Sinner's Revenge(19)

Easily, I avoid her fists and cradle her in my arms. The movement silences her. When I look down, she’s taking short, shallow breaths. Shit. I hurt her. I ignore the feeling of regret, and keep moving until she is sitting in the front seat of my car. She’s not fighting anymore, and she’s pale—white as a ghost. By the time I’m back from shutting the door, she’s passed out.

The drive back home seems to take forever. I should take her to the hospital, but she said she’d already been. And she claimed she left on her own free will. I wasn’t sure if that was the truth, or if she was kicked out for pulling a gun on someone. Either way, I was going to have to play doctor for a little while. At least until I could figure something else out. Not sure who else to call, I phone Rookie. Hoping like hell he can shed some light on this shitstorm I’ve gotten myself into.

“I got a problem,” I say as a form of greeting.

“A big one or a little one?”

I think about that a moment before answering. “An unusual one.”

“Aw, shit. Would this have anything to do with the carjacker?” My silence is answer enough. “I can come, but I got Carrie.”

“Perfect.”

I carry Diem’s unconscious body into the house. Unsure of where else to put her, I lay her in my bed. Then I just stand over her wondering what the hell to do. She’s wearing a button-up shirt and a loose pair of drawstring shorts. My eyes scan her body looking for injuries, but other than bruises, I don’t see any. I unfasten the buttons of her shirt, and just below her bra is the most sickening swirl of blue and purple circles I’ve ever seen. Her whole abdomen looks bruised and battered.

“I didn’t peg you to be a kidnapper.” I turn my head to find her watching me. She’s eerily calm, but that evil glare is in her eyes. The look she’s giving me makes me think if she had that gun, I’d be a dead man.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I sit next to her on the bed, her eyes following my every move. “Tell me what happened.”

Between shallow breaths, she lays out the events like she’s reading them from a book. Something she’s done before. “I was on my way home when I wrecked. I flipped the truck, managed to crawl to the road, but I didn’t see a car for almost two hours. So, I laid there, in a fucking ditch, until someone passed by. They called the cops, I went to the hospital, they drew blood work, found out I was over the limit, gave me a ticket while I was laying in the ER, then the doctors wheeled me up to my room. The next day, I asked how long I’d be staying and they said until I could get up and walk out. So I did. Now here I am. Except this time, I didn’t go voluntarily. You took me.” Every detail is said matter-of-fact. She never faltered. I wonder if she’s lying.

“Why didn’t you fill the scripts?” I ask, pulling them from my pocket. Lortab 10s. The good shit.

“I don’t take pain meds.”

“But you drink NyQuil like it’s water.”

“It helps me sleep.” Damn she’s exasperating. I take a deep breath, trying to hold tight to my growing temper. I don’t know if I’m more pissed because she’s ungrateful for my help, or because I’m actually helping her.

“Just stop, Diem,” I say, the words rushing from my mouth.

“Stop what, Zeke?” she snaps.

“Stop being so evasive. Stop pushing me away. Stop being such a fucking bitch.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling. When she doesn’t speak, I push forward.

“What hurts?” Such a simple question, yet she seems to struggle to find a way to tell me. “The truth, Diem,” I add, probably a little too harshly.

“Several ribs are broken. One bruised lung. Both my wrists are fucked up, but my left one is worse. They’re not broken, but need a brace. My ankle is sprained, and my neck hurts. Probably from whiplash. Other than that, I’ve just got some bruises and cuts. I have a pretty bad one on my back. They stapled it, but I think I pulled one out.” Her eyes finally meet mine. If she’s searching for pity, she won’t find any. I’m not going to feel sorry for her, because she doesn’t want me to. And she brought this on herself.

“You eat today?”

“No. Yesterday either. And I’m starving. So, if you want to play Nurse Betty, then waddle your ass in the kitchen and fix me something.” I can’t do anything but stare at her. She’s like a pit bull that needs rescuing. I have a softness inside me for dogs. But for impossible, self-righteous, hateful women like her? Not so much.

“Let’s make a deal,” I say, throwing the offer she’s always suggesting back in her face. “I’ll help you when you ask for it. Until then, you’re on your own.” I don’t bother looking at her as I get up and walk out.