Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Julian failing to die is not really succeeding
Julian woke up. His lungs ached in his chest, a searing pain with every laborious breath.
He must be alive because he hurt way too much to be dead.
And his bladder was going to burst. The inside of his elbow throbbed.
He checked to find the IV attached to his arm.
Alarmed, he looked around, panicked that they’d left him at a hospital.
The movement caused sharp pain—everywhere.
Yep. Definitely alive. In a regular hotel room, fortunately.
Regular was a kind description. He recognized the Fulbright’s worn decor.
There was no goddamn way he was going to spend another minute in this shithole of a hotel. Who knew what was lurking in the closets, the hallways, that creepy elevator?
Unbidden, his mind went to the past. In a room similar to this one, he’d lost his friend, his boss, and life as he knew it.
With a shudder, Julian looked around his makeshift hospital room.
The hotel had once been his hope of a way out.
Something to call his and not Castenada’s.
Now he wanted nothing to do with the place.
He braced for more pain as he rolled to his side, holding on to the IV pole to help himself upright.
His mouth was cottony, his limbs shaky, but he had to piss something fierce, so he eased himself up and stumbled into the bathroom, dragging the pole with him.
The light switch slid under his fingers, and his retinas burned against the sudden fluorescence.
Steadying himself with one hand on the counter, he managed to get his fly down and use the toilet. When he was done, he edged to the sink and ran cold water over his hands as he stared at himself in the mirror. An old, near-death gang member stared back.
His nose was swollen, the skin under both eyes bruised and purple.
Dried blood had smeared over his belly and under his right arm, outlining a rectangular bandage over his heart.
Clumps of blood gathered in his chest hair and flaked into the sink as he rubbed at it.
He pulled off the adhesive bandage and looked at the wound.
Neat, black stitches in a four-inch curve just to the side of his pectoral muscle.
He stretched his arm up and hissed at the burn.
The skin was pink and healthy-looking between the sutures.
He found towels and wet them under the running water. Not trusting his balance, he sat on the toilet lid as he cleaned up. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the IV needle out and dabbed the speck of blood with some toilet paper, replacing the tape over it.
The shower beckoned, but he had to get out. Besides, he needed to be ready to move if someone came. Cleaning his chest and arms of most of the blood, he rose and surveyed himself in the mirror again. That’s going to leave an awful scar.
He frowned at the thought in his head. Since when did he care about scars? He picked up the large bandage and replaced it over the stitches, pressing it down with a wince. He’d have to stop and get supplies at a drugstore, some painkillers too.
His fuzziness fading, he remembered convincing the big guy to help him. What was his name? Something biblical. Moses? Aaron? Abraham, yeah that was it.
The memory of Ramon’s house, the guns going off. Old Cesar’s shock as Julian shot him. He shuddered, suddenly horrified at the memory though he didn’t know why. Cesar would have killed him for sure. Yet he was here and alive. For whatever reason, Abraham had saved him.
He left the room and stumbled into the empty hallway. Keeping one hand on the wall for balance, he made his way to the other room, the smell of blood and sulfur still lingering. His blood, he figured, as he frowned at the stain on the sideboard, the faded carpet. It was a lot of blood. Too much.
Taking the elevator, he made his way to the bar.
It was empty, but he pulled a bottle of high-end vodka from the shelf and took a healthy swig.
His stomach revolted, and he made it to the trash can before vomiting it all up.
The action caused the ache in his chest to spike, which had him gasping for breath, causing even more pain.
He swore vehemently. The room grew fuzzy and dark.
He stumbled to a club chair and collapsed.
When his eyes opened again, he felt much better. He got back up to the bar and sat on the stool. The bartender he remembered from months ago came around the corner as though it was a normal evening. He frowned at Julian. “I suppose you want a drink?”
“Ah. Yes. A vodka, no.” He remembered his stomach lurching. “Let’s just make it a club soda.”
The bartender shoved a tall glass into the ice bin and then filled it. “You want a lime with that?”
“No, it’s fine.” Julian managed a nod when it was set in front of him. “Thanks.”
The bartender pulled the towel off his shoulder and wiped down the bar.
“Where is everyone?”
“Everyone with any sense is gone. I guess that says a lot about us, doesn’t it?” This time there was a glimmer of humor in his eerie dark eyes. Julian wanted to ask if he remembered him from six months earlier but decided against it.
“I should go.” He finished off his seltzer. “You wouldn’t happen to have something I could wear back there?” He indicated the room behind the liquor shelf. “I seem to have lost my shirt.”
The bartender squinted as though noticing his bare chest for the first time. With a shrug, he walked out of the bar and came back with a medium-sized T-shirt with a Temple University logo on it. He held it out to Julian.
“Thanks,” Julian said. Relieved to find his wallet in his back pocket, he left a ten on the bar and pulled the shirt over his head. The action hurt and the shirt was far too tight, but he was semi dressed at least.
In the lobby, the morning light seeped in, illuminating the overall shabbiness.
How had he ever thought he could turn this place into a moneymaker?
He’d put all his savings and wages into buying this place, and now it was abandoned and wrecked.
The upstairs rooms were only fit for renting by the hour, or satanic rituals.
Julian was not a hands-on owner, so he’d funded an auto accounting system to keep the bills paid. After Ramon died, running the hotel was the last thing on his mind.
“At least the creepy desk clerk isn’t hovering,” he muttered to himself as he leaned on the front counter.
He bit his lip. Okay, maybe the desk clerk wasn’t that creepy. The man was certainly good at his job. He smiled to himself, feeling better, though he had no idea why. He was fucked. Well and truly.
Back at his apartment, the guys would contact New Jersey. Most likely Cesar’s lieutenant would answer and send a car full of thugs to investigate where his boss was.
