Page 30 of Craving Sin

“It’s your body, not you.”

“My body is me,” I argue, not sure why I am, but not stopping myself either.

“It’s nothing you can control, I mean.” He bandages me up again. “You need to take your antibiotics and pain pills so—”

“No.”

“Jesus, Rian. I’m trying to get you healthy, so you’re not half dead when you kill me. Maybe consider being a better patient, if for no other reason than it’s faster for me to die, and you can move on with being a drug dealer.”

“I’m not a drug dealer.” He crosses his arms, the look of disbelief almost comical. “Okay, we are in the drug business, but saying it that way is…”

“Oh my God. You’re a drug dealer who is offended by being called a drug dealer? Is that beneath you?” he scoffs.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s part of what we do, but not the whole of it, and reducing me to a drug dealer negates that. I’m a businessman, first and foremost.”

“You’re delusional, is what you are. And you’re taking the pills.”

He reaches for the bottle of medication, but before he can get it, my hand is wrapped around his wrist. He flinches, making an unexplainable pang of guilt shoot through me. That’s not how I’m supposed to feel. It’s not how I ever feel, but as flashes of Abbott’s hands on my face, the way he wiped me down with the cloth, and the gentleness he’s shown me despite what I’ve done to him, play on a reel in my brain—I find that I do feel guilty.

“I’ll take the antibiotics. Just not the pain medication.” I don’t like the way it makes me feel, and I need a clear head to be here with him.

Abbott hands me water and pills, which I take like a good patient, and then get fitted with my sling again.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.

“I’ll get the urinal.”

“Not a chance. I’m not pissing in that bottle again, and you’re definitely not holding my dick when I do it.” Because he did before. I’m surprised I was able to tell him when I had to go and wasn’t so out of it that I went on myself.

“That was strictly professional. Believe me, I don’t want anything to do with your dick.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. Stop insinuating that I’m homophobic. I just don’t need someone to hold my dick when I piss.”

“Too macho for that?” Abbott asks.

I surprise myself by flipping him off.

It takes me longer than it should, but I do manage to piss on my own with Abbott standing at the door waiting to jump into action if I need him. Afterward, I wash my hands and brush my teeth with the supplies Conan brought and one of them must have set out.

I wait by the open door while Abbott does the same. Abbott. Why am I still thinking of him that way?

He’s not Abbott. He’s the doc and nothing more.

“Come on. I need out of this room,” I tell him, moving toward the door.

“Aren’t you going to cuff me?” he asks.

“Do I need to cuff you?” It shouldn’t even be a question, me cuffing him, not if I need to, but if we’re going to be here for a few days at least, it would be more of a hassle than anything. Abbott—the doc—isn’t like the scum I would usually be holding captive. The point isn’t to torture him, to hurt him, to use him to show our enemies how powerful we are. None of this was supposed to happen. He’s supposed to be home, in bed, not having witnessed a murder, not having been kidnapped, and certainly not nursing the man who will eventually kill him back to health.

“No. I won’t try to escape again. Your friend already warned me what will happen if I do.”

My jaw tics in frustration, though I’m not sure why. I walk back toward him, not stopping until I’m standing in his space, until I can feel his breath on my skin, until the scent of his toothpaste hits my nose. “He’s not the one you have to worry about. I am. Don’t think because I’m injured, I’m any less dangerous. Don’t fool yourself into believing that because I give you a little bit of freedom, I’ll hesitate for a second to slit your pretty little throat. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. Always remember the man I am, Doc.”

His breath hitches, the sound of it wobbling just slightly. He tries to hide the fear on his face, in his eyes, but I see how his pupils widen, the way his body tightens, the tremble in his arms, no matter how much he tries to control it.

“I am a killer. I am a bad man. And I’m sorry that I crossed your path, but I did, and there is nothing we can do to change any of that now.”

“How do you live with yourself?” he asks. “How can you look at yourself in the mirror every day?”