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So I’ve been out of job, and I only managed to go to Damage Control once after almost two months—this week. Zane is patient, but I know he’s wondering why I’m being such a pussy.
Broken leg, pah. Not the first time one of the guys got one.
Not my first encounter, either, with broken bones. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any bone in my body that has never been broken.
I wasn’t joking about my bad luck. Thing is, it often takes the form of people and their fists, their boots, the bats and sticks in their hands. And I fought back and played along for a time. Did my time.
For others, bad luck is burning your toast, missing your bus, locking yourself out of your apartment.
For me, it’s a matter of making it through the day alive.
But if I tell Zane and the others about my past injuries, the ones aggravated by my recent ones, it’ll all come to the light. One story leads to the next, and before you know it, you’ve puked out your whole sordid past to the people who are supposed to believe in you.
And I doubt I’ll be staying at Damage Control
and under their protection once they know.
Fuck. I scoot back and lean my back against the wall of the bathroom, my eyes closing. So tired. And of course my knee is blaring in pain from kneeling on the hard tiles for so long.
Fuck you, knee. Fuck you, bones.
I think I’m gonna crash here tonight. Not the first time I’ve slept on the bathroom floor. Can’t move. Can’t get up. Don’t think I would even if I could remember where I left my walking stick. Must have dropped it at the door, racing to reach the toilet before I tossed my cookies all over the fucking floor.
Someone is knocking at the door and ringing the bell.
Well, good luck with that. I seriously can’t move, my limbs heavy like lead. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and every attempt to sit up straighter brings more bile up my throat.
My eyes are closing. Maybe I can catch a few winks.
I must have been bad in a past life to deserve this, I think, falling asleep slowly, in degrees—a darkness at a time. Real bad. A murderer of babies or something. Must have kicked puppies for a living. I don’t know. Bad.
God, I wish Manon was here, her hand on my face, soft and warm, like last night. Last night, which seems more and more like a dream that was never true.
***
“Jesus, Seffers, whatcha doing?” a voice says directly above me. “What the fuck?”
Shane?
Someone shakes me so hard my teeth rattle, and oh fuck, this is a bad idea. Blinking blearily, I lunge for the toilet and barely make it before I hurl again.
God, my throat burns. There’s nothing left in my stomach to puke out.
“Fucking hell,” another voice says, and I’m being hauled up, my arms pulled over the guys’ shoulders. Micah has my left arm, and Ocean has my right.
Another bad idea. My knee does buckle this time, and now everyone’s cursing as they try to keep me upright.
“What the hell, man?” Ocean mutters when I hiss and try to pull back my arm.
“That’s the one that was dislocated,” Micah grinds out, and yeah, I’m a wreck. Great, huh? And these are just my recent run-ins with fate.
“Fuck.” Ocean lets my arm down, and I curl it over my stomach. “Sorry.”
“What happened here?” Shane flushes the toilet and scowls down at it.
“Sandwich,” I mutter.
“What, food poisoning? You serious?” Shane sounds disgusted. “My sandwich was fine. Man, we’ve been going to that deli for months now. That’s rotten luck.”
