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Once we’re in front of the mirror, I lift my shirt to see the damage. The skin around the bandage is speckled with deep, purple bruises—boot prints—and the bandage is soaked in blood.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Amber says under her breath, squatting. “No more lifting stuff, okay? You said it was more healed. Shit.” She peels the bandage back slowly.
It’s like she’s peeling off my skin. Like she pinched my skin with hot tongs and started pulling, strips of flesh curling like apple peels, revealing muscle and guts underneath. I cover my mouth, tears soaking the collar of my shirt.
“I know,” Amber says, voice strained. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t want to risk popping a stitch, if you haven’t already.”
I nod, ponytail swaying. I understand. I’ve been through worse pain.
The bandage finally pulls free. Brody hands her a towel. She applies pressure, but blood keeps oozing. “Shit. Do we have butterfly bandages?”
“I’ll check,” Brody says, dashing away. He returns with a box and hastily pops it open.
After several more minutes of wiping and applying pressure and trying to get bandages to stick while I plead for it all to be over—just end my life so the pain stops—Amber finally stands. “I think it’s under control, but we can’t take you back to the hospital. Be more careful. Please. I will take you if it gets serious, but we have to avoid that if we can. Okay?”
My eyes widen. Anywhere but the hospital. Seal it with super glue if that helps. I won’t go back to the hospital. It’s blinding and crowded and chaotic and smells like death covered in bleach. They always insist on strapping me to the bed—arms and legs—so I can’t move. I need to move to keep myself calm.
I can’t get strapped down again. Strap. Strap. Strap. Strap. Strap. Strap.
My head shakes violently, and I try to suppress the sobs by pressing my lips together. I drag my stubby fingernails over my forehead again and again because the sharp sensation usually centers me. Not the hospital. Please. It’s so scary when I can’t move.
Amber hovers her hands around my shoulders but doesn’t touch. “Okay. I know. I said if it gets worse. But we want to avoid that, so you have to relax so your stitches don’t open.”
Calm down. I have to calm down. Take a breath. No hospital.
I open and close my palms. No hospital.
“I’ll—” Brody clears his throat. “I’ll go buy more bandages. Maybe we can wrap it.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Amber encourages me out of the bathroom. “Come on. You can rest on my bed.”
That sounds great. I am so very tired. My eyes are hard to keep open. My body is weak and withered and cold. I’m ready to rest and cooperate to keep myself away from the hospital. Safe in Brody’s home.
I make it to Amber’s bed, wherever it is, just before passing out.
Chapter Two
Brody
ARMS CROSSED, I LEAN AGAINST the bathroom door frame and watch Amber apply liner to her eyelids. She catches my frown in the mirror’s reflection and restrains an eye roll. I wish she hadn’t. I’d like to see that liner smear all over her stupid pale-skinned face.
“What do you want?” she groans.
“Who’s next?”
She moves the liner pen to the other eye. “What the hell are you mumbling?”
“It’s clear I’ve got a sign out front flashing ‘Rooms for Rent,’ so I’m wondering when my next tenant will arrive. You know, so I can prepare a welcome basket.”
She fans her eyes. “Chill the fuck out, Brody. Paige is very sweet and she won’t bother you.”
“What about my clients? My home gym is a mess. Move her to your room. I’ll even buy you a pink girlie bunk bed.”
“Ew, no. We’re not five.”
I squeeze my arms tighter against my chest. “It’s bad enough I have to meet clients at home because of scheduling conflicts at work. Now I have to move between the free weights and treadmill in one room to everything else I crammed in my office. My desk is outside, Amber. Outside. Someone is going to steal it.”
“And? Like you do anything at your desk besides jerk off.”
