Savage Things (Chaos & Ruin Book 2) (11 page)

“Yes. Fuck, Zeth. Yes.”

“And are you ready?”
 

I nod, swallowing. My throat feels dry. My body is vibrating with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Zeth sits back on his heels, observing me with a calmness that makes my heart trip over itself in the most terrifying way.
 

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s begin.”

Chapter Ten

MASON

Five Days Later

“I want to take her home. She’s bored out of her mind down here. She’s been fine for days now. It’s
time
.” I lean against the wall by the elevator, pleading my case to Sloane. No, the extra treatment Millie’s receiving isn’t costing anything, and yes, I sure as hell am grateful, but fuck! I want to disentangle myself from Zeth & his girlfriend (wouldn’t
that
have been valuable information to know) as much as I can. I owe Sloane my life; I already owed her way more than that before, when she helped with Millie. No one else would have stepped up for my sister the way she did. I can’t bear the thought of owing her any more.
 

“What’s the harm in keeping her in another couple of days?” she asks. Seeing her here is very different to seeing her outside of the hospital walls. Here, she’s the epitome of calm and efficiency, almost to the point where she appears mechanical. Like nothing at all fazes her. When I saw her at Zeth’s warehouse, she had been flustered and fiery. It’s hard to imagine her like that, now, as she flips through Millie’s chart. “Her sleep pattern’s irregular. She’s complaining of stomachache a couple of times a day. Both of those things could be underlying symptoms for something more serious.”

“She’s being left alone in an unfamiliar place every night. She can’t sleep because she needs her own bed. And she’s got stomachache half the time because Dr. Bochowitz keeps giving her all the chocolate pudding she can eat instead of her regular meals.”

“Seriously?”

I shove away from the wall, following after her as she begins to walk off down the corridor. “
Seriously
. Trust me, okay. Millie’s going to be ten times better off at home, back to her normal routine, than she is here. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, but it’s
enough
.”

Romera stops walking. “Okay. Take her home. But you call me the moment you think she looks under the weather, you hear me? Day or night. It doesn’t matter.” She hands me a business card, the kind all doctors have, a string of unintelligible letters tacked together at the end of their names. I pocket it, smiling. “Thanks, Doc. I will, I promise.”

“Good. I need to clear morning rounds. It’s a miracle you even caught me this early. I don’t need to see you out, do I?”

I shake my head.
 

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you. Hopefully not too soon.”

“Hey, Dr. Romera?”

She hooks the tubing of a stethoscope over her neck. “Yes?”

“It said on that card of yours that you’re a trauma surgeon. That true?”

She nods. “Why do you ask?”

“You were in business clothes before, but now you’re in scrubs. I thought you might have been banned from operating or something.”

She clasps hold of both ends of the stethoscope, fingers wrapped around the instrument like it’s her most prized possession. “Something like that,” she says. “I had the flu. You’re not allowed into the OR if you’re contagious, Mr. Reeves. I’m sure I’ll be cleared for surgery any day, though.”

******

Wanda’s so pleased to see Millie at her front door that she refuses to accept the crumpled ten-dollar bill I try to offer her. “I done told you once, I told you a thousand times, boy. That girl is welcome here any time. If I’m home, she can come play with Brandy anytime she likes.”

“I know, I know,” I tell her. “It’ll be late by the time I get back, though.” I feel super shitty; after fighting so hard to take Millie home, I should be spending the night in with her, but I need to work. I need to make money.
 

Wanda shakes her head, closing my fist around the money I’m still holding out to her. “It’s not a problem, Mason. I got her, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure I feed her and give her a bath. Now hurry on out of here before you’re late. It’s already after eight.”

“Ssshhhh—” I manage to stop myself before I curse. Wanda isn’t a fan of curse words. After eight, though? I got up at five am to go find Romera at the hospital. How can it be so late now? Wanda hooks a perfectly plucked eyebrow, giving me a warning glance. “Sorry. Hurrying’s not going to save me now, though. I’m already late,” I tell her.

“Well, then get on with you!”

