The way he was sawing logs, that was one survival technique at which he excelled.
I reached down to feel my injured leg – scraped and swollen. It was harder to wiggle my toes this morning, which concerned me. A lot. I'd given up on my knee, though I had about ten, maybe fifteen percent range of motion in it.
Stupid, god damn Langoustine.
If we ever got out of this mess, the first meal I'd indulge in would be a steaming plate filled with lobster, prawn, and scallops. I'd get my revenge on the shellfish community. That'd show 'em.
In the meantime, I was in a shitload of trouble. There was a hot lump just below my hip where the throbbing was the worst. To me, that indicated a splintered bone. I imagined an X-ray would show an image of something like a giant pencil snapped in half. If, y'know, an x-ray was within the realms of possibility.
Dammit all to hell, anyway. If I hadn't slipped and fallen into a fucking tide pool, it would be different. I could live out here for weeks, if not months. Me and my potentially fractured leg, however, were demanding different courses of action. But I would be damned straight to Hades if I was going to rely on Maddox. Not only was I pissed off that I was, inadvertently, the asinine damsel in distress, I was doubly pissed at how grateful I was when the not-so-charming prince Petersen showed up, and pulled me out before I froze to death. He carried my sorry, soggy ass back to camp, too. And spent a great deal of time talking to me, trying to keep me awake.
There was a very distinct possibility that he was not an entirely deplorable motherfucker. I didn't need that kind of shit. I didn't need that kind of fucking drama or conflict in my life.
My future was exclusively in my hands. Likewise, so was his – should I be successful in what I was currently plotting.
Without devoting too much thought to my next move, I quietly pushed myself away using the one good leg I had left. He stirred and rolled over on his side, taking the blankets with him. God, he had massive shoulders – sprinkled with those Irishman freckles – and as the sun continued its assent, it shone on the red fuzz of his hair.
I pushed again, clenching my teeth as the bad leg protested the shit out of the slightest physical movement. Fiery darts shot through my bloodstream, all landing in the bulls eye of what I now suspected was a ruptured quadricep. Great. A compression rupture blown out against a broken femur. Good morning, everybody.
No more uneven bars for you, I thought, as I edged myself closer to the survival kit. No more anything for you, if you don't get this done.
I turned to look over my shoulder. He was still snoozing.
The kit was just out of reach and I couldn't make it. The pain was insurmountable. But the gun was in there.
Just one more inch, one more stupid bloody inch…
I stretched my arm as far as I could, felt the canvas brush against my fingertips. I dug in, one last time, setting my heel into the sand and letting the muscles that weren't blasted apart elasticize. They got me closer. Closed the impossible gap of that terrible inch, and then, the cold muzzle of the flare gun.
I wrapped my hand around it, pulled it out, and smiled.
Got it. Got it!
I heard him move. The foil of those blankets crinkle like twigs, and his were crackling like kindling.
You can do this. You can totally do this.
I managed to get myself into a sitting position, bent my good leg at the knee, and rested the gun on top of it. The kit was right behind me, offering me just enough support. My other leg was on fire, but hell, at least it wasn't cold like the rest of me.
Cold, and hungry. Thirsty. Naked, of course, but that was my idea.
Blood clots, too, probably. Making their way up to my heart like itty bitty coagulated flotsam.
Maddox rolled over on his back, brought his hands to his eyes, and rubbed at his face. I grimaced. Blackened bruises and busted, ruddy red capillaries encircled his wrists like thick, unforgiving bracelets. Patches of skin were beginning to peel from the sunburn, and a myriad of scrapes and cuts ran up and down his legs. It must have been fun as hell carrying me across the sand dunes. I will say the cut on his face was looking better. Still...
“I don't think we'll win the most beautiful couple award,” I said.
He jerked, startled as if zapped with a cattle prod. It took him a second to put it together, that I wasn't cuddled all snuggly-wuggly next to him, that our warm flesh was not pressed together, and that I had him in the crosshairs again. Not that a flare gun needs crosshairs, of course. They weren't made for precision. I wouldn't need precision.
