Blood makes you a relative, but loyalty makes you family; and there it is— my family, my happiness. My heart pounds in my chest; I breathe in all the air I can take and exhale all of it, renewing everything about me.
I wish Dante was here.
I turn around and face Carter. “You still look like shit… How are you holding up?” He really does. He doesn’t look like a playboy anymore; he can barely open his eyes, he has bruises all over— he looks like a goddamn rainbow.
“Yes, you said that before. There’s no way to get an instant un-fucked up. I’m alright, I guess… Thanks to the ‘bomb lover’ back there. Should I ask who that was?”
“You shouldn’t,” I reply. “Your place or mine?” That’s the usual question we ask each other when we’re in trouble. When we were kids, Carter always wanted to come over to my house, mostly because his father never welcomed him with open arms.
“Depends… Any vodka at home?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“My place it is.”
I notice Sarah looks at us like she’s watching a tennis match at Doctor Frank-N-Furter’s house. She looks terrified. But that’s who we are— complicated and simple at the same time.
I should leave Carter alone for the time being. His ego must be way down under a pile of shit, and a simple pat on the back is not gonna make him feel better. No, Carter’s routine involves getting black-out drunk, fuck a random woman he meets God knows where and feel like shit for a while.
Until something clicks.
I pull over at his place and ask Sarah to wait inside the car. I’ll be Carter’s crutch. Carter clings to my shoulder with one hand, grabs his ribs with the other and limps forward.
“I got this, you shouldn’t leave her alone.” I turn back and see Sarah looking at us with her worried eyes.
God, I love this woman.
“You’re right, I should get back.”
I turn around and he says, “Hey, listen. I… huh… just wanted to help and I fucked up.”
“You’re a D’Amico, you’re bound to fuck it up.” I throw a jab at his shoulder, making Carter chuckle and groan at the same time.
“See you around, cuz.” The door closes behind him.
I get back in the car and head home.
Once we’re in the kitchen, I get some ice from the freezer for the left side of my face and some painkillers for Sarah, who looks at me suspiciously.
“Here. This will help you feel a lot less like shit in the morning.”
“How do I know those aren’t roofies?” She mocks me.
“Oh, believe me when I tell you, if I wanted to get into your pants, I wouldn’t need the help of a few pills.” I get a glass of water and put it on the table with the pills.
“Are you calling me easy!?” She pushes the glass of water away from her; mockingly offended.
I walk towards her and kiss her deeply for a long time. “See? I didn’t have to drug you…” I whisper over her mouth. She punches me in the shoulder. “Ow!” The cuts in my shoulder say ‘hi’ right after adrenaline made them vanish.
We’re both all bruised up, tired as fuck, and yet we laugh. It feels weirdly great and I like that— a lot. It’s easy to picturing myself with her in the future; it’s not hard in situations like this.
“This needs stitches. Have you ever sutured before?” Sarah looks at me in panic.
“Are you crazy? I just gave you those! What, it made you think I really wanted to stitch you up!? No, I don’t, and I definitely won’t do it!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
RAZZAG.