I kiss Millie on top of the head, brushing down the fine strands of her hair as she grins up at me. “I’ll see you later, mouse. Be good for Miss Wanda, okay?”

She’s never anything but good, yet Millie nods her head dutifully. She doesn’t go into Wanda’s place until I’m down the hall and gone from sight.

I’ve got a lead foot and I’m blind to the color red as I burn across town. Mac’s in his office when I pull up outside the garage. He’s on the phone, shouting at someone as I hurry across the forecourt and stick my head under the hood of the Chevy Impala I’ve been working on restoring the past couple of days. I think I’ve gotten away with being close to twenty minutes late, but then Mac sticks his head around his office door and hollers at the top of his lungs.
 

“Get your ass in here, fuckhead!
Move
!”

Shit
.
 

I’m always surprised by how tidy Mac’s office is. By the look of him, stained vest, ripped pants, grease everywhere—the auto mechanic’s universal uniform—you’d think he’d be messy in all aspects of his life. Turns out he’s pretty OCD, though. Not a paper is out of place on his desk. Almanacs and mechanics guides relating to a vast array of car manufactures are neatly arranged by year and by size on the shelves behind him. The waste paper bin beside his dark stained wooden desk is empty. No pin up girls on the walls. No food wrappers, or empty soda cans. It’s neat as a pin.
 

“You think I’m a fucking joke, don’t you?” Mac spits. By the wiry vein pulsing in the center of his forehead, and the cloudy bead of sweat running down the side of his face, I can see today was a bad day to be late.

“Absolutely not. Of course I don’t.”

“Then why in
fuck
would you think it’s okay to show up to work late? AGAIN?”

“I’m sorry. I was at the hospital. Fuck, Mac, I’m trying my be—”

He holds up one hand. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence. I know your kid sister is sick. I know you got a lot on your plate, Mason, I do, but so does every other fucker on the face of the planet. I’m trying to run a business here. Figure this shit out, or you’re gonna be looking for another job. We clear?”

I want to punch a hole in the bastard’s face. It would be more than satisfying to watch him crumple like the sack of shit he is as I plant a solid right hook straight into his skull, but where would that leave me? Without a steady income, and a blackened reputation. Mac is alpha and omega when it comes to body shop repairs in Seattle. One word from him and I’d never work in this city again.
 

“Yes, Mac. I got it. We’re clear.”

“All right then.” His face softens a little. “And like I’m always saying, if these morning shifts are too tricky for you, you can always take up some night work. I’m never short of that.”

As always, I turn him down flat. Mac’s night work is the most illegal, dangerous, and generally life threatening under-the-table work you could hope to find. I need money, not a criminal record or a shallow grave. “Thanks for the offer, though.” I turn and I get the hell out of there, before he can hint at anything else, and I can feel the sweat running down in between my shoulder blades. I’d better finish this car today, get her up and running in record time, remind Mac that I’m the best there is, otherwise I’m not going to be able to keep him off my back much longer.
 

I get to work, trying not to look in the direction of Mac’s office, or at the gym across the road, where Zeth is no doubt training hard, thrashing the shit out of a sea of unsuspecting wanna be fighters.
 

Later, after lunch (which I work right through), a familiar, beaten up looking Hyundai pulls up on the street outside the garage, and I instantly know this means trouble. I fixed that car a few weeks ago. Not only that, but I had the pleasure of driving its owner to her class at Seattle University.
 

Kaya.
 

She climbs out of the car, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, jerking the fur-lined hood up over that pixie cut of hers. For a moment, I trick myself into thinking that she’s not coming into the garage. Why the fuck would she? People don’t just show up at other people’s places of employment, wanting to have a chat. It just doesn’t happen. But the way she slams the car door closed and makes a beeline right for me is unmistakable. I should know better than to think Kaya Rayne conforms to any form of social etiquette.

“Hey.” The word forms on a cloud as her breath fogs the air. “You got a minute? I need to talk to you.”

I look at her like she’s crazy. “No, I don’t have a minute. I’m at work. I—
fuck
, Kaya. Leave.
Please
. I’m in enough shit as it is already today.”