The sun chased shadows on the sidewalk outside the glass doors.
Julian fished his phone out of his pocket, cursing to find it dead.
Like everything he had, the phone belonged to the organization.
His apartment, his car, all leased through Castenada’s front company.
For fifteen years he’d been living what he’d thought was the good life.
Nice digs, good clothes, expensive dinners.
But the truth was, he was owned by the Castenada cartel.
He walked over to the trash and tossed the phone in. There was no one to call anyway. It was possible they tracked it to the hotel before it died. Julian had to get out of there, and fast.
Yet he stayed. He stood next to the counter, rubbing a hand along the smooth mahogany, feeling the familiar dents and scratches.
A part of him said to move and keep moving, make a plan, while another held him back, somewhat fearful.
The hotel was safe. Comfortable. It was the only thing in the world that was truly his.
Such as it was. No one knew he owned it.
That is, until they hit his apartment, cleaned out the safe, and found the paperwork.
Taking a deep breath, he clenched his fists, steeled his nerves, and walked outside.
Just that short trek took a lot of effort, and he was out of breath already.
His wallet held the company cards and two crisp hundreds tucked away. But where would he go?
Turning, he edged himself down the street. It was daylight but early enough that traffic was light. A chill went through him. His last memory was being in the car, with blood running over his hands and a hole in his chest.
Ahead of him, the diner’s lights glowed, warm and welcoming. A familiar place. That was good. Coffee sounded good. Baby steps.
Julian was on his second cup when he looked up to see Abraham’s dark figure standing at his booth.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The words were a low rumble in Abraham’s throat. Julian found it mildly sexy the way he talked.
Sexy? He frowned. He could admit certain men were attractive without getting weird about it, but this felt different. He was straight.
“I’m uh, drinking coffee?”
“Dude. You almost died. You should be hooked up to tubes and shit. Yet you’re… Wait, did you walk here?” Abraham’s look was incredulous.
“No. Magical fairies picked me up and flew me, but I wouldn’t give them my teeth, so they dropped me off here.
” He frowned. Maybe fairies were real? God, he’d probably insulted one somehow.
“Yes. I walked here. It hurt like hell, but I needed caffeine, okay?” He gestured across from him so Abraham would quit making a spectacle of masculine beauty at his table.
The big man/creature sat down and ordered coffee. When the waitress had gone, he looked at Julian.
“You look remarkably well. How do you feel? Wait, are you really you? Is it Julian I’m talking to?
Or someone else.” His voice lowered. The sound did things to Julian’s insides.
Things he couldn’t figure out. He blinked at Abraham like he was new and sparkly.
New thoughts, completely random were just shot into his brain.
Julian pushed at his temples. He was losing it.
Abraham’s words snapped him out of his stupidity. “What do you mean someone else? Who else would I be?”
The waitress came with the coffee carafe and a mug. She poured as Abraham barely gave her a glance. He studied Julian.
“You remember our deal in the car? The medallion for helping you? I took you back to the hotel where my doctor friend stitched you up.”
“Great. I’m indebted to you.”
“No. You’re not, but it’s a wait-and-see kind of thing.” Abraham took a long drink of his coffee. He ripped open packets of sugar, dumping them into his coffee, along with creamers. Stirring, he sipped again.
“Wait for what? Spit it out. Will ya? I’m picturing all kinds of weird shit in my head now. Did you steal a kidney or something?”
“No. But you were bleeding out. The bullet shredded an artery and things didn’t look good. Do you remember taking the necromancer? The old guy who died at your place?”
Julian winced. “He died. I really didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Well, his spirit or whatever was in my friend Hunter.”
“Purple-haired guy.”
“Yeah. Anyway, he did some magical transference shit to help you.” The big man drank his coffee as if this were a normal conversation. Julian squinted at him. Abraham’s eyebrows lifted. “You were dying, man. It was the only way we could think to save you.”
Julian jerked up from the booth. The stitches jolted pain through him as they stretched. “I have a freakin’ spirit inside me?”
“Julian, sit down.” His eyes flashed that eerie gold. “I don’t know. Hence the question, how do you feel?”
“I feel like shit. Tired as all get-out, I hurt, I’m thirsty and weak and strangely okay.”
“Whatever happened seemed to help you. Ziggy, er, our doctor friend, said that the artery was repairing itself, so she stitched you up and gave you some antibiotics. Hunter was out cold afterward, so we don’t know about him.”
Julian drank the rest of his coffee, mentally taking stock of things. Inside things. How he felt, what he thought.
“Everything seems normal. I feel… a bit apprehensive about my future, but that’s normal with the organization on my ass. I have like two hundred bucks to my name. My cards will be cut off if they’re not already. I can’t go anywhere, yet if I sit here, I’m a dead man.”
“Cobb said he’d talk to the feds about you turning witness against the cartel. That deal comes with protection.”
“Fuck that. There’s no way I’m turning on them. Sure, they want to kill me, but if I squeal? Then their hearts are really in it. It’s a done deal then.”
“Look, just hear him out, okay? Like you said, you don’t have money to run, you probably wouldn’t get far anyway. You sure you don’t feel anything wonky?”
Julian shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’d tell you. Really, I would, but I think it’s just me.” As soon as he said it, he felt a twinge of doubt, a little niggle of fear. But then who wouldn’t? Thinking some foreign entity was all up in their business?
Abraham pulled out his phone and sent off a quick text.
“That reminds me, I need a new phone. Mine was through the cartel, and I dumped it.”
A few minutes later Abraham’s phone buzzed. “Regge says Hunter is good, meaning he’s all Hunter, but he’s left Regge’s.” Abraham looked up. “Come with me. I gotta go check my bar, and you can get cleaned up or whatever.”
“Funny enough, my schedule is open. Thanks.”