Chapter 19
Spencer came back to see him a few days after that visit, or so he thought, the days and nights blended into that soft agony, the meds making him drowsy.
His headboard had been raised during the day, moved to a ward where he got some sunlight through a window.
A private room too, Sinclair had made sure they took care of him, no doubt paying a generous amount to the hospital, too.
He had come, but that meeting was lost a bit to the murky memories of that drug induced haze.
He just knew Sinclair had his back, no matter what.
That right arm strapped to his chest, his hand white, the fingers numb.
Swallowing, his eyes on that sliver of sky because what if he could never move it, or his arm…
There was just so much he could do with a lame right arm…
Looking at the door when it opened, his heart flooding with warmth when he saw his familiar dark eyes, his small smile, walking on heeled boots, a leopard print leotard tight on his form, a black silk blouse with golden dragonflies, and his hair, half of it missing.
A faint make up as he sat down on the bed, and crossed his legs, taking Duncan’s hand in his.
“It’s goodbye, Righteous.”
Duncan’s heart sank, that ice on it.
A soft kiss, still, on those panicked lips. Whisper soft. “For now.” Squinting into those worried grey eyes. “I’m going to rehab and not coming out until I’m clean and have vanquished my poisons.”
Duncan stayed silent, that kiss burning his lips, his words his heart, because he had no idea how Spencer would be once clean… no idea without the booze and weed racing his veins. He’s Spencer, dummy… Moved, he squeezed his hands back feebly.
“Alright…”
“And you?” Worried, seeing that right hand like wax on that white sheet.
Duncan swallowed. “I’ll manage… I need to be out of the straps to see what can be done…”
Spencer cupped his chin to have his eyes. “I’m not letting you go. Can you cling to that?”
“Yes, of course…” Lost in those dark eyes.
Spencer fished a small card out of his pocket, sliding it in his palm. “This is the place where I’ll dwell. And heal.” His lips had curled up, mocking. “You can come, but I’m not sure I’ll see you, ok? You know my number, but they don’t allow phones at the start, so…” Scared a bit.
“You have someone to take you there?” Worried, to the brink of sanity, that small anger too, that he could not take care of him.
“An old fart. Courtesy of Sinclair’s Angels.” Rolling his eyes with a grin. “I won’t fuck him for sure. I guess they wanted to be safe.” Stroking his hair back, relieved, that he had smiled. “Not fucking anyone anytime soon… I have you now.”
Duncan parted his lips, his chest heaving, but Spencer pressed his fingers on them, stern.
“No. Save those words for the healed me.” Planting a kiss on them.
“Soon…” He stood, unable to tame those feelings toiling in his chest. “I have to go, otherwise I’ll stay and a junkie will nurse you back to health. ”
Duncan scoffed, holding back his tears. “Yeah, ok, just go.” Kissing his hand. “See you soon.”
“Anyone to help you and make sure you heal?”
Duncan smiled. “Sinclair has a whole rehab programme lined up, don’t worry.” Giving a squeeze to that trembling hand, watching Spencer bite his lip. “You’ll do great.”
Those dark eyes went to him. “I’m a devil…”
He grinned. “Don’t I know it… Devils are strong, though. Tough as shit.”
They laughed, but Duncan’s ended in a grimace. Ash white, he had to lean his head back, weak, in pain.
Spencer took the morphine pump and clicked it a few times.
Duncan’s eyes went wide. “What… don’t…”
“Too late, Righteous. Just rest.”
Duncan’s eyelids fluttered, his tongue heavy. “Devil.” That small smile as his eyes closed, that soft breathing, a last sight of those dark eyes, that black mane of a hair.
“Yes…” Stroking his hand down that pale cheek, he steeled himself and walked out, not looking back.
That determined stride, his heels like daggers on that pale corridor.
Spencer then asked to be driven home to gather his clothes, the ones he liked the most, drinking too, pouring large glasses of whiskey.
Last glasses… the thought almost sending him into a mild panic, he threw the window open, sipping that fiery drink, soaking in that fiery sun, the breeze catching that mismatched hair, the horror of that knife still lingering, killing that man, flooding him like a dark wave…
looking down… maybe a tiny thought as the whiskey slid down his throat that he could just step outside of all this…
Useless… the wind whispering… useless to him too…
ruin his life… you will…. You will ruin him…
you did too…. Eyes a bit wide, but they caught on a reflection, that painting in the window’s glass, his grey eyes, filled with that light, that tattoo…
Semper Fi… remembering what he had told him, those horrors…
and he’s still here… waiting, for me… downing that drink, he flung the glass out, hearing it smash on the roof below. Turning, determined, packing.
Down to the car. He caught their butler on the way out.
“Have that painting on my wall sent to the rehab centre.”
“Yes, sir.”
Spencer sat in the car then. “To the hair salon.” Catching that old man’s eyes in the mirror, his nod.
“Yes, sir.”
The divider went up then.
Spencer sighed, the landscape rushing as he clutched his phone, that soothing burn of the alcohol, a balm on his soul. Fuck. One last trip too. Almost a thought there to ask that old guy to drive him far. But then, his eyes, his voice… You can do it…
Walking in the salon, he sat down, his hard eyes in the mirror. Taking that tall glass of champagne out of his hairdresser’s hand.
“Wow! This is what you wrote me about? Fucking hell, Spence!” Fluffing his hair. Meeting those dark eyes in the mirror.
Spencer’s lips just curled up. “I have an idea.”
“Ok…”
Sinclair had come the day after Spencer had left, pulling a chair to his bedside table.
