Authors: Joey W. Hill
The manager’s light flashed up at the waitress’ startled scream. Thomas saw in an instant that Marcus had refused help and his movements had been so careful and stiff because he’d been holding the broken bottle close against his side.
He struck the man across the face, splitting open his skin as precisely as a surgeon, and then followed up with the other hand which was holding—Jesus Christ—a brick.
The man’s jaw broke with a crunch that Thomas could hear, though it was lost in another shriek from the waitress. She tried to launch herself at him, but the manager had already grabbed her as Thomas hauled Marcus back.
The man was back on the ground, holding his face, moaning.
Marcus managed to land a kick in his ribs before Thomas caught him about the
chest, trying not to hurt him further, but Marcus was as oblivious as a pit bull who’d strangle himself if necessary to finish the job.
“Marcus,” Thomas hissed. “Come on. We’re going. Stop. Please stop.”
Marcus throttled back his forward motion, but apparently he wasn’t done yet. Even when angry or sarcastic, Marcus’ voice was velvet and rich. But the voice that came out as dark and deadly as the night itself was almost guttural, someone Thomas didn’t know. “The bottle is so we’re even, you son of a bitch. The jaw is because I know what you did to me, you would have done to him.” He jerked his head, indicating Thomas.
“And that’s how a New York street kid fights. Even a queer one.”
With that, Marcus gave in to Thomas’ urging and moved away from the rear of the restaurant, allowing Thomas to keep an arm around his back to support his steps. As 159
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Marcus gave him more of his weight after they turned the corner, Thomas hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in refusing the manager’s offer of an ambulance.
When they got to the car, Thomas saw they’d smeared something on the
windshield. It looked like leavings from the garbage. From the smell, one of them had in fact urinated against the tire. Thomas was thankful they hadn’t left the windows open or had the headlights smashed out, but he assumed with the car being in the front, that would have attracted too much attention.
Leaning Marcus against the car, he fished his keys out of the torn slacks without asking, his fingers brushing the bloody gash. Thomas felt tears sting his eyes. “Ah, Jesus.”
“Forget that. It’s the ribs that feel like shit. Goddamn. I haven’t had anyone sneak up on me in a fight in twenty years, and I get laid out by some redneck piece of shit in the middle of nowhere.” Marcus’ arm wrapped around his midsection. “Can’t draw a breath without it hurting.”
“We’re getting you to a hospital.”
“No, you’re taking me back to the house. I’ll be fine.”
“Horseshit.” Thomas shook his head. “There was a hospital about five miles from here. We passed it on the way down and you know it. We’re going.”
“No, we’re not. I don’t want to go there. They have a terrible reputation. They kill people who come in with nosebleeds.”
“You’re lying.”
There was a stubborn set to Marcus’ face, but Thomas didn’t give a rat’s ass. He stepped forward, bumped Marcus’ toes.
“You’re going. And you’re not in a position to say no.” At the flash of fire in Marcus’ eyes, Thomas changed tack. “You could have broken bones, a punctured
organ. If not for you, do it for me.”
Marcus blew out a breath, winced as if even that caused him pain. Thomas
suspected it did. “That was a low shot.”
“Whatever it takes,” Thomas responded.
Marcus nodded, a resigned look coming to his eyes, shadows of things that Thomas didn’t understand. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Thomas helped him in the car, seeking something to change the suddenly tense
atmosphere. “New York street kid? Was that the truth?”
Marcus grunted. “Pretty, wasn’t it? Just drive, Thomas. You do know how to drive something other than farm equipment and junk cars? It works about the same way.”
“The Maserati is like a small combine,” Thomas retorted, but before he closed
Marcus’ door, he fished out some wet towelettes from the glove compartment. He
pressed one to Marcus’ jaw, his own flexing. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”
“There are no sorrys to be said on this one, pet. They’re the only sorry ones. The world sucks sometimes. But a lot of times it doesn’t.” Marcus managed a grin that 160
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looked gruesome and feral with the blood on his teeth. “Jesus, you kicked their asses sideways. I’m so impressed I’d be hard as a rock if I didn’t feel like shit. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
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The small hospital only had two on call doctors. Those capable of walking in had to wait for the doctors to finish with the victims of a more serious car wreck that had come in before them. Fortunately, there was only one other walk-in, a four-year-old with a bad tummy ache. She was being held by her mother, who kept eyeing them
suspiciously.
