Chapter 2
ASH
The moment of disrobing is the absolute worst: shucking my flannel shell and then, while biting back a scream and eyes screwed shut, peeling the sweat- and blood-drenched T-shirt from my wounded side.
Which I don’t manage silently. A short, high-pitched squeal of pain escapes me as I finally work the shirt off and then I freeze, listening raptly for any movement beyond the bathroom door.
I hear muffled talking, but when I shuffle over and press my ear to the wood I can tell he’s clearly on the phone.
Relax for a split-second before tensing up again: what if it’s the cops he’s talking to?
So I ease the door open, just a fraction, just enough, and listen some more. But it’s just his family, I think, or a friend, or maybe some girlfriend—whoever it is, he’s familiar with them. And I don’t care to hear anything he’s saying so I retreat back into my bathroom sanctuary.
I meet my reflection’s gaze in the mirror.
Oh, it’s bad alright. Just about as bad as it was three entire hours ago—or at least it hurts as much, if not more, because the adrenaline’s all worn off.
A score through my left side where a bullet just missed the bottom of my ribcage and several other vital organs besides, and the area is hot and swollen and beginning to bruise quite badly.
It’s shallow, but it doesn’t feel like it.
And the pain—fuck me sideways, I’m getting light-headed again, the edges of my vision pixelating violently and I have to grip onto the edge of the sink to keep myself from toppling over.
There’s a split-second where I’m terrified I’m going to puke everywhere and then another where I’m scared I’m gonna drop, and I have to breathe very slowly and deliberately until the nausea abates. At least, to background noise.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “You really blew it this time.”
Yeah. I really, really did.
And I am not safe here, not even a little bit. I should be many miles away from here by now. I should at the very least be out of the northeast. Connecticut is still way too close to home, to Rhode Island, to Providence, and thus way too close to trouble.
What I should’ve done, after the nice old lady I hitched a ride from dropped me off at that bar, is just limped my sad ass back out to the highway and stuck my thumb out.
Found a long-haul trucker heading south who wouldn’t ask questions, or at least any beyond will you suck my cock for a ride (the answer’s yes and pray that he didn’t have anything) and gotten the hell out of here.
I don’t have any pride anymore, not after the stunt I pulled tonight. I’m not sure I had any in the first place.
I still could, I guess. Leave. Go do just that. It’s not like I’m beholden to Sam in any way, though he seems nice enough; I’m sure he wouldn’t give a shit one way or another if I disappeared. We have known each other for about an hour. He can consider himself lucky he got free food out of it.
But, examining myself in the mirror and observing just how fuckin’ awful I look, combined with how awful I feel, it seems extremely stupid and reckless to leave. Which would be on brand with everything else I’ve done tonight—
No, nope. I need to start making smart decisions. I’ve already fucked up massively and nearly gotten myself killed doing it. Now I need to play it safe, or at least safer. So, okay. I’m gonna stay here tonight and see what happens.
I drag myself to the shower and turn it on.
It heats up fast enough—much faster than the shitty shower at my shitty house does, which I guess is no longer my shitty house—and then I step over the lip of the tub and get in.
I can’t make myself stand for long so I just sit in the tub, curled up against the side as the hot water beats against me and washes all the grime away.
I can’t, right this minute, make myself do anything else.
I can’t believe he shot me.
My eyes flutter shut.
We weren’t lovers; at least not like that.
Can’t really call a guy who pays you for regular sex a lover, and certainly not the Bigshot Politician, or Mr. Bigshot, as we all called him.
I wouldn’t even say we were friends. But I knew him pretty damn well, inside and out.
Knew all of his little secrets that he relayed to me here and there, bits and pieces.
Sprinkling breadcrumbs during pillow talk while I dozed, at first wishing I could leave right away and then slowly learning to, if not enjoy his company, at least not mind it.
Well, I knew that asshole was in love with me, but that always sort of happens with the regulars. They all fall in love, at least a little. They all mistake my willingness as something more.
And now he hates me, I think. I don’t think you shoot people you don’t hate. But I guess I did steal twenty thousand dollars in cash from him on pure impulse. All it took was enough frustration and that stupid safe door cocked open just so.
I take another deep breath before I glance down at my burning-aching side.
