I nod once and practically run back to her room. Jenny is just finishing and shows me the digital image.
“The stars are shining on you again.” I smile at Sydney. “Displacement, no fracture.”
She lets out a stream of air and smiles up at me. Even with all the disfigurement, she’s still a strikingly beautiful woman. I just hope that asshole didn’t destroy her face for life.
“Would you like me to transfer the patient now?” Adeline asks.
I nod at her, quick and professional, my rage boiling just beneath the surface. “Local anesthesia only, not general.”
“And no . . .” Sydney says.
“No sedatives,” I finish.
“Yes, Doctor.” Jenny wheels the X-ray machine out. Adeline pulls up the side rails on Sydney’s gurney and wheels her and her IV out. Sydney twists her head around to look at me and mouths a thank-you.
Why the hell is she thanking me? The strained look she’s trying to hide behind her tight-lipped smile is a replay of the fear and resignation on my mother’s face when Stan, my stepfather, came home drunk and bellowing. The wet sound of his hand hitting her flesh. I squeeze my eyes shut. Be present for this woman right now, Kaden. She needs you.
I follow Adeline out and take an alternate route to surgery. What I wouldn’t give for a scotch or six right now, but I don’t do that anymore. I couldn’t be a successful surgeon if I did. I couldn’t help innocent victims.
I walk quickly to surgery, scrub up and don nitrile gloves and a mask before entering.
Sydney follows me with her eyes as I make my way to her bedside.
“The nurse is going to anesthetize the area around your nose and cheek.”
She shakes her head. “Try it without first.”
“What?” I exchange glances with Adeline, whose eyes are twice their normal size.
“I have a high threshold for pain.”
I glance at her chart to confirm, but I know she’s refused sedatives and been administered only a mild painkiller since being admitted. “All right, but if it’s too painful, tell me and I’ll stop. The thing is . . .”
“Yes?”
I’m forced to blink. Her eyes are so bright, like glittering emeralds. “I have to reset your nose, and once I start—”
“Do it,” she interrupts, gritting her teeth. “First.”
I nod to Adeline, who hands me the gauze. I look at the X-ray again but I have it memorized. Having an eidetic memory is one of the many reasons I became a surgeon in the first place. I knew I’d have no problem getting through medical school. I also knew I could get a scholarship, with my poor upbringing and perfect grades. And I did just that, graduating from Stanford at the top of my class. I may have scored zero in popularity but I scored high in academics and that’s all that mattered to me. Or so I told myself.
“Close your eyes, Sydney,” I say softly and she does. I place the gauze over her nose and yank it hard to the left, feeling the cartilage and bone snap back into place. The woman doesn’t even whimper. I’ve performed this maneuver on more than a few meatheads who thought they could handle it without any painkillers or anesthetic, and all of them screamed like a two-year-old who’d just had his favorite toy snatched away.
I lift the gauze and inspect my work. Blood oozes from her nostrils and Adeline holds a tissue there. Sydney’s going to have two very purple eyes but her nose will heal well. “You’re a champ. Your nose looks great. I’ll start the stitches, but remember, if at any point you want some painkillers . . .”
“I’ll let you know.” Her husky voice would sound sultry in other circumstances, but I know it’s from the pain. She may have learned to hide it from her face, but her voice betrays her.
7
Sydney
The pain threatens to tear through my body, as if every nerve in my face is burning. Surface cuts are the worst, more nerves on the surface. But I’m used to it. I’ve had bad johns torment me with superficial cuts in the past. If anyone looks at my arms closely in the right light, they’ll see little white crisscross scars on the lighter flesh between my inner wrist and elbow. Also on the insides of my thighs and the inside of my upper arm. All the places where it hurts the most. Fucking sadists. If only I were a masochist, but I’m not. Not unless I’m paid a lot of money to pretend to be one.