A hurt look flashes across her cold-flushed face. “You really need to hear what I have to say, Mason. I’m not messing around.”

“Neither am I. If my boss sees you here, talking to me, my ass is in the can.”

“Don’t be such a baby. Listen to m—”

“I’d love to listen to you. Standing around, shooting the shit with you while you tell me about your day sounds fucking spiffy, but if Mac catches me socializing while I’m on the clock, I might as well pack up my tools and take off right now.
 
Can we do this later?”

Kaya, lost in her gigantic parka, frowns at me, and I already know the power of that frown. She probably uses that thing to get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. It’s probably been used to bring men far more resilient than me to their knees.
 

“When?” she ask.

“I don’t know.
Later
.”

“Tonight?”

“Fine. Yes, tonight. I finish at eight. I’ll meet you at the café on the corner. Now, please. Just go!”

She goes.

Chapter Eleven

SLOANE

You never get used to the smell of vomit, even when it’s your own. I’m supposed to be attending a check up in thirty minutes so I can get signed off and back onto the OR floor, but there’s no chance of that happening today. I’ve been puking my guts up since lunchtime, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be stopping any time soon. I grab the bottle of blue Gatorade in front of me and swig some, swirling it around my mouth before spitting it into the toilet.
 

Jesus. Talk about stomach bug.
 

I’m shaky on my feet as I make my way off the emergency room floor and up to the ICU. That’s where I run into Oliver. He smiles when he sees me. In fact, he grins from ear to ear. The grin fades when he gets a good look at me, though. “Goddamn, Romera, you look like death warmed up. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

I chug the Gatorade, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Still sick,” I say, pulling a face.
 

“Then you probably shouldn’t be here,” he says.
 

“Screw you. I’m already off surgery. You can’t send me home altogether. I’ll go mad.”

“You stay here and you’re gonna infect half the people you see in the emergency room. That’s all I’m saying.”

I know he’s right, but damn. I really don’t want to be quarantined at the house. I’m no good at being ill. I don’t know the meaning of bed rest. I’ll end up gutting the kitchen, spring-cleaning like a crazy woman, or back burning all the dead shrubs and deadfall at the rear of the house. I’ll probably end up starting a forest fire. “Don’t you dare report me, Oliver Massey,” I say. “I’ll never forgive you. I swear I’ll take it easy. I’ll do paperwork upstairs or something. I promise I won’t infect anyone.”

He looks doubtful. “All right. But you’re submitting to an IV before you go anywhere, okay? You look like dog shit.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

He takes me by the arm and drags me into an examination room, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves with way too much flourish. He’s enjoying this. With a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows, he pushes down on my shoulders, forcing me to take a seat on the edge of the gurney behind me. “Now. Dr. Romera. Do you happen to have a severe case of explosive diarrhea?”

“Gross. No.”

“Hmm.” He’s disappointed, I can tell. “That’s strange. Everyone else has had it. Myself included. Really humiliating when you’re sleeping at your new girlfriend’s house.”

“Oh
no
.”

“Oh
yeah
.” He holds the back of his hand against my forehead, checking my temperature.
 

“We have far more accurate ways of doing that, you know?”

“I’m too lazy to grab a thermometer. Besides, you don’t have a fever. You’re fine.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel hot.”

Oliver scrutinizes my face, looking me over, as if merely staring at me will provide him with a diagnosis. “Well, I guess you’re on the other end of it, then,” he says. “Some fluids aren’t going to hurt, either way.”

I lay back on the gurney, propped up with pillows, the backrest in an upright position, and Oliver goes about hooking me up to the IV beside the bed. He pokes his tongue out at me, then proceeds to ask me the things we’re meant to ask every time we administer any kind of treatment to a patient:
 

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“No.”
 

“On any medications right now?”

“No.”
 

“Had any recent surgeries?”

“No.”
 

“Any history of heart problems?”
 

“No.”

“Any chance you might be pregnant?”

“No.”
 

“When was your last period?”