15. TATE #2
Sitting at the edge of the exam table in nothing but a hospital gown, the light still hurts my eyes as my head pounds.
I haven’t bathed yet, and the sickly-sweet bite of urine permeates the air.
Yeah, I’m covered in my own piss and excrement.
Fun times. But I can move, and my limbs sag with blissful relief, so I don’t really give a fuck what I smell like.
I do care about this doctor laying his filthy mitts on me. He’s professional, well, as professional as an off-duty physician on my uncle’s payroll gets. But I mean, he’s not overstepping patient-doctor boundaries. He’s only doing his job. I just can’t stand the thought of anything near me.
“I need to hear your heartbeat, Tatum,” he says, slowly as if he’s dealing with a wild animal.
He is. I snarl. “Do not touch me.”
“He’s completely traumatized,” Dr. Fuckface says. “Looks dehydrated, too. He should probably have an IV of—”
“Of shut the hell up. I’m fine. I’ll drink some fucking Gatorade.” But I’m all jittery, my breath coming out jagged at the thought of him—of anyone—touching me. My lip trembles. Why can’t I get it to stop trembling? Why can’t I breathe right? My body won’t do what I fucking tell it to do.
No control.
“He’s going to go into shock,” the doctor says.
Uncle Jasper, who’s leaned against the doorframe, watching everything, says nothing.
“Can we … can we go home, sir?” I ask Uncle Jasper. He’s the one in charge. I’ve still got the weird-ass breathing and the jitters going on. Am I broken?
“Leave us,” Jasper says in that voice of his. Always with the smooth voice. It fools you into thinking he’s a safe landing pad. “Go get him a Gatorade.”
The doctor hates us. He tosses his stethoscope into his little black bag, storming out of the room. Then we’re alone, facing off. But it’s clear I’m not competition. I’m a kitten facing off with a lion. “I’m not convinced you don’t need more thinking time.”
“Are you fucking kid …” I trail off, sensing the danger pouring off him. “I c-can’t go back there, sir. You win, okay? I’ll do whatever the fuck you want.”
“Hmm. Better. Let’s do a little test, shall we? You’ll go to the college I tell you to go to, but as far as Luke’s concerned, it’s what you’ve always dreamed of,” he says with the edge of mocking glee in his voice. “Now you say …”
My bottom lip’s swollen. Left side. A throbbing bulb that tastes like copper. Did I bite my lip?
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, Tatum.”
Ugh. It’s Tate. Fucking Tate. Tatum grinds my gears.
“I’m going to allow you to play hockey—how fucking nice of me.
You’ll do a lot of ass-kissing to thank me for that one, but at some point, you’re going to get injured.
It will ruin any future you might have had in the sport.
Haven’t decided yet if it’ll be a real injury or a fictional one.
It doesn’t matter to me which, but that will depend on you.
When I decide it’s time, you’re going to say … ”
God, I’d love to bleed the life out of him. I grit my teeth, still shaking. I fucking hate that I can’t seem to get my body under control.
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a long pause as he thinks, and I’m fucking desperate to read his mind. “You will know your place, boy. Do we understand each other?”
“Perfectly, sir.” But there’s bite to my words. He’s managed to leash me, sure, but a leashed monster is still a monster. If he wants me to be sweet, he’ll have to lobotomize me.
The doctor returns with a bottle of orange Gatorade. That’s the worst kind. Who buys fucking orange Gatorade? I suck it back anyway.
“Am I needed for anything else?” he asks.
Uncle Jasper shakes his head. “That will be all.”
Dr. Fuckface leaves. Uncle Jasper saunters over to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.
That’s it, just my shoulder. Tell that to my brain.
My body goes fucking ballistic as I fight like hell and fail to get it under control.
Heaving breaths that are near hyperventilation.
A wheezing rasp that scratches against the rubbed-raw flesh of my trachea.
Sharp, stabbing pain scrapes along my ribs, doubling me over.
Yep, pretty sure one of those is busted.
He needs to get his hand off me. But what am I supposed to do?
He’s already made it clear that he gets to do whatever he wants.
Telling my body to fucking stop it does nothing. In fact, it makes it worse, turning me into the equivalent of a pressure cooker, holding in steam, about to burst.
He takes his hand away. There’s immediate relief. So the motherfucker rests his hand there again, testing. The same thing happens, my breathing erratic, heart pounding, blood racing. All it takes is a touch, and I’m catapulted into the darkness again, seized by sheer terror.
“W-What did you d-do to me?” I force out beyond the horrifying anxiety, fighting to catch my breath, praying he takes his hand away.
He does. I settle down, but my stomach’s still doing flip flops.
Uncle Jasper’s pleased smile beams. “Any mind can be infiltrated, my dear nephew. Even your damaged one. It works so much better than beating someone.”
“Then why d-did you beat me?” I manage in an angry, shaky breath. In the background, my body’s an aching sack of bones from all the hits it took from his fucking steel-toed boots and his nasty leather belt, but thank you, adrenaline, I guess. I’ll feel it later; for now, terror is at the forefront.
He shrugs. “You got me there. It wasn’t necessary, but it was a nice stress release.”
Fucking bastard asshole. I cannot believe this man was related to my father. I barely remember my father, but I imagine he was the Luke of their brotherhood. Jasper is a psychopath, and my mental profile is far too similar to his.
“What now?”
“You have to heal and get your strength up before you come home. You’ll stay at this facility and feel fucking lucky that you’re not in the basement.”
“Where’s here?”
“Not important. I’ll have tasks for you. Completing them gets you home faster. Bad behavior gets you …” He squeak-squeaks. Yeah, like a fucking rat.
This motherfucker.
Does he think he’s funny? Probably. A real sick and twisted fucking comedian. Insert sarcasm. And I know what I’m about to say, I’ll regret it, but fuck. Him.
“I can’t wait to kill you.” It would come across as so much more badass if I weren’t shaking like dice in a Yahtzee cup.
He sighs. “So close, Tatum.” He speaks into the intercom.
If I don’t like a hand on my shoulder, two bulky men grabbing me, waking up all my breaks and bruises, is infinitely worse. I’m sure Uncle Jasper’s sorry that he barely gets to hear my screams before I pass out.