Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sagan

I wash her like I would anybody else who could not care for themselves.

Esme deserves some dignity. She needs care and attention that no one can or is willing to provide.

They’ve all let this happen to her. They’ve let her rot.

She was so listless she might have been in organ failure in another day or two.

Well, that ends now.

And if she’s half catatonic like this for the rest of her life, I’ll still be here.

The loofah and herbal-scented soap wash away the days, or possibly weeks, of neglect. I make sure to get behind her ears and even between her fingers.

I lean in and murmur close to her ear, “Let me know if you don’t want me washing your private areas.”

In a sign of astonishing trust, Esme eases forward, braces her forearms on the tile, and spreads her feet.

She rests her forehead on her arms, resigned to the moment.

This isn’t about an excuse to touch her, this is only about taking care of her. But I’m not gonna lie, the sight of her wet, hourglass figure, the cinched waist, the curve of her hips, the dimples above her fleshy, round buttocks—all of it conspires to unravel my professional facade.

True, I wouldn’t get naked and hop in the shower with any other patient, but this is different.

My hands work their way to her front, gently cleaning over, around, and under her breasts. I can feel the weight of them. I know already how good they would feel in my hands, how I would pull them to my lips and suck her nipples, working them into taut little pebbles.

But I’m not going to do any of that. Not right now. Maybe not ever, if she’s not back to herself.

Esme makes no sound as I work the loofah over her body, around her back, making downward circles until I reach her undercarriage.

She lets out a small gasp when I make contact there. I keep it brief, mentally separating myself from noticing her heat. I force myself to breathe through it. I won’t allow myself to get excited.

I end with her feet, small and pretty, with chipped red paint on her toenails. Circling my hand around her ankle, I say, “Lift up, if you can.”

She does, allowing me to clean between her toes.

When I’m done, I turn off the water and exit the shower first, wrapping myself with a fluffy towel from the stack on a table outside the shower.

Esme remains neutral and barely responsive as I wrap her up in a white towel and use another to blot the water from her hair.

She’s got a lot of it, and even with the conditioning, it will take some work to get all these tangles out. I spy a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. I grab it, and she turns away, dropping the towel, letting me help her put on the robe.

I remember seeing a vanity table in her room, so that’s where we’re headed next.

I look down at her. “I’m gonna brush your hair now.”

I move to leave the bathroom, but I feel her hand tugging me backward.

I turn back to her and see her reach for a small bottle on the shelf by the mirror over the sink.

She hands it to me and then looks up at me. Her eyes are clear and lucid. Her bottom lip quivers and she says, “Thank you.”

The voice is a quiet rasp but echoes over the bleak plain of my soul.