E L E V E N
“Salty or sweet?” Ryan asks as we approach the concessions.
“Salty,” I murmur. “Don't tell me you're a sweet kind of guy?”
He laughs. “I prefer sweet popcorn so guilty as charged.”
“That's a crime,” I nod. “Popcorn should be buttery and full of sodium.”
“Does that mean I won't have to worry about you stealing all of mine then?”
I shake my head. “Not a chance.”
“How about candy? Sour or chocolate?”
“Chocolate.”
“I should have I known.”
I smile. “I'm a simple gal.”
“Buttery popcorn and chocolate,” he winks. “Got it.”
As I watched Ryan order snacks, I glanced at his soft face. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to say something wrong. I'm doing the same thing to Ryan that I've been doing to Charlie.
I am second-guessing both of them.
Only Ryan isn't some slimeball college boy and Charlie doesn't owe me anything.
“This okay?” Ryan queries, after lacing his hand around mine as we head for the theater.
I nod .
If I even wanted a sliver of a chance at my own love story, I needed to start living it and quit expecting the worst of people.
Ryan and I did end up sharing candy, my chocolate squares, and his sour Skittles. The movie I picked had been a historical drama and Ryan had been talking to me like a duke since we left the theater.
“ M'lady ,” he winks, holding open my door to his car.
“You are such a cheeseball.” I shake my head with a snicker as I get in.
“Cheeseball? ” he theatrically gapes. “I'll have you know I am one of the most sought-after suitors in Chi-Town.”
I snort/laugh. “Get in. It's cold.”
With a snicker of his own, he shuts my door and jogs to the other side, turning down the air till it is warm enough. I decided between balls and society secrets I needed to truly get to know Ryan, so I asked him a deeper question.
“Why did you decide to become a doctor?”
“As I mentioned, my parents are doctors.”
I nod.
“It was sort of... expected of me,” he inhales. “Not that I don't love what I do, but there wasn't much other choice.”
“Why peds then?” I ask.
“I love kids.” He flashes me a smile with warm cheeks. “I figured if I was going to be a doctor, I wanted to be one that saved those who deserve it the most, and in my opinion that's children. They haven't had a chance to fully live yet and that's what we all truly deserve; a chance.”
A chance.
I shiver at his words.
He deserves a chance .
“Why nursing?” he counters.
“Becoming a doctor was too much school.”
Ryan chortles, holding a palm to his chest.
I bite my cheek. “The real reason is I had an unhealthy obsession with cleaning wounds. I was fascinated by the blood and getting it to stop. I didn't want to perform surgery or anything like that, I just wanted to bandage people up. Nurses can take the time to listen to a person's story and make them feel heard long enough to clean them up. Doctors don't always have that luxury.”
“I'd say you're pretty good at that,” he says. “I've watched you a few times with patients. You're very attentive.”
“My job is to be there when they are hurting. I never understood the mean nurse mentality. Why do this job if you don't want to help people?”
“What's a very good question,” he conquers. “It would be nice if most people in our profession saw it that way.”
“There's more good ones than bad ones.”
“Not on the peds service.” He blinks. “That woman Stacey…” He pushes out a gush of air, sounding out each letter. “W-o-w.”
I giggle. “You aren't a fan? She seems to be a fan of yours.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not a fan.”
“I thought you would be,” I admit. “I thought she was more your type. I didn't think I was even on your radar.”
“Was I on yours?” he counters.
“Honestly? No.”
“You wound me, m'lady .”
I lightly smack his arm and a comical hum settles in his chest .
“You're just my type, Banks,” he assures me, parking outside my building.
“I promise I'm not a glutton for compliments.”
He turns with a smirk. “It's okay if you are. I have no problem giving you them.”
“It's a me problem and I'm working on it.”
“Why?” He cups my face. “Why do you think less of yourself?”
I lean into his touch, shutting my eyes, completely unnerved that I am about to admit this to my co-worker. “Let's just say, I've never measured up to Asian porn.”
I heard him uncomfortably swallow and my eyes opened. He watches me intently like he's trying to choose his words carefully.
“Porn is a fantasy,” he finally speaks. “I'm more interested in the real thing.”
I breathe in, letting my eyes drift to his lips and nudging my chin toward him. Ryan catches on and kisses me. Again, it's tender—sweet even. Thoughtful.
“Do you want to come in?” I whisper against his lips.
“Yes,” he groans. “But I shouldn't.”
My brows furrow as he strokes my cheek.
“I want to court you a little longer.”
I grunt, unable to keep myself from laughing.
