Page 30 of Queen of Ruin

He hits the stop button on the railing and then slides his arm around my waist. We stand, but the shift in position makes the bus spin and an odd, sickening weightlessness surges through my mind with such force that I can barely put one foot in front of the other.

“Oh, goodness,” rises up a concerned woman’s voice as we stumble down the bus ramp. “Is she alright?”

“She’s drunk,” Diego says with forced laughter. “Always one too many!”

Drunk.

Cool night air suddenly hits my flushed cheeks and I grip Diego’s arm with all the strength I have left.

If I were drunk, this nightmare would be so much easier to handle.

12

DIEGO

“Easy,” I murmur to myself, kicking closed the motel door and immediately depositing Valentina’s unconscious body on the bed.

Luckily, a place as shitty as this won’t ask too many questions, and the man at the desk only cared about clearing out the last dollars of my emergency savings to pay for the room. He didn’t even spare Valentina a glance when she finally passed out in the chair I left her in, although I did smile and spin an excuse about partying and drinking to cover us just in case.

There’s no time to waste. I draw the threadbare curtains over the window, lock the door and slide the chain into place, then turn on the light and move back to Valentina on the bed.

She could easily be mistaken for sleeping peacefully if not for the growing red patch on her shirt. My heart begins to pound as I gather the hem and very slowly roll the shirt up to expose the weeping wound, a deeper laceration stemming from her ribs down her side that had been healing, but given her exertion, she ripped it wide open. It needs stitches, antiseptic, and painkillers. Shit. Everything I could need is back at my apartment, but it’s too dangerous to go back there.

Pushing them from my thoughts, I briefly pat Valentina’s thigh and stand. Under the slightly sickly bright light in the bathroom, I tear open the cupboards and search every single shelf for anything remotely medical. Luckily, there’s a small medical bag completely devoid of any drugs or painkillers, but there’s some old gauze, a couple of needles and thread, and some butterfly stitches.

They’ll have to do.

Returning to her side, my heart skips a beat. She hasn’t moved or woken up, though her breathing remains soft and shallow as if she’s just resting.

It would be erratic if she were in real danger, right?

It definitely would be. Which means she’s fine right now.

I hope.

Kneeling by the side of the bed, I spend a few minutes measuring the butterfly stitches against her wound. They’re wide enough to fit, but age is against me because the moment I open them up, it becomes abundantly clear that all the adhesive has dried up.

“Fuck,” I murmur, and my attention slides to the needles.

I’ve never stitched someone up with a needle and thread before. It’s so different from the lazy butterflies that I’ve used on myself and others in the past. What if she wakes up and thinks I’m attacking her and I end up locked between those thighs, unable to explain myself?

A decent way to die in theory, but much scarier in reality.

“Forgive me,” I murmur at her sleeping face. “This is going to hurt.”

As I gather one of the needles from the small compartment, something makes me hesitate and I stare down at the sharp little prick while a strange warmth curls in my gut. I can’t stab her with this. I’ve no idea where it’s been.

Glancing around the room, I study the television, the chest of drawers, and the door to the ensuite. None of those offers any solutions on how to sterilize the needle and a bubble of hopelessness grows.

That hopelessness is amplified by the sudden buzzing of my phone. Just once. Then twice. Then it becomes a constant. Digging it out of my pocket, I glimpse Mindy’s name and immediately turn my phone off.

I don’t have the capacity to deal with her shit right now.

But what do I do about this?

Hopelessness bleeds into despair.

Until the shuffling of feet past the door and a whiff of cigarette smoke through the small gap give me an idea. Scrambling up, I dart toward the door, unlock it, and hurry out onto the walkway where a couple are stumbling along toward their room.