Savage Things (Chaos & Ruin Book 2) (12 page)

I’m about to reel off the information, but that isn’t one of the standard questions. I shoot daggers at Oliver. He tries to distract me by sliding the IV needle into my skin, but it doesn’t work. “I’m not pregnant, Oliver. I’m on birth control. Now hurry the hell up. This is already going to take up half my afternoon.”

He shrugs his shoulders, turning down the corners of his mouth. “Just being thorough, Romera. I know you. You’re busy, you forget to take the pill a couple of times in a row, and BAM! Knocked up. I’ve seen that dude you’re living with, you forget. He looks like he has strong swimmers.”

“Stop talking about Zeth’s swimmers. His swimmers are none of your business. And I’m on the injection, so you don’t need to fret. No chance I can forget if I need to go get a needle jabbed into my ass cheek every three months, now, is there?”

“Fair enough.” Oliver holds up his hands in surrender. “Just lookin’ out for you,” he says, laughing.

“Why are you so cheery, anyway?” I grumble. I don’t need to mention the last time I saw him, when he was frustrated to the point of anger in the resident’s locker room.
 

“I am cheery because Alex is being moved down from the ICU today. He’s finally in the clear,” he says. “Providing no secondary infections have been festering away in the background, it’s just a matter of recuperation and physio now.”

“Damn, Oliver, I’m so relieved to hear that. I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah, me too. Thanks, Romera. And thanks for being the one to help me stitch him back together in the first place. Now get better already so we can fix some more people, huh?”

I give him a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“The guys from Alex’s fire house are coming by later. They haven’t been able to see him properly until now. I think they mentioned something about beer and Philly cheesesteak sandwiches if you think you might be able to stomach it.”

“You underestimate me. I can always stomach a Philly cheesesteak.”

Oliver leaves me to my own devices as I sit there, letting the IV do it’s work. It’s tedious, just letting time pass, and I have nothing to do but let my mind wander.
 

Zeth’s probably training hard, dreaming of ways to quash the threat Lowell poses once and for all. Hopefully without killing anyone. Michael’s probably…I have no idea what Michael’s probably doing. If he’s not with Zeth, then his actions or his whereabouts are a mystery. He’s such a guarded guy. His personal life is so unknown to me that I don’t even have a clue if he’s single or not. I doubt he has time for a girlfriend, considering how much time he spends running errands or ‘fixing things’ for Zeth, but there is a slim chance he’s got someone tucked away somewhere. I hope he has.
 

I think about Alex Massey, then. I think about how lucky he is that he’ll be walking out of St. Peter’s in a couple of week’s time. It could so easily have gone another way. The surgery could have killed him. Infection could have spread, bacteria overtaking him from the inside out. He was on any number of seriously strong, seriously dangerous anti-virals and painkillers. They could have interacted, as they sometimes do depending on the person, either sending him floating off into the ether or rendering the antivirals ineffective. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. So many things that could have…

Oh god.
 

I suddenly feel very, very sick again. My stomach rolls, nausea washing over me, as the room tilts uncomfortably. It’s not just the return of the nausea that’s making me feel ill. It’s the horrific, terrifying realization that just hit me like a bowling ball to the head. Alex was on a multitude of conflicting meds. Meds that could have made him even worse than he already was. Meds that could have caused others to fail and not work.
I
recently took meds that could cause others to fail and not work. I—shit, how could I have been so stupid? How could I have not thought for one second?

The antibiotics I took when I first got sick…antibiotics that occasionally render all forms of birth control utterly, completely, frighteningly ineffective.

******

Ward seven wasn’t built to accommodate twelve drunk fire fighters, and yet somehow Oliver has managed to squeeze them in. Alex Massey’s a special case, but he’s not special enough to warrant an entire ward all to himself. He’s rooming with a ninety-four-year old woman, who’s recovering from a triple bypass. Far from being upset about the ruckus, Cynthia May Allerdyce, hard of hearing and prone to bouts of obnoxious farting, is thoroughly enjoying the show the fire fighters are putting on for her. The guys, at least three or four beers in, could easily have been extras in Magic Mike, and they all know it. They’re enjoying themselves way too much as each of them lets Cynthia rub up on their chests and their abs with her arthritic hands. A couple of the guys aren’t even that built, some of them are kind of rotund around the mid-section, and yet they’re the worst offenders. Poor Cynthia is flushed in the face as she chats with the smoke chasers, patting them on the shoulders and telling them what good boys they are.
 

