“You got it,” Porter says, “We owe you big-time. You know anyone that needs a board, come by the shop.”
Fast Mike gives us a wave. We race through the rain and hop inside the van, and then we drive away. ?e windows are all fogging up, and I’m trying to help, looking for the switch to turn on the defrost, but my hands are shaking. I’m still freaked out. I can’t calm down. “?e black button,” Porter says, and I nally
nd it. I turn the fan all the way up and try to concentrate on
making the windshield clear instead of the fact that he’s still bleeding. It works until we come to the end of the dirt road.
“I think we should go see a doctor.”
“It’s ne.”
“You’re being ridiculous. Pull over at the rst store you see and I’ll get something to clean your wound.”
He cranes his neck and appraises the damage in the rearview mirror. Yep. Listen to the smart person in the vehicle. Instead of turning right on the paved road to head back home, he turns left. Should he even be driving? Davy did punch him in the head a few times. Or maybe he knows something I don’t. Now the road is going uphill. We’re winding up some coastal cliffs, and the rain’s coming down. And I see a sign that says SCENIC OVERLOOK. He slows the van and turns into one of those pull-over areas for tourists to park. It’s got a couple of Monterey cypress trees and a redwood sign with a carving of the central coast of California and all the points of interest marked. It’s also got a jaw-dropping view of the Paci c, which we might enjoy if it weren’t overcast and drizzling, and he weren’t bleeding all over the seat.
“?is doesn’t look like a store to me,” I say anxiously when he opens up his door.
“We don’t need no stinking store,” he says in a way that almost reminds me of a line from a Mel Brooks movie, Blazing Saddles. I never liked that one as much as Brooks’s other comedy classic Young Frankenstein, which I’ve watched online with Alex a couple of times. But it makes me a little guilty to think about that when I’m here with Porter.
Porter the animal. I’m still rattled over the insane amount of raw violence I just witnessed. And I’m not sure how I feel about it.
He jumps out, groaning, and heads around the van to a sliding side door, where he retrieves a small box. ?en he comes back and slips back into the front seat and opens the treasure he’s collected: a plastic rst-aid kit covered in stickers.
“Surfers always carry supplies,” he explains, rooting around the box with one nger. “We get banged up all the time.”
After several seconds of watching him struggle, I realize his other hand is too busted up to use, and pity overrides whatever lingering shock I’m still experiencing. I snatch the kit away from him. “Let me see that. You can’t nurse yourself, dummy.”
“Oh, good. I did all this as an excuse for you to put your hands on me.”
“Not funny.”
“A little funny.”
I nd some alcohol swabs and a bunch of butter y bandages, along with a couple of condoms, which I try not to think about too hard. “You scared the bejesus out of me. Look, here’s a packet of Tylenol. It’s been expired for a few months, but better than nothing. You have something to drink it with?”
“You need to work on your bedside manner, Nurse Bailey,” he says, groaning as he leans to pick up a half-empty bottle of water wedged in the seat. He pretends to be irritated with me when I pretend to be mad at him as I hand him the pills. He swallows them and grunts.
I kneel on the seat and tear open a swab. ?e sharp scent of alcohol lls the van. We both make faces. He swings his door open, and the fresh air feels good. ?e sound of waves crashing against the rocks below is calming. Sort of.
Too chicken to start on his face, I tentatively pull back the collar of his shirt and swipe the cool swab over the dried blood on his neck. He shudders. “Cold.”
“Sorry,” I murmur. I make quick work of the trail of blood, but it’s harder when I get to all his scruff. I unfold the swab, rearrange the rst-aid kit in my lap, and get serious about cleaning him up. If I focus on this, then my mind will stop jumping back to frightening images of him ripping Davy apart like a wild beast. He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes.
“Porter?”
“Mmm?”
“Remember that time you saw Davy talking to me outside the vintage clothing store on the boardwalk?”
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t know I was listening, but I saw him come in the store and ask the girl at the counter, Julie, to help him out because he was going down to Monterey and needed something.”
Porter’s eyes y open. “What? ?at’s not what he told me.”
“He was lying. And when he was talking to her inside the store, she said, ‘I thought you were chipping.’ And he told her that he was, but he just needed something for today, and that he promised it was only once, and she said she’d try to help him.”
“I knew it.” Porter hits the steering wheel.