“Because we look like we’ve been in a gang fight,” Thomas muttered.
When they first came in, the nurse had regarded them in the same manner. “You
been in a fight?”
“No, a really competitive golf tournament,” Marcus had said dryly. Thomas winced at the “fuck off and mind your own business” New York undertone. She’d thinned her lips and thrust the clipboard at Thomas. “Fill this out.”
It had felt odd to help Marcus do that. His name, medical history. History of illness.
Though Marcus had claimed not applicable and “none” to most of it.
“I shouldn’t have let you go out there by yourself.” Thomas stretched an arm over the back of the bolted plastic seats, grazing Marcus’ shoulder. He didn’t want to be rebuffed for hovering, but he needed the contact.
“Let me?” Marcus eyed him from his one non-swollen eye, then closed it. “You my keeper now?”
“Sometimes I get the feeling you need one. Weird, huh?” Thomas shifted so he was sitting sideways on his hip. Propping his head on his fist, he reached out and pushed Marcus’ hair back from his temple, rubbing his thumb against the unmarked slope of his left cheekbone.
“I’ll say.” But the fact Marcus submitted without further comment to the stroking told Thomas how bad Marcus was probably feeling. He snagged a pillow from a gurney and put it between Marcus’ head and the wall to give him something to support his head and neck.
“It’s not your fault, pet,” Marcus murmured. “None of it.”
“I should have been there sooner,” Thomas repeated.
“It’s just a face. Just flesh and bone. When you die, it all rots away.” A corner of Marcus’ mouth twitched. “Should I be worried? You’re going to dump me if I stop being pretty?”
“You’re pretty?” Thomas was glad Marcus’ eyes were closed so he wouldn’t see the war between anger and concern in his expression. “I mean, you’re old, almost forty.
Your pecs are starting to sag like my grandmother’s breasts…”
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When Marcus swung a hand out to deliver a weak-knuckled slap to his abdomen,
Thomas caught it. Instead of thrusting it back, he held on, a light grip of Marcus’ wrist, his fingers tracing Marcus’ palm. Marcus stayed still for a moment or two, then his fingers moved, a caress to Thomas’ sternum with his knuckles before he pulled away to switch hands on the ice pack they’d provided for his face.
“What happened to that whole thing at the farm, your argument about not solving anything by being confrontational?”
“This was a little different. They hurt you.”
Marcus made a noncommittal noise, laid his other hand on his knee, carefully
stretching out one leg. “I think we’re going to be here for a while.”
“Let me check on things.”
“Let
you
. That’s more like it. Need to remember your place.”
“Shut up and wait here.” Thomas approached the front desk, the nurse who
narrowed her gaze at him as he came. He knew he had blood on the front of his shirt.
Probably splattered on his face.
Maybe he should visit the restroom. But he didn’t want Marcus out of his sight.
“I told you the doctor—”
“I know,” Thomas said. He glanced back, saw Marcus had his eyes still closed, jaw held taut, breathing shallow. “Can he have something for the pain until then? He doesn’t have any allergies.”
“I can’t administer drugs without the doctor’s permission.”
“Do they…do they do good stitching here? He—” Thomas abruptly pulled out his
wallet, fished out something he knew he shouldn’t be showing, and slid it across the counter to her. “I know he’s surly and unlivable at the moment, and even on a good day he can be like that, but that’s what he normally looks like, inside and out.”
The wallet picture was one of many that had been done at one of Julie’s post
production parties by a professional photographer. Despite her budget trepidations, she’d known the promo brochure was important. Marcus had been listening to
someone, his head turned at a slight profile, dipped a bit. The photographer had reproduced it in black and white and come up with a finished product that was
reminiscent of a still of a legendary great, such as Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Rock Hudson.
Julie had given this one to Thomas. He kept it behind a couple of other things in his wallet that didn’t get disturbed much. An old video club card, his county library card.
Even so, the corners of the photo had gotten dog-eared from the nights he’d taken it out to look at it in the quiet darkness of his room at home. He laid it on the nurse’s clipboard.