“I'm serious,” he laughs. “I can't be deflowered on only our third date, Nurse Matsumara.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“You're cute,” he replies, giving me another light kiss. “Do you want me to walk you in?”
“No,” I smile. “I think I can get from here to there on my own. ”
“Okay.”
He kisses me again.
“Thank you for taking me to the movies.”
“You're welcome.”
I lean in and brush my lips against his jaw one last time before I get out.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he smiles.
Ryan waited for me to go inside before he drove away. I bit my lips as I grinned like an idiot walking up to my apartment.
Once inside, I washed my face and started to dress for bed when I noticed Charlie's wallet sitting on my coffee table. I pick up the leather fold and open it, seeing his license, a picture of him and Carsyn, and his cards along with some cash. Not thinking that much, I grab the spare key to his apartment, my keys and phone, before sliding on a pair of slippers and heading for the elevator. Usually, I would walk, but I'm too tired at this time of night.
The doors open, and I go to his door, knocking a few times. I wait and when he doesn't answer, I call him. I press my ear to the door, but I can't hear any ringing. I stood there for five minutes before I gave up and used my key.
“Charlie?” I softly call, mindful that it's late.
His apartment is dark, the only light coming in from the windows. His living room is still a mess from the television falling. The evident hole in the wall and a dusting of drywall that still needed to be cleaned up. His old leather couch has clothes tossed on it like he'd been doing laundry. I step toward his bedroom, peaking in to see his unmade bed with him missing .
“Charlie?” I say again, but it's pretty obvious he's not here.
I step into his bedroom, it's bare bones. Just his bed and a nightstand. His bed does have the new white set on it though. I intend to just leave his wallet on his nightstand and send him a text when I notice the nightstand is partially open.
I know I shouldn't snoop but a piece of paper caught my attention.
It's a copy of a police report.
I flip on his lamp and slide the drawer open. Inside is a leather folder that is unzipped with papers stashed into it, the police report being one of them hanging out, a box of condoms, and some photos.
I reach for the police report, seeing Charlie's name on it and the charges are for assault. I read further; the report claimed that Charlie assaulted one of his neighbors in Germany on the base. One of his father's coworkers.
It made no sense.
Charlie would never hurt anyone.
Had he gone to jail? Was that what he's been hiding this entire time?
I pulled out the folder, sitting it on the bed with the report when some of the photos slipped out. One of Charlie and Carysn as little kids. Others are of him and friends, but the one that truly caught my interest is the one sitting on top of all of them. As if it’s the most looked at or at the very least, the most recent.
It's me.
I'm probably only eight or nine, sitting in the front yard of my parents house. It's a candid of me, completely alone staring at my sneakers. They were pink Air Jordan's. I know this isn't a picture my parents took or even had a copy of. It’s one I’ve never seen before.
Where did Charlie get this?
My nail ran over my face, it must have been spring, but I already had a tan across the bridge of my nose.
Just then my phone rings, nearly forcing me to jump out of my skin. I take it from my pocket, seeing Charlie's name as I slide my finger across the screen.
“Hey, where are you?” I ask, putting the photo down and attempting to shove the folder back in the drawer.
“Banks?” A completely unrecognizable voice comes through the other end.
“Who is this?” I tense. “Why do you have Charlie's phone?”
“You're a nurse, right?”
“Who is this?” I demand.
“I'm Porky... I'll text you an address. That's where Charlie will be and bring medical supplies.”
“Wha—”
The line dies.
Another second later as I stare dumbfounded, a text from Charlie comes through with the address.
My body kicks into overdrive, spiked with adrenaline and fear as I sprint out of Charlie's apartment.
My hands shake as I white knuckle the steering wheel while following the directions. The idea of calling Kai keeps crossing my mind. My own fear wants that, wants my brother's protection right now, but I think of Charlie's secrets. He likely wouldn't want even me to know whatever it is, let alone Kai.
The address is a duplex in the shadiest part of town. The kind of place you don't go after dark, and you certainly don't go alone. One of the streetlights is out and a car sits on cinder blocks just twenty feet down. That alone makes me want to lock my doors and get the hell out of here, but I am too worried about Charlie to turn back. Not until I know he’s alright.
I check the house numbers one last time before I suck up the courage to get out. My purse is thrown over my body and my kit in my hands. I lock my car, but in these parts that means little to nothing, so I'll just have to pray I still have wheels when I return as I race to the door. The house nearly looks abandoned beside the beat-up Acura in the driveway. The door has lots of marks and scratches as I raise my fist and knock a few times. My neck twists around at any crack of the wind or noise.
