Secrets Of His Playhouse

Eighteen

Jermany's POV

It felt like hours, though I know it wasn't. My stomach grumbles. How will I survive here for a week, alone? How is Shawn?

I hear footsteps and locks clicking so I look up. Lo-and-behold standing before me are two guards dragging an unconscious Shawn. I stand to my feet immediately gasping.

They walk in and place him carelessly on the floor.

"Be careful." I say.

"Oh, we're very sorry, did we hurt your lover boy?" One guard mocks and the other laughs. I bite my tongue resisting the urge to cuss them out.

They step out and lock the door before one puts his hand through the bars and throws in a small box and clean clothes; Shawn's. I rush to the box and realise that it is a first aid kit. An incomplete one with only spirit, cotton wool, bandages, Tylenol and a bottle of water.

I get up and run to the bars quickly.

"WHAT TYPE OF PEOPLE ARE YOU! PETER BEAT UP HIS OWN SON AND HAD THE GUTS TO JUST GIVE HIM AN INCOMPLETE FIRST AID KIT! WHAT IS HE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH IT FOOLS!"

I hear heavy footsteps and the two guards reappear in front of the bars again. I back away from the bars once I notice one's angry look.

"Listen here brat, you better watch your tone with me or els...." He starts.

"Hey, leave her. One week of no food and water will tame her tongue." The other guard says coolly.

"Right." The first one says smirking. He cackles and they walk away.

I turn and face Shawn lying helplessly unconscious on the floor. I drop to my knees in front of him and grab the first aid kit. I remove the spirit and cotton wool and dab the spirit with the cotton wool.

I clean his wounds occasionally dabbing the cotton wool in the spirit. He has cuts on his lips and forehead, bruises on his elbow and arm, a bloody nose and a partly swollen cheek. If he were awake, the feeling of the spirit on his wounds would hurt like a bitch.

I finish cleaning his wounds and wrap a bandage around his forehead, then his arm and elbow. It's a good thing his blood clots easily, we wouldn't have been able to keep changing bandages if he bled because we're out. Peter Philips even gave us incomplete bandages.

"#@$*&%#" I curse under my breath.

After cleaning his wounds I observe his shirt and pants. They're both stained with dirt. I look to the side just remembering the clean clothes; a shirt and new pants. I take a deep breath ready to do what I'm about to do. It shouldn't be such a big deal, anyway.

I gently lift his shirt and guide his hands out of the shirt. Once his hands are out I carefully remove the t-shirt from over his head. I keep the shirt aside, picking up the new one. I'm about to put it on him when I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes trailing down.

Woah.

If only the newspapers or magazines normally over edit his shirtless pictures or if only they would stop under editing them, I wouldn't be here practically gaping at Shawn's actual bare chest. He's perfect. Toned chest and six packs, not the type that looks too big and disgusting but the type that looks natural; like he was born with it!

Memories of my past and the sinful activities that used to define me come rushing back. My body ached to trail, trace, taste....

Oh. My. Gosh.

I shake the thoughts out of my head vigorously. I hadn't done such things for two years now and I intend not to. And I cannot be having such thoughts about a wounded man, especially this man. I put a shirt on him without looking.