“H-how's your leg?” Maddox inquired, his faux calm tone no match for the deer-in-the- headlights look sprawled on his face.
Aw. That was cute. He was trying to defuse the situation with lame distraction techniques.
“It hurts like a bitch,” I replied.
He sat up, slowly, watching my finger pressing against the trigger. “What are you doing?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Maybe I should ask 'why' you're doing? That.”
“You really have to?” I said, shaking my head and rolling my eyes. Doing so made me dizzy, but I wasn't going to let him know that. “The whole point was to kill you, stupid.”
“I… I thought we'd gotten past that.”
I smirked. Scrunched my lips together in what I hoped could be construed as sarcasm, because if there was a saw in that kit, I'd cut my own leg off. It was hurting to the point of insanity. Which was alright, as I felt quite a bit insane right now.
“Indulge me,” I replied. “Just wanted to see that look on your face one more time.”
“What look?”
“I read somewhere that a true psychopath isn't able to be afraid.”
He didn't know what to say, and that was alright, too. His eyes grew wider as I brought my other hand underneath the gun. Aimed.
And fired.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
RAMONA
“Miss Sanchez?”
A voice. Coming from somewhere at the end of… what… a tunnel? Sounded a lot like what happens when you string two Dixie cups together and pretend they're phones. Becca and I played that, after Mom told us that's what she used to do as a kid. When they didn't have phones in their pockets twenty-four seven.
“Hey, there,” the same voice said. “You want to wake up this morning?”
I did not. I was about to have a vivid dream about my sister and Dixie cups.
“Miss Sanchez? How about you open your eyes for me?”
What we never had was a tree house. Becca and I always wanted a tree house, but Dad said the trees in the backyard weren't big enough or strong enough to handle one. He got us a plastic fort, instead. It had a slide and a turret, and that's where Becca and I played telephone with Dixie cups.
“Do you know where you are?” the voice asked, and I felt someone's fingers on my eyes, pulling one lid up and shining a light into my pupil.
“...ferrt..,” I said, wanting to say 'fort', but my lips were like two jars of paste. Gluey. It was almost impossible to pull them apart.
My tongue felt like Play-Doh, and I ran my pasty tongue against my teeth, just to make sure they were still there. I didn't know if any of me was still there.
Or here.
Anywhere.
“What was that?”
The little light snapped away, and I opened my other eye.
Everything was so white. Crazy white.
Maybe I was an egg.
Or in an egg.
There were beeping sounds, too. Blips and bloops – a lot like what I heard when Leslie would go the hospital. Heart monitor sounds. Eee. Kay. Gee. And it wreaked of sterility. Pine-Sol and disinfectant.
“Good morning.” The voice sounded happy. Relieved. “Do you know where you are?”
I turned my head one way, then the other. IV drips to port, a tray with untouched pudding and a straw in a cup to starboard. Oh, fuck me twice and call me donkey duke. I was in a fucking hospital.
&n
bsp; “… fuck-ing hospital...” I said.
The doctor smiled. Bright, shiny white teeth gleamed from within the darkest face I'd ever seen. His eyes were big and white, too.
“Very good. Do you know why you're in the hospital?”
I tried to figure out what sort of accent he had. Smooth, like coffee, and peppered with a hint of something Hispanic, maybe.
Wherever he was from, he asked too many questions for my taste. He was the professional, he was supposed to know this shit.
I watched him check a clear bag of fluids, and followed the tube down all the way to my arm where the needle was taped.
“...must be sick.” I replied.
He grinned. “You were lots of things, but sick wasn't one of them. Oddly enough,” he said, made a mark on his clipboard, and scooted his squeaky doctor stool to the side of the bed. “I'm Doctor Orizaga, and you're in Princess Margret Hospital. Nassau.”
“What… the hell for…?”
“Do you remember anything?” He asked, reached behind him and poured me a cup of water.
“Yes. I hate hospitals.”