“The drains will be out soon and then maybe they’ll allow you to have less straps too, once the bandages are changed.”
“You’re my mother now?” Mocking a bit.
Sinclair’s eyebrows raised. “Am I just? I’m whatever you need. The young man’s parents were more than generous. You got wired a fortune for saving their son.” Looking around. “And where is he? Went home?”
Duncan sighed, avoiding Spencer’s eyes. “He left… to a rehab facility.”
“Oh, surprising. You did a better job than I thought.”
“He did the job.” That bitter curve of his lips, his eyes on the sky. He turned at Sinclair’s touch on his arm.
“I wanted to tell you do not despair if your arm is rusty a bit. Plenty of stuff you can do at the firm with a weaker right arm.”
“Weaker?” He swallowed at the pain, still fuzzy. “I know my body inside out. I know what I might be facing. This is not just a weaker arm.” Trying to flex his fingers but his hand stayed stubbornly immobile.
“One cannot lose hope though.”
Duncan grinned, soft. “Ok… whatever you say.”
Sinclair patted his arm. “You will heal, to the best of what is possible. Don’t bury that arm yet.” Even if he knew, having seen the X-rays and scans, the torn muscles and pulverized bones.
Duncan just gave him a weak smile, looking out the window again.
Days after the drain tubes got pulled out, and the bandage wrapped off. Duncan insisted to have a look, his hard eyes on that desolation, even if they had sewn him up, it was a dreadful sight, the stitches pulling on skin and flesh.
The doctor was all cheerful. “Well, it could be worse. How is the pain?”
“Bad on most days.”
Pulling a face when the doc pushed his gloved fingers on the wound.
“Once we take these out, you can go to rehab. A couple of weeks of PT and you should be like new.”
“My hand doesn’t move…”
The doctor flexed his fingers, in and out. “Well, they work like this… move them for me?”
Duncan tried but his hand stayed put.
“I’ll ask for a therapist to come and have a look. We might need another scan, just to be sure. Might be because it was tied up. I’m sorry, but you need a few straps, still.” He gestured a nurse close. “Bandages and strap his arm to his torso, but light. I’ll see you around.”
Duncan just waved, feeble, letting the nurse work, tired, worried about Spencer first before his own state, he was wondering what Spencer was doing, how he was managing that fight when he had decided to do it alone without him at his sides…
He said he is not letting you go… but believing it was harder than ever, that loneliness weighing on him, his absence like a thorn pushed too deep into an already torn heart.
Closing his eyes on his tears because the last thing he wanted was to cry. To mourn when he was alive.
Waking to the sight of a huge bouquet of pink roses shimmering in that late afternoon sun, thinking he had dreamt it up when he sensed that human shape sitting near the bed. His eyes drifting there as his vision cleared. Fuck! That rage flooding him, with his disbelief.
“You…”
A small pull of his mouth. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”
“Fuck off… why are you here?” His thoughts cleared a bit, so he grabbed the remote and raised his headboard to face him, his wound throbbing.
“I saw what happened in the news and I thought I’d check on you. Maybe it was a mistake…” Almost rising when Duncan sighed.
“I guess you can stay if you came all the way here.” Watching him sit back, his heart kicking at his bruised soul. It still felt good, after that initial hate, to have someone he knew and had loved. “Your flowers?”
“Yes. I know what you like, don’t I?” A soft chuckle, those eyes filling with warmth and worry. “I’m sorry… about how I treated you.”
“Forget it, Trent…” Eyes a bit wide when Trent took his hand, unable to object in that shock.
“I’m here for you, ok?” Looking around. “Not like that young asshole?”
Duncan’s chest flamed up and he pulled his hand out. “That young asshole… has stuff to do. Just fuck off if all you do is spew insults.”
“He means that much?” Bitter, that bitter smile.
Duncan set his voice. “Yes, he does.”
“I was thinking that maybe we could… I could help you with getting back on your feet?” Spreading his hands. “Nothing intended, ok? But you’re a good guy, Duncan, and I still… I think that…” Losing his words at the look in his eyes.
Duncan tried to speak above the pain. Not just the one throbbing in his shoulder and chest, the one in his heart. “No, forget the fuck it. Shut up. I think you should go because that young asshole? He means that much. Even if he tramples my heart into the dirt. I’ll wait for him.”
Trent rose, that mocking smile on his lips. “Don’t put your hopes too high.”
“I did and they fell hard, right? So, yeah, not an advice I can take from you..”
Trent just walked to the door, turning back then. “Call me if you need help or company, I mean it.”
“Fuck off…” A feeble middle finger as he let his hand fall back.
Weary, his eyes on that still right hand, he took it to move his fingers around. He could feel with it, so a tiny hope burst up, that all was not lost. Looking at the nurse when she walked in with a tray and put it on that small mobile table.
“Oh, beautiful flowers!”
Duncan gestured at them. “Just take them to your staff room.”
“You’re sure?” A wide smile. “Thank you.”
“You all deserve more.”
“You won’t miss it?” Picking the bouquet up.
Duncan swallowed his tears, his anger. “I don’t like pink roses.”
She sniffed at one and left with the bouquet. Only their scent remained, pervading the toom, like a lost memory clinging to a lost love.
Duncan pulled that small table in front of him, trying to use the cutlery with his left hand, steeling himself because he needed his strength to amount to anything and to help Spencer survive himself.
Eating, mechanically, but it felt good, to shovel that bland food down and feel it race in his blood.
Eat and survive. Adapt and overcome. A bit mad at his own weakness, that he had let his resolve down, those words ringing in his mind. Live, Duke. I will, kid. I will…