Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CASPER
“How’s our favorite patient feeling?”
Dr. Frankenstein AKA the guy with a face more fucked than one of Don-Don’s old sex toys (the ones that were all stretched out and deformed and dripping in cock juice by the time he was done with them and finally let someone toss the shredded rubber pieces into the incinerator after showing up in full hazmat gear—because fuck if anyone sane was touching them bare-skinned) strolled into the room with his hands in his black tac pants pockets.
Matching black t-shirt and spit-shined boots.
Utility belt around his waist and a knife in place of a scalpel.
No scrubs for Franks. No lab coats or sensible shoes either.
And he hated it when you called him Doc.
Probably stung a bit that he never quite made it to full stethoscope status.
Almost as much as that concrete he’d hit on his way over to his girl’s house the night his career ended… rather abruptly.
I shrugged a shoulder, rattling the metal bed rail it was attached to. “How’s our favorite circus freak? The wifey stop closing her eyes when you fuck her yet? Little birdie mentioned how she likes to picture me while you two are going at it. Really gets her in the mood—”
I’d barely gotten the last word out before Franks was crossing the room. Quicker than he did anything most days. He yanked me forward by the collar of my shirt and twisted until he’d fashioned himself a makeshift garrote.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he hissed, little droplets of his menthol-scented spit landing on my cheek.
If I had a packet of bubblegum handy, I’d have been sure to lend him a piece.
To help with his bad breath, not his health.
I couldn’t care less if someone attached him to the brain-scrambler and jacked the setting up to full speed.
Franks had his uses—stitched me up on more than one occasion—but I’d never become all that attached to the guy.
I wiped the puddle of saliva off with another shrug and smirked. “Wonder if that makes the kid in her belly part mine, Daddy?”
He twisted again, and again, constricting the fabric so that I couldn’t talk. Or breathe. It was almost too easy to get under this guy’s skin. Took most of the fun outta it too. But not all of it. Which was why I kept on picking at the face-sized scab one scratch at a time.
That scab being both literal and the woman he insisted caused it. The same woman he hated so much he loved her. Or loved so much he hated her. I couldn’t be sure which way it went. I couldn’t be sure why he was so obsessed either.
I honestly never got what the fucker saw in his wife.
A mousey little brunette whose eyes looked like something that should be on the cover of Field & Stream magazine or mounted on the wall in some cabin in the middle of nowhere.
Emily had no personality outside being a victim.
And fucking her? Hah! Might as well be fucking a corpse.
Not that I knew from experience. Maybe.
Point was, my interest in Emily was hinged on how worked up it made my friend here—the quickest way to find yourself chopped up and deposited in a few industrial-sized trash bags was to try to get down with or on Franks’s girl.
Just ask Mr. Grant Nielson… if you can find all of him.
Franks finally released me when my lips started turning blue.
I could make them out in the shiny reflection coming off the medical tray Lambo had left behind.
I could also make out the giant vein popping out of my forehead.
And even then, looking like a human blister, I was more appealing than the man in front of me.
That was the part that irked him the most, I think.
The fact there wasn’t much he could do to fix himself.
And if he could, I still was younger and prettier.
Leaner muscle. A body that bent in ways his girl could only dream about…
when she was dreaming about fucking someone who wasn’t half DC Comics villain.
Franks shoved me back onto the pillow and spit a buncha empty threats under his breath, and I smirked wider.
If you didn’t want something used against ya, you shouldn’t let people know you had it in the first place.
That was Franks’s mistake from day one. Letting me and Lambo know how off the rocker he was about a girl he fucked a few times in college. Miss Golden Pussy. It tasted like the juice outta a day-old tuna can. Not that I knew about that either. Maybe.
I watched as he moved around the bed, messing with a few of the machines and checking the numbers.
We both knew that he could do something that would have the alarms blaring like a scene on Grey’s Anatomy.
And by the time anyone came rushing down the hall, it would be too late.
I’d be as limp as the woman he claimed he liked fucking.
He could do it. But he wouldn’t.
That was the difference between him and me. Franks had something to lose, two somethings now that his little Mini Me was on the way, I guess. And I had nothing but time to kill.
When he was done with all his doctorly (while still insisting he wasn’t a doctor) duties, Franks yanked my straps tighter. Spun around and slammed the door behind him.
I continued to laugh at his expense until I couldn’t hear his stomping down the hallway anymore.
A few years back and I would have faked a seizure just to watch him piss himself as he tried to fix whatever he’d done wrong. But he caught on after the first time so it didn’t seem worth the bruises anymore. Not when hitting on his wife was just as—if not more—entertaining.