Doctor Orizaga's grin got wider. He nodded, crossed his doctor leg over his knee, and handed me the cup, thoughtfully pointing the straw toward my face. “Slowly, now. Just sips.”
I sucked in a thimbleful of lukewarm water, and let it trickle down my throat. It was quenching, but barely. And honestly, I was sick of plain, stupid water.
“Does Princess Margret have any coffee?”
“Let's see how you handle that first, okay? You've had surgery, so we need to take it slow and easy.”
“Surgery?”
Suddenly, I didn't need coffee to wake up.
Did he say surgery?
Did he not realize how much surgery cost?
Let alone a hospital stay, and by the same token how the fuck long had I been staying? This was a private room, too. There were flowers beside the window – the one with the five star view of the Atlantic ocean.
I grabbed the blanket, and threw it to the side. I was leaving. Getting the fuck out of here.
Unfortunately, the aftermath of my surgery wasn't going to allow that. I was groggy to the nth degree, my head was spinning like a top, and I felt like I was going to puke. And that busted leg of mine? Swathed in bandages, blankets, and inflatable splints.
The doctor gently put his hand on my arm. Gently, but firmly.
“Miss Sanchez, it's alright. You're not quite ready to leave, I'd say.”
“I don't… I don't have insurance.”
A puzzled look crossed his face. He flipped through my chart, zeroed in on the last paper. “No, you do. Full coverage. You could say you have a running tab, bought and paid for.”
Now the puzzled look went to my face. It must be a clerical error. But I wasn't going to say anything. I needed to lay down, that's what I needed.
“What kind of surgery?” I asked, handing the cup back to the good doctor.
“Compound fractures of the femur, compression ruptures of the adductor magnus and gracilis. Sort of like the muscles in your leg are the inside of a lemon, and you smashed the lemon on the concrete. Pretty wicked, Miss Sanchez. Do you remember how it happened?”
Langoustine lobsters. Crawling around the bottom of a tide pool. The bastards.
“I slipped.”
He nodded. Probably heard that a lot. He made a note on my chart.
“Do you remember what you were doing when you slipped?”
“Fishing,” I replied, and shut my eyes.
I didn't want to talk to him anymore, and it was way too bright in this room. This bought and paid for room.
“How's your pain level? On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst?”
Somewhere around a six and a half. “It's fabulous. Thanks for asking.”
Doctor Orizaga smiled again, tapped his clipboard on my mattress, and got up from his squeaky stool. He adjusted the drip level on one of three IV bags oozing into my system.
“I think you'll be alright, Miss Sanchez. It's going to take a while, but you'll be okay.”
“What are all the cocktails...?”
“Saline, sodium chlorine with a dash of dextrose, and a morphine chaser. Sorry, we're all out of little umbrellas.”
“No Rohypnol?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Nothing.”
Orizaga took a second, making a mental note of what I just said. Doctors were sneaky that way. You can't trust them. For instance, they'll tell you they'll do everything within their power to help, then end up not doing shit. So they're liars, too.
“The nurse will be in shortly to check on you, okay? And I'll see what I can do about some coffee.”
“Promises, promises,” I said.
The door closed behind him. I hated doctors. All of them.
Even though Orizaga appeared to have a decent bedside manner, he could go stuff himself.
I brought my hand to my head, clunking myself with the oximeter clamped onto my index finger. I never could understand how something that looked like a miniature stapler monitored oxygen levels.
Leslie had lots of these, I remembered. I'd customize them with stick-on googly eyes despite the disapproving looks of the nursing staff. She'd giggle when the eyeballs would roll, and Becca would make silly voices for 'Molly Monitor', as we called her.
Months later, Becca wouldn't need a Molly Monitor.
The fluids from my intravenous bar drip, drip, dripped down from the bags, into the tube, into my blood. Captivating. Fascinating, actually. In the final analysis, tranquilizing. I didn't know how I felt about being hooked up to the morphine, however. It was of the same pain killer family that killed Josh.
