I looked down. When I'd been unbuckling my seatbelt, my hand had caught on an earring left on the seat. Its pointed back had broken the skin.
I opened my palm. Blood was already pooling.
Adam saw it too. His voice spiked. "How could you be so careless?"
For a split second I thought he was worried about me. I was about to say it was nothing, that this tiny pain was less than a fraction of what I felt inside.
Then his next words sent me plummeting.
"That's her earring. She's a germaphobe. If she finds out her favorite earring got stained with your blood, she'll be furious."
So my blood was dirty to him. The pain in my hand throbbed up into my skull, making the world tilt. I stared at him, blank-faced, for what felt like forever before something that might have been guilt flickered across his expression.
He lowered his gaze. "I'll let it slide this time. I'll cover for you. But don't touch her things again."
Then he pulled out a sanitizing wipe and began cleaning the earring. Carefully. Methodically.
My palm was still bleeding. I could feel it trickling down to my thigh now, warm and steady, but I sat there like a fool. I couldn't form words. I couldn't make my hands move to stop it.