Page 4 of Trailer Trash

“Ah, hell,” says Bobby. “Time to go.”

His guys release me, and I collapse onto the floor and cup my face. I try to groan, but blood bubbles in my throat and distorts the sound. Bobby’s men vanish first. He should follow. Instead, he crouches beside me.

“I’ll fucking kill you for this,” I snarl, though my threat is mangled by my torn cheek.

He laughs, the sound worse than Nina’s.

“No, you won’t,” he says, and shoves something under my nose. “I’m tired of your excuses. Nobody gets away with not paying me this long. Here’s one last hit for the funny guy. Breathe it in.”

I don’t want to. I’m gasping for air, but inhaling through my mouth means inhaling blood. So when precious air flows into my nostrils, so does something else. Something stronger than cocaine.

He leaves, and soon darkness falls, and the laughter finally stops.

2

Harlow

A fluorescent light hums above. The smell of bleach and plastic fills my nose. The patient’s eyes snap shut as the surgeon slowly peels off the bandage from his jaw. The raw skin must sting in the cold air, because he winces.

“Looks good, Killian,” the surgeon says and hands him a mirror.

Killian must know it’s bad. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to look, but he draws in a deep breath and holds the mirror as high as his tethered wrist will allow him.

One side of his face is perfect — and I mean perfect — which makes his injury worse, because the other is freaking ruined. The damage is brutal. Too many stitches to count. One line runs from the corner of his mouth and stops just before his ear. Another divides his eyebrow. Together, they are more distracting than the tattoos that crawl up one side of his neck.

It’s horrific.

Yet the surgeon bobs his head, proud of his work.

“It’s a miracle it looks this good,” he says. “It’s only been two days.”

Two days. I read his chart. Two days since a drug dealer carved him open. Two days since someone found him dying on the bathroom floor from a fentanyl overdose.

He sets the mirror down and sighs, apparently unmoved by the surgeon’s praise.

His gaze lifts, catching mine.

Immediately, I tug at my light pink scrubs, feeling like an intruder. I try to reset and act like I wasn’t just gawking in horror.

“Looks fucking terrible, huh?” he says, his voice low and fractured.

Quickly, I clear my throat.

“What? No. Um—”

He smirks, but every stitch tightens, and he winces.

“Pain pill?” He points to his jaw.

The surgeon nods. “I’ll have the nurse bring it. Get some rest.”

Killian lifts his hands, but the restraints hold tight, causing a thunk.

“Off?”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The attending doctor says one more night. Just to keep everyone safe.”

“I’m past withdrawal,” he snarls.