It’s bleeding again and I don’t know what to do about that.
I hold my hand just beneath it and watch the diluted blood seep into the lines of my palm.
My mouth is full of saliva but I can’t vomit in the shower.
I try to will it away once again, the hot churning in my gut, all swallow it all back.
No dice. My stomach roils and heaves and before I wind up puking on my legs I propel my torso over the lip of the tub, tearing the curtain away from me and throwing the lid of the toilet up that is thankfully within reach.
I puke up that burger so violently it slops over the sides of the seat and onto the floor.
Knock at the door. “Hey man, what about your clothes?” Sam calls out. “Do you still want them washed?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Um,” I say hoarsely. “Uh.”
And then he just comes in, and he informs me he’s just coming in, just gonna grab ‘em real quick—did I really forget to re-lock the door?—and there’s nothing I can do about that but stammer for him to no, stop, please don’t.
Too late, he’s in here, staring at me hanging halfway out of the tub covered in puke and blood and the sight makes him stop dead in his tracks.
“Mierda,” he gasps. “Are you okay? Is that blood?”
I stare at him stupidly. His eyes are saucers and they are such a dark brown that they can only be properly described as sable. I do not know why I am noticing that right now. “Yeah,” I say. My throat is raw and my voice is creaky. “I guess it is.”
Shit, it really is. And the act of throwing up has made it worse. It’s not gushing, exactly, but it’s no paper cut.
Sam, the poor bastard, has no idea what to make of any of this.
He’s just standing there, sort of halfway crouched to grab my filthy clothes but struck dumb by the sight of me and whatever the fuck it is that’s wrong with me, trying to make it all add up.
It’s not going to, of course. It’s all too ludicrous for that.
“Do you need help?” he says. “What should I do?”
“Can you find a first aid kit or something?”
“Yeah.” He leans down and swipes my clothes. “Yeah, shit. I’ve got something. I’ll be right back. Let me just…hold on a sec, okay?”
He backs out of the bathroom. The door clicks shut. I slam down the toilet lid—pointless now, but whatever—and flush, then withdraw back into the shower. I rinse myself off the best I can, all the sweat and grime and blood, and even manage to wash my hair quickly before I stagger out.
Oddly enough, I feel slightly better. Which isn’t saying a lot because I’m still dizzy and even worse still in danger of collapsing, those pesky drop attacks that come and go, sometimes with warning and sometimes not, but I haven’t had one all day and maybe I owe that all to adrenaline. Or my body just cooperating, for once.
The bracelet at my wrist jingles as I towel off my hair and then wrap myself in it. Yeah, the blood’s gonna stain it but oh well. Not my problem, at least not right now.
God, I’m too tired for all this. I should’ve thought about how exhausting it would be to be a criminal before committing the act. Fuck, why couldn’t he have just stayed asleep?
I sit, very suddenly, on the floor and lean back against the tub. I try to ignore the puddle of puke by the toilet—which is easy enough, actually. My side is burning like a bitch, and my head’s beginning to swim. All I want to do is sleep—but more than that, I need to get away from here.
And then Sam’s back. He’s got a bunch of stuff in his arms: clothes, it looks like, but also a small white box with a cheerful red cross emblazoned on the lid.
“My mom packed this,” he tells me with not nearly enough shame, and I would laugh if my stomach wasn’t currently thinking of new creative ways to torment me. “But Ash, what the fuck happened?”
For some reason I didn’t think this far ahead. For some reason I thought I could hide the fact that I had a fresh bullet wound in my side, merely hours old. And because I don’t want to answer him, I say, “Are you sure we can’t leave tonight?”
“Holy fuck,” he sputters. “You’re literally bleeding to death and you want to leave?”
I let my head rest back against the tub’s rim. “Yes.”
“Dude. What happened?”
“I was shot.”
“With a gun?” he asks incredulously.
Oh, my god. I clap my hands over my eyes. “No, with a fucking UFO laser. Yes, a gun, Sam.”
“Fuck. What the fuck? You’re just walking around with a gunshot wound?” His voice is comically high-pitched.
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“I dunno, go to a fucking hospital? Doesn’t it need stitches? I can’t do stitches. If you haven’t noticed, I’m just some guy, not a surgeon.”