I hear footsteps behind the door, which opens to a dimly lit living room and a guy only a few inches taller than me. He has a round face and a hoodie far too big for his frame.
“Banks?” he asks.
“Porky?” I almost stutter.
He nods. “Come in.”
I step into the house that is actually fairly clean inside, but obviously a bachelor pad. The duplex is very closed off, forcing us to step through a door into a fluorescent kitchen.
“I need another towel, Pork.”
His back is to me. Hunched over an old rickety table in nothing but a pair of black trunks. His body is covered in a sheen and if I couldn't see the blood on his hand, I would take time to examine the tattoo between his shoulder blades.
“Hold on,” Porky says beside me, running back out the door.
I let out the breath I was holding in, and he turned. Holding a bloodied towel to his temple, his eyes bug out, and he jumps to his feet.
“Banks.”
I take the rest of him in. His chest is covered in red and black bruises, his hand that I just bandaged earlier bloodied again and deep purple bruises already setting in on his other. His lip is busted, and his hair is damp with sweat.
“It's not what it looks like—” he begins, and I raise my gaze, halting his lies. He shifts on his feet, knowingly.
“Charlie,” I whisper in disbelief.
“It's not as bad as it looks.”
Porky pushes through the door again, handing out another towel to Charlie.
“You called her?” Charlie sneers over me through his teeth at his friend.
“Your head is split open,” Porky argues. “I had to call someone.”
“Not her, ” Charlie growls back.
Porky sighs, scratching the back of his head. “I'll give you guys some space.”
I take a deep lungful and move to the table, setting down my kit and taking off my jacket and purse, slinging it over one of the mix-matched chairs. I do my best to calmly open my kit and then walk over to the small sink and wash my hands, thankful there's a small roll of paper towels .
I then put on a pair of gloves this time as Charlie sunk back into the chair. His eyes shut as he irritably flexes his jawbone.
“Let me see,” I murmur, annoyedly.
He stalls a moment before pulling the towel away to reveal a gash at his hairline. Again, he would need stitches.
I gnaw at my cheek, threatening to slice through in an effort to contain my irritation. “You’re right he shouldn’t have called me.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I just—”
“He shouldn’t have because I am not a doctor. You really need to go to a hospital,” I exhale. “This is more than I am capable of.” I press gauze against the wound.
His eyes open, flicking at me. Telling me what I already know.
“It's going to scar.”
“Perfect,” he utters. “It will give me more character.”
I could hit him myself for that comment, but I don't. Instead, I prepare myself to stitch once again when I am not truly trained to do so.
“There's a clip in my purse,” I tell him. “Grab it so I can hold your hair back.”
I cut some threads while he did as I asked, handing me the lavender butterfly clip. I smooth back his hair and clean the few slivers of blood still coming out before I start. Charlie's hand wraps around my waist for support as I do, him shuddering every once in a while, as I place the five stitches.
“I'm... sorry,” he chokes out between the third and fourth. Stitches without any sort of numbing or painkiller can be torturous. “I'm sorry he called you like this. ”
“You gonna tell me why you look like a human punching bag?” I rap, my shock wearing off and my wrath settling in.
I'm met with silence as I finish.
More silence, even now.
I push back a growl and use a large bandage to cover the stitches. I tend to his hand before I start to clean up the mess I made, handing him a damp paper towel for his lip. I toss the trash and zip up my kit, grabbing my clip from his hair.
“Banks.”
He touches my wrist.
“Don't be mad at me,” his light haunted eyes plead.
I rip it back. “Don't be mad at you?” I quip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He stands. “I'm sorry,” he cries, towering over me. “Just please… please don't be mad at me.” He takes my face in between his bruised hands as my eyes shut to keep them from watering. “I'm fine.”
“But you're not fine, Charlie,” I sob. “Who is doing this to you?” I can't stop the tears as I look up at him.
His thumbs brush them away. “Banks...”
I shake my head. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” I can only guess. “I can try to help you if you'd just let me—”
“I'm not in trouble.” His head hangs. “And I'm sorry you had to see me like this.”
“Charlie. Please,” I beg, reaching up at him. “Who is doing this to you?”
His eyes shut as if he can’t bear to look me in the eye, and he presses a kiss to my forehead. “Thank you for cleaning me up.”
I drop my hands and pull myself from his grasp.
I roughly collect my things, not bothering to take the time to put my jacket back on.
“I saw the police report in your room,” I bark. “I know something is going on.” I throw my purse over my shoulder.
“And I am mad at you, ” I seethe before I brush past him, running out of the house.