“What happened?” Dr. Bond glanced between me and Peter and unhooked his stethoscope from around his neck. It was a nervous move, like he needed something to do with his hands, and that was bad. If he was jittery, it probably meant I needed to be worried about Peter getting tossed around. I hadn’t given his injuries as much thought as his life, and now I felt twice as guilty. I should have brought him in right away.
Not one to be shy, I pointed at Peter’s neck, which he was unhelpful about as he ducked his head. “He has bruises here, and I found him on the floor.”
Peter glared at me as I moved around beside him and crossed my arms.
“There’s the man I know. I was beginning to get worried,” I said softly.
The corner of his mouth curled up, but then he seemed to realize he was close to smiling and gave me an extra-deep scowl.
“I’ll look at him.” Dr. Bond moved forward and went to a knee beside the chair, carefully taking Peter’s wrist, which I couldn’t help but notice was slim in spite of the fact he was all man. Dr. Bond measured his pulse, and apparently satisfied, let Peter go again fairly quickly.
“He might need to stay overnight?” I nudged Dr. Bond’s shoe with mine.
Dr. Bond glanced up at me and narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see. This isn’t a hotel, Greene.”
“Then why are you acting like there’s no room at the inn?” Peter’s mouth twisted into something like a smile, and I snickered.
“He has jokes!” I patted Peter’s shoulder.
Dr. Bond pointed at the door, and I walked away backward with my hands clasped under my chin, shamelessly begging. His mouth thinned into a firm line, and he gave me a simple nod. I practically skipped out to the corridor.
Thanks to the doc, I had a night to figure out a way to help Peter Gaffin. The medical wing wasn’t a permanent solution. I groaned and leaned against the cement-block wall. Sighing to myself, I glanced up as I heard the buzz of the curfew alarm and the clang of the automatic timers sending the cell doors closed at the same time all around the prison. What the hell was I going to do? More importantly, why the fuck was Peter Gaffin on Tatum Black’s radar?
6
Peter
I usedmy borrowed walker to slowly make my way out of the bland beige-tiled shower stall of the locker-room-style bathroom in the medical dorms. I suspected it was a ton nicer than whatever everyone else was using to wash up. Steam hung in the air, and I practically purred with the pleasure of having the days-old coating of dirt and oil scrubbed from my skin. I glanced down at my body and for the first time in a long while wondered what someone else might think of it. Would Drew like how slim I was right now? I’d lost a lot of my muscle and was plain old thin. My hip bones stuck out more than they should. I missed the way I used to look. A long-dead spark kindled to life in me. I used to love to work out, shape my body and make my muscles look good through effort and determination. I smacked my stomach. At least I hadn’t put on a beer gut.
Dr. Bond sat in a plastic chair with his back to me and his phone out, but he cocked his head like he was paying attention to whether or not I was dead. I snagged a clean white towel from the hook right outside the shower stall and dried myself off. There was a small bench nearby with socks, boxers, and a pair of gray shorts on it—a style I’d never seen the other prisoners wearing—along with a white T-shirt. I was happy about the shorts because it was warm in the medical wing. I made my way over to the bench, tossed down the towel, and wasted no time sitting to pull my boxers and shorts on, and then hurried with the T-shirt. It took some maneuvering, but I was more comfortable and clean than I had been since I’d entered the prison.
“You okay back there? I can give you a hand with the socks.”
I snorted, but appreciated the way he said that, like it was no big deal.
“Not dead yet, thanks. But please?”
Dr. Bond laughed and came over, shoving his phone in his pocket as he went. He was tall, so he went to a knee. He might be a doc, but he made quick work of slipping the socks and some white slippers on my feet.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be watching me in case I stab you or something?” It was a horrible thrill to poke at his shoulder with my finger. “Apparently, I’m a dangerous man.”
“Fairly certain I’d hear you coming.” He stood back with his hands out and took a few steps, motioning me to follow him.
The walker squeaked when I stood and pushed it, and I groaned a little as he cracked up and pointed at his ear.
“You would. I’m worse than a cricket.”
He snorted and walked backward as I came toward him, his eyes on my feet. “Your gait is okay. Why didn’t you do therapy prior to your stay in our fine facilities?”
I shrugged, and embarrassment had my face hot.
“You haven’t asked me for pills yet.”
When I shot a glance at his face, he didn’t seem upset or like he was making fun of me, so I shrugged. “Thought about it, but… you already said I can’t have the good candy.”
He hummed in agreement and opened the bathroom door with a fighter’s grace—or at least it was quick to me—and swung around to the other side to hold it open. As I shuffled past, he said, “Ibuprofen. I’ll double it for you, okay?”
“Gee, thanks,” I grumbled, but the longer I went without the muscle relaxers and pain pills I’d been gobbling morning, noon, and night, the less I wanted them. The craving was still there at the back of my mind, gnashing its teeth, but it was more a gentle prodding and less of a scream in my ear.