“It’s not who he is,” he said in a low voice. “Not what’s special about him, but it’s still important. It’s…his armor. His way of coping.” As the words came out of his 163
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mouth, compelled by some instinct, Thomas knew it was true. It protected whatever it was Marcus so steadfastly refused to tell him, to tell anyone.
The nurse gave him a quiet look, reached out and patted his hand. “Dr. Tillman
does very fine stitch work. My boy split open his forehead on a rock last year and you can barely see the scar anymore. You go sit down with your friend and we’ll get to you as soon as possible, I promise.”
Thomas nodded, tucked the picture away and returned to Marcus, whose eyes were
still closed.
“Did you offer her sex to get me in faster?”
“Should I have?”
At the squeak of wheels and a lingering shadow, Thomas glanced up, surprised to see an orderly pushing a hamper full of dirty linens stop to peer at Marcus. Leaning over further, he took a step forward, his light brown eyes studying the gash, or so Thomas thought.
“Dodger? Is that you?”
“This day just gets better and better,” Marcus mumbled under his breath, so low Thomas was sure only he’d heard him.
When Marcus lifted the ice pack and raised his head, the orderly’s face creased into a smile. He looked as pleased as if Marcus didn’t have blood all over his jaw and shirtfront, his eye swollen shut, arm gripping his ribs as if he were holding his insides in.
“It is you!”
The nurse gave the orderly a sharp, admonishing look at the enthusiastic shout.
Immediately, he quieted with an apologetic look, clasping both hands over his mouth before he leaned over again, spoke in an exaggerated whisper through his fingers.
Perhaps in his late thirties, the man had lanky dark hair to his shoulders, combed back and held with a rubber band, eyes that were a trifle wide, and a mass of scar tissue around his left eye, which was hidden beneath a permanent patch.
Under his hospital smock, the man wore pressed jeans and a clean striped shirt. For some reason, his appearance gave Thomas the impression of a first grader setting out to school, carefully prepared by his mother.
“Your shoe’s untied, Toby.”
This from an older black man who approached and immediately flanked Toby with
the protective demeanor of a parent. Putting a hand on Toby’s shoulder, he compelled the younger man to kneel and begin the apparent thoughtful challenge of tying his shoe. “It’s Dodger,” Toby repeated.
“I see that. How you doing? Never thought I’d see anyone nail that face of yours.”
His face creasing into a well-used terrain of lines, the man reached out and shook Marcus’ unoccupied hand. Since they were having to shake with the same side hand, Thomas noted it was more like they squeezed grips as long-time friends.
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“They got lucky,” Marcus said. “How’re you doing, Owen?”
“He’s head custodian,” Toby said proudly. “Employee of the month. That looks like it hurts.” He straightened and reached out to touch. Thomas watched, intrigued as Marcus sat still, let Tobias place his fingers with an odd gentleness on his jaw below the laceration.
“I didn’t know you two were out here. Last time we’d talked you were still in
Boston.”
From the briefest flicker in Marcus’ eyes, Thomas knew he was lying. And he
understood why Marcus hadn’t wanted to come to this hospital. From Owen’s steady look, he apparently knew it was a lie as well.
“Yeah, well, this was better for Toby. Small town, everyone knows him. He does a good job here.”
“Mr. Stanton.” The nurse spoke. “The doctor will see you now, Exam One. Sorry,
you have to stay.” She gestured to Thomas. “You can come in after awhile, but…”
“The doctor has to make sure you aren’t the one who beat me up,” Marcus finished, giving her an arch look. “Does this pussy look capable of beating anyone up?”
The nurse, unfazed, arched a brow. “Well, seeing as all the blood on him appears to be yours, I’d say yes.” Her brows lowered. “But I’m here to tell you that
I
can whip your ass if you don’t clean up your language and get yourself in Exam One before Dr.
Tillman decides to make you wait until tomorrow and goes to get herself a nice, well-deserved latte.”
Toby giggled. “She’s nice, Marcus. Mean, but nice. Like you. Don’t be messing with her. She’ll tear you
up
.” As he rose, he patted Marcus’ shoulder, then abruptly put both his arms around him, holding him. Thomas stiffened at the same time as Owen moved forward, but Toby held Marcus as if holding an egg. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Thomas was amazed to hear the man muffle a sob. “Marcus. My friend. He’s my friend.”