Alex Massey sits up in bed, watching with amusement as his friends make fools of themselves. No Philly cheesesteak for Alex. No beer, either. Just good ol’ morphine. Oliver hovers close to his brother, talking, constantly checking to see if he’s feeling all right. When he sees me on the other side of the bay, surreptitiously watching Cynthia’s monitor to see if she’s about to go into cardiac arrest, he gives me a grin and a small wave.
 

“Is he your boyfriend, sweetie?” Cynthia’s hand is cold on my arm, her skin like ice. She may be coming upon ninety-five, but she has the clear, intelligent eyes of a nineteen-year-old. She wears the look of someone who’s lived a life. Who knows what amazing stories she has to share. I’d love to sit down with her and hear them all, but that would be impossible with all the cheering and laughter that currently fills the room.
 

“Him? Dr. Massey? No.” I shake my head. “He’s a very good friend of mine, though.”

“Shame. He’s a good looking, tall drink of water, no?” She has the most charming soft southern twang. I bet she was quite the southern belle back in her day. I squeeze her hand.
 

“I already have a boyfriend, Cynthia.”

“Is he as good lookin’ as him?” she says the words like she already can’t believe that it’s true.

“He sure is. He’s the hottest man to ever walk the surface of the earth.”

“Aww, honey.” She says the word
honeh
, instead of honey. “You might believe that, and good. Sometimes a man can be the most…
hideous
thang, and still some woman out there love him warts an’ all. I do believe you one of those women, capable a’ lovin’ somethin’ no one else could.”

I laugh, patting her hand. Her skin feels so thin, like a moth’s wing. “My boyfriend’s handsome, believe me. Still, I guess you’re right. Some people might have trouble finding it in themselves to love him.”

“Mmm-hmm. Well you tell him from me, I know a kahhhnd soul when I see one, and he got hisself the kindest there is. I hope he takes good care of you, child.”
 

“He does,” I tell her, saying it with conviction, because it’s the truth, after all. Zeth takes the best care of me. “He’s a good man.”

Cynthia nods, her attention drawn away by the fire fighters, and I find myself numbed by my last statement.
He’s a good man
.
 

Is Zeth a good man? I love him without question; I care for him beyond measure, but is he a
good
man? My head’s experience of the past year tells me one thing, the evidence on paper showing a stark, unfriendly reality, but my heart reports an altogether different experience. I try not to think about the unsettling thought that came to me while I was letting that IV do its work. I’m just being stupid, I’m sure. I’m probably wrong. There’s no way I can be pregnant. No fucking way. There’s one way to be sure, of course: I could go do a test. But for some reason I can’t seem to make myself do it. If I pee on a stick, if I do a blood test just to be sure, that means I may have to face an unpleasant truth, and I don’t think I can bear that right now. Scratch that—I
know
I can’t.

Oliver and Alex both smile at me as I hover close to them. They both have the same shaped eyes, the same shaped faces, the same honey blond hair that curls up a little around their ears. When they’re apart, I’d never say either one of them looks too much like the other, their mannerisms making them seem unrelated altogether, and yet sit them side-by-side and you wonder how you ever doubted their blood ties.
 

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna give you a hug,” I tell Alex. “I don’t want to get you sick. Just wanted to come say hello. I’m so glad you’re on the mend.” Could be that I wouldn’t get him sick—unlike the flu, pregnancy isn’t catching, after all—but it’s not worth the risk.

Alex waves me off, like his life wasn’t in any real danger to begin with. “Can’t wait to get back to work,” he says. “These four walls are starting to drive me nuts already. And these assholes won’t quit calling me lazy, either. I need to get back on the rig, show them how it’s done.”

“If getting crushed and almost dying is how you do it, we don’t wanna know,” a young guy with a buzzed head says, laughing.
 

“Whatever, man. You’re just jealous that I get to hang out with hot doctors all day long.”