I do what I’ve always done and leave my body. I allow my imagination to take me to the safer places in my mind. Made-up lands, outer space, islands I’ve only dreamed of. I’ve never been anywhere besides Baja and Southern California, but we have plenty of beaches here so it was always easy to conjure up what it must look like to live on an island. White sand with not a living soul nearby, crystal blue water as far out as I can see, blessed silence beneath the lap of the waves. Swimming has always been my salvation. I needed nothing but the water and my will to learn. One night when I was twelve, I taught myself to swim when I was running away from a particularly nasty john my mother had been entertaining.
“I’ll pay extra for a mother-daughter combo,” he slurred when I padded back to my bed from the bathroom.
My mother always told me to stay on my side of the curtain but that night I couldn’t hold it anymore, and if I hadn’t gone to the bathroom, I would have peed in my bed.
“She’s not for sale,” Mamá said.
“Everyone’s for sale,” he responded.
“Not my daughter.”
He slapped her hard across the face. So hard that blood sprayed from her mouth and she fell onto the floor. I thought he’d killed her and was coming for me next but it turned out she’d just bitten her tongue.
I ran out of our studio shack and kept going, all the way to the beach a mile away, where I threw myself into the churning ocean. I was sure he had followed even though I never heard him chasing after me. Running into the warm water, I remember thinking—it wouldn’t be so bad if I died. My flesh could be food for the fish and my bones would turn to rocks, salting the bottom of the sea.
“Sydney? How are you feeling?” When I open my eyes, Dr. Decker’s handsome face is floating above me.
“Are you finished?” He must be. My cheek feels tight, my mouth pulling, and there’s a dull ache.
“Yes. You did great. Better than great. We’ll wheel you back into your room now.”
I close my eyes, not to blot out his handsome face but to blot out the memories of my mother and her never-ending pain.
When I open them again, daylight is flooding into the room, painting it bright orange.
“Too much light,” I croak.
“I’m here.” Maggie slides into view, blocking out the too-bright sun. “I brought you some coffee.” She holds up a paper cup.
“Are you an angel?” I smile but the stitches pull and I bring my face back to neutral.
“Do you need help sitting up?” She puts the cup down on the nightstand and puts an arm behind my shoulders, propping me up in the bed and laying me back against some pillows.
I look up at her and she hands me the cup, which I cradle to my chest.
“Straw?” She holds one out and I take it, slipping it into the plastic opening in the lid and taking a sip.
Sweet nectar of the gods. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do.” She smiles at me and takes the cup. “I can drive you home, when you’re ready.”
Home. “That’d be great, thanks.”
Dr. Decker opens the door and peeks his head in before entering. “I’m off shift now, Sydney, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He turns to Maggie. “I see you’re in good hands.”
Am I? Adopted by this nice girl who’ll dump me as soon as she finds out who—what I am. “When do I come back for you to remove the stitches, Doc?”
“In about four or five days.” He takes a step closer and peers down at me. He acts as though he’s studying the stitches but his gaze keeps wandering between my lips and my eyes. “Let’s make it four.”
“Four.”
“You ask for me, no o
ne else. All right?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
He reaches for my hand, grabs it and squeezes. Then without another word he turns and leaves.
“Okay, that just happened and I was here as a witness.” Maggie titters excitedly and hands me the cup again.
“What?” I take a sip and place it in my lap.
“You’re really going to act like you don’t know he was totally flirting with you?”
“He was?” I take another sip of coffee and hold back a smile. He was. But so what? Guys flirt with me until they find out I’m a whore, and then they don’t just run for the hills, they run past the hills, scale the sheer rock cliff beyond them and clamor up the tallest tree for good measure.
“Let’s get you home.” She shakes her head at me.
Thirty minutes later Maggie pulls up to my clapboard apartment in Imperial Beach.
“Thank you, I don’t know how to repay you.” I keep my hand on the door handle.
“Repay me? I’m your new bestie. You’re stuck with me now. I didn’t help you because I think you’re some charity case.”
