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Pequeño,
Open the second drawer in your desk and take your fucking medicine. Don't make me shove it down your throat tonight during your father's big meeting.
Fernando
Promises, promises.
Folding up the paper, I slip the note into my pocket and open the second drawer, smiling wide when I see not only my pill bottles from my kitchen counter but also a bottle of lemon-flavored sparkling water accompanying them, along with a banana. Only Fernando can manage to take care of me without being in the same room.
I take my pills to decrease my chances of being sick tonight and to help me handle my drinks better. I tell myself those are the only reasons I comply. One way to ensure clients earn your trust is by befriending them first, and tequila shots have a way of bringing people together. They can also cause you to lose focus, which is why it's important to be the one who drinks the least. Making sure they see you drinking and actually doing it are two different things.
A knock comes at my door and I sit up straight in my chair, telling whoever’s at the door to enter.
Antonio walks in with someone trailing behind him. It isn't until they are both fully in the room that I recognize who his friend is.
“Dr. Peterson is here for your monthly checkup and to give you your shot.” Antonio's gaze drifts behind me before landing back on me.
“During business hours?” My jaw twitches as I lean forward on my desk, slamming my computer shut.
“Zacharias thought it was the only way you'd be okay with the visit.” Antonio places his hands in front of him, his eyes apologetic. He's wearing an expression that says,this wasn't my doing so please don't hate me for it.
My nails dig into the armrest of my chair and I roll back enough to stand behind my desk. He's wrong, I wouldn't have been okay with the visit anywhere, and that's why my father sprung it on me out of nowhere, giving me no other option. Asshole. “So this is my father's doing?” I ask, pretending to be surprised.
“Yes. It shouldn't take long,” Dr. Peterson reassures me. He's a nice enough man who occasionally has me biting back a smile with his horrible dad jokes. He's worked for my father a long time and is one of the most discrete, trusted employees we have. They are harder to come by lately. The grass is always greener on the other bloody side.
I suck in air between my teeth and nod. “Fine. Let's get this over with then.”
Spinning my chair around, I fall back into the cushiony leather. My jacket hangs low off my shoulders as I unbutton the front and gently shrug it off.
“I'm going to take your vitals, listen to your heart and stomach. You know, all the standard stuff. I want to have a look at your incision as well while I'm here.”
“It's healing fine,” I say with an exasperated breath.
“I’d rather see for myself. We don't want you winding up with an infection. Healing is—”
“Yeah, I know, Doc. I'm well aware of how my autoimmune disease can affect my wounds and increase my chances of infection.”
“If that were the case, you wouldn't keep skipping your appointments.” His eyes pin me in place while he opens his bag.
“I've been busy.” I turn my face away from his accusing stare. I said he could do the checkup, not fucking lecture me like I'm a child.
“Haven't we all?” A hint of annoyance is laced in his voice. I know how all these people see me. From where they’re sitting, I'm nothing but a spoiled rich brat who acts tough and strong to appear untouchable. In reality, I do it because I want to feel as I act, and maybe if I can convince myself enough, the message will actually pass to my body.
I’m who I need to be in order to survive. Growing up, other kids at my school got to go on Disney cruises with their parents and catch fireflies in their backyard. When I was only ten years old, I got to watch my father dismember men who betrayed him. It was only a few years later that I'd be doing the same thing.
When you're a gay man working in this business, you can't afford to be weak.
I fold up the sleep of my shirt and he wraps a black blood pressure cuff around my forearm. My eyes roam around the room while he checks my blood pressure, pulse, and for any signs of bowel obstruction.
The stethoscope is so cold, it stings my skin through my shirt. Biting the inside of my cheek, I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. The nightmares are taking me over again when the cold metal reminds me of the day my sister pressed a hatchet to my skin and pushing them away when they get this bad never works.
“Are you okay, E?” Antonio's voice sounds so distant for him to be in the same room.
“I—” Samantha's face flashes in my head, her smile twisted and sinister as she runs the cold metal of an ax along my arm.
A large hand rests on my shoulder and instead of it being comforting, it's comparable to a large rock crushing my bones. I flinch away. “We're done here.”
“But I haven't checked the amputation site yet or have administered your shot.”