I had no precise idea of what Josh looked like – just a younger version of Maddox, from what I was led to believe and what I saw on the picture. A good looking Irish boy, red hair, an all-star stud quarterback, and dead as a doornail on one of the beautiful islands of Hawaii. That's what made it so strange, so surreal, when his image flashed across my mind before I squeezed the trigger.
Maddox was less than six feet away, looking just like an expendable cast member in a war movie right before enemy fire blows them apart. He never begged, or said 'please don't'. He never bargained for his life, or anything pussy like that. He was scared, yet resigned. As if he knew he had it coming. That he deserved it, and was in perfect range for me to do some serious, irreparable damage. Then, that vision of his brother. I shot the flare into the morning sky.
It was exactly like a firework launching on the Fourth of July, just without the end explosion. A crazy red comet fishtailing into the atmosphere.
I thought of Becca watching from above, seeing it blast from the barrel of the gun, and I swear I think she smiled. If there really was a heaven, my sister had a great view of what I'd just done. Or hadn't done. And Josh was up there, too.
I'd blame what happened next on pure exhaustion, the excruciating pain in my leg, and every varied, ruthless emotion I'd been running.
I cried.
No, shit on that. I bawled. Bawled my fucking eyes out, sobbing so hard my breath hitched, snot poured out of my nose like slimy beer on tap, and I didn't think I'd ever be able to stop.
I didn't know if I wanted to stop.
Or if I should.
Maddox never moved. Didn't make a single gesture that he was going to come over next to me, offer comfort, or give me a shoulder to lean on. The crazy, shitty, fucky part of all that was I needed him to. No, shit on that again. I wanted him to.
Granted, I'd not given him a real reason why he should. I'd held him at gun point (flare or otherwise) on several occasions. Tortured him sexually. But, in my defense, he was the one who started it.
I ran dry on tears, eventually. Grief is draining, and regret even more so. I didn't want to live with those terrible feelings anymore, although interestingly enough, the severity of my sadness had made me forget about my leg for a while.
I remember my eyes being s
o puffy they were almost shut. I’d tucked a strand of oily, sandy hair behind my ear and looked down at my hands. They were covered with a variety of facial fluids, too. Crusting up at this point. I still had the gun, too. Which was also coated in gross.
I’d dropped it onto the sand, and sucked in a ragged draw of air. Let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. Pinched the bridge of my nose as my tears threatened to refill.
“I wish I could do that,” Maddox had said.
I could barely see him. My vision was veiled with moisture. “...w-what..?”
“Cry. I've never cried. Not really.”
He stood up, shook the sand off the blanket, and draped it around my shoulders. Knelt beside me, and looked out over the ocean.
“N-not even for Josh?”
“Especially not for Josh. I mean, sure, I sniveled when I was a kid. A skinned knee, or I didn't get the ice cream flavor I wanted, the important shit, you know? But, I don't know, it was at his funeral when,” he shut his eyes for a second, pursed his lips to the side, and grimaced. Like he was chewing a lemon. He looked over to me, then back to the waves. “It was like some switch got flipped. I should have been sobbing my eyes out, like you were just doing, right? And, I… couldn't.”
I wiped my arm beneath my nose. “That's because you're a dick.”
“Yep.”
A lightning bolt of pain shot from my hip and down to the ankle, setting my leg on fire. I grabbed the closest thing – his wrist.
He didn't flinch. Just asked, “What's your favorite flavor? Of ice cream?”
I clenched my teeth and bit my tongue. I couldn't take it. Every nerve in my body was lit like a fuse and I was going to explode.
“Mine's mint chocolate chip. What's yours?”
“R-rum raisin,” I hissed.
“Oh, come on. Tell me you're kidding.”
My grip on him increased, just like the agony in my leg. Crawling up to my gut. “I-I'm not… kidding. It's good.”
“Nah. Raisins are questionable to begin with, but in ice cream? They're an abomination. There's nothing redeeming about rum raisin ice cream. Nothing.”
“I. I was. Wrong,” I stammered.
“Shit yeah you are. Rum raisin sucks. I never met anyone who – ”
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 23