The kid with the buzz cut rolls his eyes. “You think I struggle getting tail? Do you? Really? I bet if I asked this lovely young thing out on a date, she’d say yes, wouldn’t you, doc?” He sends a heavily suggestive wink my way.
 

“Don’t you be hassling that young woman,” Cynthia calls. “She’s got a beau at home already. Why don’t you come and lay some of that charm on this single old woman, huh? I wouldn’t mind the attention none.” The cheeky old girl has a goddamn beer bottle in her hand. I grab it from her just before she can raise it to her lips and take a swig.
 

“Whoa, now. You aren’t allowed that, Miss Cynthia. You just had heart surgery.”

“What about intercourse?” she asks. “You know…
nookie
. Might that be possible?” She cuts her eyes at the fire fighter standing next to her, her eyes glinting brightly. He pretends like he didn’t hear her, but the tips of his ears are turning redder and redder by the second, and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the guy; she’s incorrigible.
 

“I’m afraid you need to lay off any strenuous physical activity for the next little while as well. Your doctor will give you the go-ahead when he thinks you’re fit enough to cope with the…
excitement
.”

Cynthia beams at the fire fighter. “Think you could come back and visit in a few weeks, hot stuff?”

Chapter Twelve

ZETH

The thing about promises is that they’re often really inconvenient and difficult to keep. I swore I wouldn’t put Mason in the ground for what he’s done, but I wonder just how pissed Sloane will be if I just gave him a gentle beating? A light ass kicking? Just one little black eye? Seems unfair to me that I should be expected to leave him entirely in one piece. Really, if there was any justice in the world, I’d be allowed to give him a good hiding just once.
 

Now all I’m allowed to do is use him to feed information to Lowell, and that’s nowhere near as satisfying. Could come in handy, though. It’s been five days and I haven’t come up with something appropriate to have him relay yet, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. In the meantime, I have to make sure everything appears normal. The gym has to be opened. Sloane has to go to work. Mason still has to come train after he’s done at the auto mechanics—which I personally fucking hate, I don’t even want to lay eyes on the fucker—and Michael has to keep doing his thing, too.
 

So there it is. Business as usual.
 

I’m driving across the city toward the gym when I notice the Denali with tinted windows behind me, following two cars back.
That
certainly isn’t business as usual. I drive this route every day, twice a day, sometimes more, and I’m always hyper aware of my surroundings. No way a Denali would be tailing me for so long, indicating, changing lanes, taking exits exactly as I take exits, without there being some reason. That reason is obvious: Lowell’s gotten bored of waiting for me to slip up and do something wrong, so she’s following me, waiting for the right moment to pounce. It’s a surprise she hasn’t arrested me already, given her propensity to act first and figure shit out later, but maybe her higher ups have slapped her wrists a couple of times. Her partner was killed months back at a shoot out in the fucking hospital, for crying out loud. It’s a miracle she’s allowed anywhere near this case.
 

 
I downshift, slowing so I can drift casually into the right hand lane. Up ahead, the turn off for Hunt’s Point is fast approaching. I indicate, steering the car onto the exit ramp, watching in the rear view mirror as, two cars back, the Denali with the blackened out windows follows my lead. Only one car between us now. My brain switches to autopilot, following an automatic route through quiet, leafy neighborhood streets, past oversized McMansions, Mexican gardeners with woolen hats pulled down low over their ears, kids in strollers, dogs on leads, and the Denali follows.

She has to fucking know I’ve made her by now. No way she can think I haven’t noticed her, practically jammed up my exhaust pipe. She should be way fucking better at this. I quit looking in my rear view, and I’m shocked when I realize where I’ve driven myself. The old house I grew up in looms high above the road, set back in amongst a wall of eight-foot high pine and spruce trees. The corner of the basketball court out the back of the house is just about visible, as I roll the Camaro up alongside the curb. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.
 

I never made a plan where I decided I would never come back to this house. A plan like that didn’t seem necessary. Why the fuck would I come back to Charlie’s place? To the place where I fought off demons in the night. To the place where nightmares were real, tangible, wicked things that would haunt you the moment you closed your eyes.