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My eyes roll.
I know.
“Remove your bandage.” Having already cleaned and redressed it this morning, I peel back the tape for Bonez to inspect.
The moment it’s revealed, he sucks back a curse. “Gunz, hospital, now.”
With two fingers, I prod along the edge of my injury, studying it myself. “What? Why? I’m already on a new round of antibiotics. Doc gave ‘em to me last week.” When I called to let him know I was runnin’ a low-grade fever for like a day, maybe two. He knew what was up. Sent over a script. Done and done. No muss, no fuss.
“You’re hallucinating.” Bonez states the obvious.
“So?”
Big pans in the camera, to give my brother a better view. “There could still be bullet fragments in your abdomen. It’s too red, and I can see the crusted puss. It’s infected.” Bonez squints. The lines around his eyes deepen, as he plays concerned doctor to a T.
“It’s better than it was last week.” I push along the edge that oozed last week, and I’m happy to report there is no such ick this time ‘round.
Still squinting at the site, Bonez licks his lips. “It’s not.”
“I’ve been shot plenty of times before, brother.” And never had a problem healing. To emphasize my point, I pull down the back of my boxers to show the scar on my ass cheek, where I was last shot.Then another on my left bicep. Onto the outside of my right forearm. Right thigh, covered by ink, and the same calf. All there to be seen in their scarred, healed glory. Tada.
Irritated by my showmanship, Bonez speaks directly to Prez. “He needs a hospital.”
Two sets of worried eyes stare at me. “I’ll take him,” Big promises.
“He won’t,” I volley, glaring straight at Prez.
“Do you know without a single doubt this isn’t happenin’ ’cause you’re a stubborn motherfucker? That there isn’t an infection there? That your odd behavior isn’t because of that?” Big two-finger points to the scab.
Dropping back onto my chair, I shrug because I don’t know shit anymore. My woman left me. Gone. No goodbye. I can’t sleep more than three hours at a time. Besides a piece of fruit in the morning, I don’t eat ‘til dinner. Even then, I have little appetite. Yesterday, during a bathroom break, Niki came for a visit when I was takin’ a piss. I got so hard I couldn’t finish leakin’ without jackin’ off. Christ. Even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna puke. It was… gross. I don’t do that. Yankin’ my cock ‘til I spill cum into a wad of toilet paper. Childish stuff. It felt like I was back in elementary, readin’ Dad’s nudie mags all over again. Not something I wanna relive.
“We’re going tonight,” Big declares as if he’s made up his mind, and I don’t have a say in the matter.
Tired of fighting him, I relent. It’s obvious what I’ve been doin’ isn’t workin’, and I’m sick of Niki livin’ rent-free in my head. Our hospital is, how you say, friendly to our breed. They don’t ask too many questions. The care is always top-notch.
Gettin’ my ass in gear before these two meddlesome assholes bark orders, I push out of the chair, using my knee as leverage. On a groan, I shuffle to the bedroom, climb over the mess I’ve made, and throw on a new pair of sweats from the pile, a t-shirt, and a pair of crew socks before stuffing my feet into my least-worn boots. I leave them unlaced. I don’t give a damn how I look. All I want is sleep. Hours of it. Days. Weeks.
But what I want more than that is…
Kit.
In my life.
In our house.
Pussy on my face.
To accomplish that, I gotta get this head screwed on straight. Niki’s gotta go.
Operation get-well, woo-my-woman, and eat-some-pussy is officially underway.
Wish me luck. I’m gonna fuckin’ need it.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
KIT
Fuck.
