and a sharp glare. “Lay.” He glared back at her but let her push him back down on the couch. She smirked, then pat him on the head. “Good boy.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the worst. “Bite me.”
END PART THREE
PART FOUR COMING DECEMBER 24TH.
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