I don’t know how to process this or respond properly. I’ve never had a real friend, only coworkers and competitors.
She turns off the engine and gets out of the car. “Let me help you up to your place.”
“No need, I’m fine. Besides, my roommates aren’t the welcoming types.”
“I don’t care. I care about you and I’m going to make damn sure you’re safe in there.”
I’m too tired to argue. She’ll walk me up, we’ll exchange numbers, and I’ll lose hers and not answer if she calls me. The quickest way to get rid of her is to let her think she’s doing yet another good deed. “Fine.”
She walks with me up the two flights of stairs. They’re so old they creak as we climb and practically every step is strewn with litter. A few steps sway in the center and I almost lose my balance but keep a firm grasp on the railing. Maggie’s head swivels, but thanks to her apparent Mother Teresa nature, she doesn’t say a word or even grimace. When we get to my front door, I pull out my key but she takes it from me and unlocks it, moving her hand to my elbow and helping me inside.
“This is where you live?” Her eyes are huge and her jaw hinges open, hanging like a woman about to be attacked by a rabid canary.
Sure it’s not Shangri-La or anything close, but there’s a roof over my head. I can’t even be bothered trying to see it through her eyes. I don’t care. I’ve lived in so much worse. So what if the living room is crowded with mattresses? So what if the kitchenette overflows with dishes so filthy they crawl with flies? So what if dirty clothes are strewn over every available surface? Whores got to crash somewhere when we’re not working and this was the most I could afford. Just until I get back on my feet. Or on my feet for the first time in my life. Pun intended.
“Where are your things?” She looks around but does nothing to hide her disgust. Her nose is crinkled and she keeps swallowing as though she’s trying not to throw up.
It does stink, pretty badly, but that’s another thing you get used to and after awhile you stop noticing it.
I wave toward my mattress, “My second pair of jeans are over there. We share a dresser with clean tops, bras and underwear. Mostly clean.”
“Do you want to pack anything before we go?”
“What? Why would I pack? Where are we going?”
She takes my hand, pulling it close to her body. “I want you to come home with me.”
My face flushes, the blood rushing so quickly that I hold her hand tighter so I don’t fall over. “I’m truly flattered. You’re a beautiful woman, Maggie, and I’ve swung in every direction there is but I’m not on the market right now.”
She drops my hand and now it’s her turn to redden. “That is not what I meant, Syd.”
She called me Syd. My mother called me Syd. I put my hands on my hips. “What did you mean then?”
“This is no way to live. Come stay with me for a few nights and we’ll figure something out. I live with my boyfriend and we have an extra room. It doesn’t have to be permanent.”
“No handouts. I don’t do charity.” Because there’s always a price. But—damn. I look around my hazardous abode and consider her proposal.
“It’s not charity. It’s not putting us out in the least.”
I shake my head curtly. “I’d rather offer you some money for it . . . and even then . . . I’m not sure I should.”
“My boyfriend is very well off. He comes from a lot of money, so I can’t accept money for it. If I’m choosing to put it to good use and help someone in need, he’ll be happy.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I’m offering as a friend.”
A friend? I’ve never had a real friend. I’m not sure of the protocol, though one thing is certain: as soon as she finds out what I do for a living, her friendship will be off the table and I’ll be kicked to the curb, again. More like face-planted with a boot on the back of my head grinding what’s left of me into the gutter.
Fuckedy fuck fuck. I thought I was safe here, or at least safe at Ichor in the Edge, but this is even worse than Ensenada. My heart thumps in my chest so hard that it moves up to my throat, which constricts in fear, replaying the events of last night.
I squeeze my eyes shut and suck in a breath of stale, rancid air, reminding me how disgusting this place really is. And some of the girls have been letting unsavories crash here too. Just last week one of them brought in a smashed homeless guy. I always try to look out for people who have less than me but now that I’ve been attacked here, my hubris is faltering.
