Page 69 of Badd Love
I faked a laugh. "Oh god, no. He's my boyfriend. He vanished last night, and I'm pissed at him. I spent the whole night searching the hospitals for him."
He peered at me, and I'm not sure he believed me. "Mmmm-hmmm." He pushed his cart full of cleaning supplies into motion again. "Hope you're not lying to me."
"I would never," I scoffed.
He lumbered off with more than one suspicious backward glance—I must be radiating palpable fury or something.
I pushed into the room. It was dark, the lights dimmed, curtains drawn. A shape was at his bedside, doing something; when finished, the figure turned and saw me. The nurse was a young woman about my age, pretty, with black hair and lovely brown eyes. "Are you family?" she asked in a whisper.
"I'm his girlfriend," I whispered back. "Whathappened?” I endeavored to sound worried. “How is he? No one would tell me anything on the phone."
She winced. "He was assaulted last night, I'm afraid. Someone stabbed him through the hand with a fork. I know it sounds kind of like a joke, maybe, but I promise you it is no laughing matter. He will have permanent nerve damage to that hand. He will never have full use of it again.”
"Ohhh, poor baby," I tutted, in a saccharine, concerned tone.
"Well, that's only part of it, unfortunately." She hesitated, leading me out to the hallway and speaking in a low murmur. “His testicles were…ummm…crushed. Very, very badly. No one saw what happened, as someone did a drive-by dump. Whoever did this to him must'vereallyhated him. I’m no detective, but this was deeply personal.”
I acted shocked. "Holy shit. Is he, ummm…will he ever…you know?"
She winced again, shaking her head with a shrug. "Unlikely, I'm sorry to say. The damage is pretty comprehensive. He'll almost definitely suffer permanent impotence and/or erectile dysfunction."
Fuck yes.
It was so hard to not pump my fist like Rocky at the top of the stairs.
Look, I'm normally not a violent person. I don't like horror movies or war movies or shoot-em-ups. I like reality shows where out-of-touch rich women yell at each other about transparency and starting a new chapter. I like dating shows where douchebags with jobs like "amateur donkey jockey" get drunk at each other and whine about everything.
But knowing I possibly, hopefully, please-baby-Jesus ruined Danny's ability to get a hard-on ever again?
Chef's kiss.
"Can I see him?" I said to the nurse.
She nodded. “He's on a lot of painkillers, so he won’t be entirely lucid." She scanned me, looking perplexed. "Sorry, he just didn't mention a girlfriend."
“Well, he got his balls kicked in," I said. "I'm sure he wasn't entirely coherent."
"I suppose." She glanced back in at the still form on the bed. "Don't keep him up too long. He needs to rest."
"Forever," I muttered under my breath.
"Sorry, what was that?" the nurse said.
"Nothing." I patted her shoulder. "Thank you, nurse…"
"Joanna," she supplied.
“Thank you, Joanna. I won't keep him up too long."
When she was gone, I let out a breath, hesitated, and then entered the dark room. Closed the door behind me. Drew the curtain around his bed, blocking him from view from the hallway.
Drew a chair up to the bedside and sat back in it, one leg crossed over the other. Danny was sleeping peacefully, right hand bandaged. A thin hospital blanket covered his lower half, so I couldn't see what was going on down there. Spikes through the dickhole, with any luck.
I looked at him for a moment or two. It was the same face, just older. Same weak jaw and chin, same beady, bulging eyes. Same hooked nose, crooked from being broken multiple times. His face was pocked and scarred—acne, meth sores, scars from fights. He was actually decent-looking…at first glance. Look closer, and you saw the wear of age, and you realized he was much younger than you thought. He was only thirty-two, but he looked fifty. His hair was thinning at the widow's peak and crown, and the stubble along his jawline was salted with gray in places.
There was a pillow that had slid out from under his head and was about to topple off the other side of the bed. I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from holding it over his face.
My god, when did I become so murdery?
