Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CASPER
Islapped the faucet off and glanced up at my reflection in the mirror.
At the ghost looking back at me in the glass.
Pale skin, almost-white blonde hair, and eyes that flipped between light blue and navy on any given day.
Ink that trailed from toe to tit and neck to navel with the occasional barbell.
Then I wrapped a damp palm around the extra piece of metal I’d found sticking out of me. The one I didn’t put there and had me standing a few inches back from the vanity—instead of dick to porcelain like I should have been—ya know, if I didn’t have an extra piece of metal sticking out of me.
I took a deep breath and yanked the handle out.
The blade clanking against the sink basin and settling on the drain when I dropped it.
Blood went everywhere, except back inside me.
Which was why it was exactly the opposite of what you should do with a protruding stab wound.
But I’d never been very good at doing what I was supposed to do.
Or learning my lesson. Or staying away from shit I knew was bad for me.
Like the girl who’d put the knife there. And was apparently keeping count of her attempts on my life.
The word “six” was written on the wall. With more of my blood. Finger-painted above the bed. It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up. The knife was the second.
I grinned. I appreciated the theatrics. I really did.
Even if they were wasted on me. If I did have nine lives, they woulda run out years ago. I’d looked death in the face before. Fucker didn’t want me. Not then and not now. Not tomorrow either.
I snorted the line of coke I’d laid out on the glass shelf, stuffed a hand towel into the gaping hole in my guts, walked out of the bathroom, threw my jacket on, and strolled out the door with a post-nut skip in my step.
I could stitch my shit up just fine most days. But this particular hole went a little deeper than usual, and fishing around the damage on my own was how I’d almost disemboweled myself that one time.
Word of advice? If ya find something that feels like a sausage link sloshing around your stomach, don’t try to yank it out. It ain’t what ya think it is. Or maybe it’s exactly what you think it is and you just paid a lot better attention to anatomy than I ever did.
I made it back to B-wood a half a tank of gas and two pints of blood lighter. One of those could be explained by the knife, the other meant my hose wasn’t the only thing myshka had tried to suck dry.
She wanted to leave me bleeding out in that room with no way to make it back. Guess she never heard of Uber or the spare gas can Lambo was so keen to keep in the trunk.
I strolled up to the front doors, grinning into the camera and giving Bugs a little two-finger salute, followed by a one-finger wave before my knees gave out from under me and I hit the concrete steps with a thud.
When I blinked my eyes open, it was her face looking down at me. Blinked again, and she was replaced by one of the angel statues that was slowly decaying against the building. Blink, her. Blink, creepy angel. Blink, blink. And nothing but darkness because I wasn’t really blinking anymore.
“Probably getting tired of us meeting up like this, huh?” I smirked over at the bossman, who was in full doctor mode.
Accessories included: white jacket, slutty little glasses (which we both knew he only wore for the missus and her nerd kink), and complimentary blood bag. O positive. The good stuff.
He didn’t answer me, choosing to focus on adjusting the tube in my arm. Glancing up every now and then to check the vitals machine.
I moved to get up and Lambo shoved me back down again. We both knew if I wanted these wires off my body, I was tugging them out and there was nothing he could do about it. We also both knew it wasn’t in my best interests to do that until the bag was empty. Maybe this bag and one more.
“Sit still,” he grunted. “Before Donnie brings the restraints.”
That was the real threat. I could fight bossman off just fine.
Like I said, fucker was getting older and grumpier.
But Don-Don was a different story. My brother from another pill-crusher could have me twisted up into a pretzel in a few quick flicks of his jerking hand—and that wasn’t nearly as fun as I made it sound.
I held up my palms in surrender, offering the doc another grin as I peeked under the blanket to check out his handiwork. Franks was always complaining about Lambo’s technique. But I was pretty sure that was Monster-Face’s ego talking. And it liked to talk a lot. About everyone.
“Do I even want to know?” Bossman jutted his chin towards the raised caterpillar he’d created on my stomach.
“How am I supposed to know what you want to know?” I shrugged. “I mean, I’d wanna know most things. But you and me don’t think the same, Doc.”
“No, we don’t,” he muttered to himself. It was meant to be an insult. It wasn’t. He stepped over to the door, pulling it open and pausing. “Seven days.”
“Before what? Some little orphan girl crawls out of your television screen and murders me?” I laughed. Bossman didn’t.
“Bedrest.”
I didn’t get a chance to argue. Not that it woulda mattered because Donnie was already walking in with a set of leather restraints tossed over a shoulder.