My breath caught, working to keep my heart intact. I’d thought Regge trusted me—my intentions. I’d done everything I could to win his trust. It wasn’t enough.
“I’ll get something later.” I flipped the latch on the door, praying that he would stop me. He didn’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Julian failing to die is not really succeeding
Julian woke up. His lungs ached in his chest, a searing pain with every laborious breath. He must be alive because he hurt way too much to be dead. And his bladder was going to burst. The inside of his elbow throbbed. He checked to find the IV attached to his arm. Alarmed, he looked around, panicked that they’d left him at a hospital. The movement caused sharp pain—everywhere. Yep. Definitely alive. In a regular hotel room, fortunately. Regular was a kind description. He recognized the Fulbright’s worn decor.
There was no goddamn way he was going to spend another minute in this shithole of a hotel. Who knew what was lurking in the closets, the hallways, that creepy elevator?
Unbidden, his mind went to the past. In a room similar to this one, he’d lost his friend, his boss, and life as he knew it. With a shudder, Julian looked around his makeshift hospital room. The hotel had once been his hope of a way out. Something to call his and not Castenada’s. Now he wanted nothing to do with the place.
He braced for more pain as he rolled to his side, holding on to the IV pole to help himself upright. His mouth was cottony, his limbs shaky, but he had to piss something fierce, so he eased himself up and stumbled into the bathroom, dragging the pole with him. The light switch slid under his fingers, and his retinas burned against the sudden fluorescence.
Steadying himself with one hand on the counter, he managed to get his fly down and use the toilet. When he was done, he edged to the sink and ran cold water over his handsas he stared at himself in the mirror. An old, near-death gang member stared back.
His nose was swollen, the skin under both eyes bruised and purple. Dried blood had smeared over his belly and under his right arm, outlining a rectangular bandage over his heart. Clumps of blood gathered in his chest hair and flaked into the sink as he rubbed at it. He pulled off the adhesive bandage and looked at the wound. Neat, black stitches in a four-inch curve just to the side of his pectoral muscle. He stretched his arm up and hissed at the burn. The skin was pink and healthy-looking between the sutures.
He found towels and wet them under the running water. Not trusting his balance, he sat on the toilet lid as he cleaned up. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the IV needle out and dabbed the speck of blood with some toilet paper, replacing the tape over it.
The shower beckoned, but he had to get out. Besides, he needed to be ready to move if someone came. Cleaning his chest and arms of most of the blood, he rose and surveyed himself in the mirror again.That’s going to leave an awful scar.
He frowned at the thought in his head. Since when did he care about scars? He picked up the large bandage and replaced it over the stitches, pressing it down with a wince. He’d have to stop and get supplies at a drugstore, some painkillers too.
His fuzziness fading, he remembered convincing the big guy to help him. What was his name? Something biblical. Moses? Aaron? Abraham, yeah that was it.
The memory of Ramon’s house, the guns going off. Old Cesar’s shock as Julian shot him. He shuddered, suddenly horrified at the memory though he didn’t know why. Cesar would have killed him for sure. Yet he was here and alive. For whatever reason, Abraham had saved him.
He left the room and stumbled into the empty hallway. Keeping one hand on the wall for balance, he made his way tothe other room, the smell of blood and sulfur still lingering. His blood, he figured, as he frowned at the stain on the sideboard, the faded carpet. It was a lot of blood. Too much.
Taking the elevator, he made his way to the bar. It was empty, but he pulled a bottle of high-end vodka from the shelf and took a healthy swig. His stomach revolted, and he made it to the trash can before vomiting it all up. The action caused the ache in his chest to spike, which had him gasping for breath, causing even more pain. He swore vehemently. The room grew fuzzy and dark. He stumbled to a club chair and collapsed.
When his eyes opened again, he felt much better. He got back up to the bar and sat on the stool. The bartender he remembered from months ago came around the corner as though it was a normal evening. He frowned at Julian. “I suppose you want a drink?”
“Ah. Yes. A vodka, no.” He remembered his stomach lurching. “Let’s just make it a club soda.”
The bartender shoved a tall glass into the ice bin and then filled it. “You want a lime with that?”
“No, it’s fine.” Julian managed a nod when it was set in front of him. “Thanks.”
The bartender pulled the towel off his shoulder and wiped down the bar.
“Where is everyone?”
“Everyone with any sense is gone. I guess that says a lot about us, doesn’t it?” This time there was a glimmer of humor in his eerie dark eyes. Julian wanted to ask if he remembered him from six months earlier but decided against it.
“I should go.” He finished off his seltzer. “You wouldn’t happen to have something I could wear back there?” He indicated the room behind the liquor shelf. “I seem to have lost my shirt.”
The bartender squinted as though noticing his bare chest for the first time. With a shrug, he walked out of the bar and came back with a medium-sized T-shirt with a Temple University logo on it. He held it out to Julian.
“Thanks,” Julian said. Relieved to find his wallet in his back pocket, he left a ten on the bar and pulled the shirt over his head. The action hurt and the shirt was far too tight, but he was semi dressed at least.
In the lobby, the morning light seeped in, illuminating the overall shabbiness. How had he ever thought he could turn this place into a moneymaker? He’d put all his savings and wages into buying this place, and now it was abandoned and wrecked. The upstairs rooms were only fit for renting by the hour, or satanic rituals.
Julian was not a hands-on owner, so he’d funded an auto accounting system to keep the bills paid. After Ramon died, running the hotel was the last thing on his mind.
“At least the creepy desk clerk isn’t hovering,” he muttered to himself as he leaned on the front counter.