I obviously need to find a safer place to live. Maybe I can stay at Maggie’s while I look for one. “Maybe just for a few days?”
Her face lights up and she grabs my hand again, practically pulling both of us down the stairs. “You’re going to love it.” She skips down with me in tow.
“As long as there’s a bed I’m sure I will.”
When we pull up in front of her garden complex twenty-five minutes later, I clench my teeth to keep from yelling ¡Hurra! There’s an ornate wrought iron gate in front decorated with spirals and crests. It’s beautiful and practical. She taps out a code on the keypad. The gate opens to a garden full of colorful flowers and lush greenery lit by twinkling lights. The only flower I recognize is the bird of paradise, its orange head rising into the early morning, waiting to greet the sun. The rectangular courtyard is hugged by a U-shaped building. Doors to multiple apartments litter the bottom floor, and verandas on top hide more doors, no doubt.
“I know you’re tired and I’d carry you up if I could but . . .”
“No one’s carrying me anywhere. I can walk.”
“Second floor.”
There are only two.
We enter through her little upstairs patio. It looks like each of the four corners of the building house separate apartments. She has the back right corner.
“Sweetie, I’m home,” she calls out after entering. “I brought a friend.”
“Don’t wake him or her on my account. It’s late.” I pivot my head to the wall clock. Four a.m. A couch and chairs sit on the left and a large dining room table toward the right. The space is broken up by a counter, a stainless steel kitchen peeking from behind it.
“Nah, he works nights. He’d rather know you’re here than be surprised in the bathroom in the morning.”
A door opens from the back of the house and a sleepy guy with a mop of blond hair over half his face emerges.
“I can’t seem to wake up,” he says groggily, practically slurring his words. “I feel drugged.”
“Were you drinking last night?” She doesn’t sound mad.
“No.” He waves his hand at her and it falls down.
He certainly seems drunk.
“Honey, I want you to meet my friend Sydney. She’s going to be staying with us for a couple of days.”
He turns his head to look at me through his hair, t
he strands falling over his forehead and eyes. But even so, I’ve seen this guy mussed and naked. I’d recognize one of my johns anywhere. He squints at me and Maggie brushes his hair out of his face. His eyes grow so large that the whites show on all sides.
“Sydney? What happened to your face?”
I cross to him and extend my hand, smile plastered on my face. “Yes, my name is Sydney. It’s nice to meet you . . .” I look at Maggie and raise my brows. He takes my hand awkwardly.
“And this is Jerome.” She smiles, looking between us.
He’s clutching my hand like it’s a life raft.
“Sweetheart, Sydney was attacked earlier. I brought her to the hospital. I texted you about it, you must have been sleeping.”
He nods but is still staring at me, mouth open, holding my hand. I let his go and it falls heavily to his side.
“Maggie said I could crash here for a couple of days but I just need a good night’s sleep and I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”
“Please, Syd, stay as long as you need. Let me show you to your room.” Maggie turns and walks down the hallway to the left, and I follow her. Jerome stands in the living room, watching.
Sadly, this is not the first time I’ve met a john’s wife. I’ve had to go out to dinner with men I’ve slept with and their wives and pretend to be a business associate. I’ve been caught in men’s homes by their wives, and as long as I wasn’t naked at the time, I’ve always talked the woman down. Only once did a wife chase me out with a knife. I’ve pretended to be their cousin, their best friend’s fiancée, even one guy’s niece, which was totally gross.
This particular twist is a new one, I’ll admit. I’ve never had the girlfriend bring me home to the man I dallied with before, but I’m adaptable and I’m a great liar. A whore’s toolbox—lies, manipulation and deceit. That’s what we get paid for. Still, I really like Maggie. What’s she doing with that loser? He doesn’t deserve her.
8
Realms and Rebels: A Paranormal and Fantasy Reverse Harem Collection Page 89