Page 80 of The Man I Hate

He looked at me like I was crazy. “I’m not going to snuggle with the grumpy bastard. I’ll put some Gatorade beside him, take his temperature, and—it’s not a rectal thermometer, is it?”

“It’s all they had.” I shrugged. “They were sold out of everything else.”

He winced.

“I’m joking,” I said. “It’s one of those point and shoot deals.”

“I was about to say you could don those scrubs and one of those masks and come with me. I’d spread his cheeks and you could poke it in.”

“Reverse those roles, and I’m in,” I said with a laugh.

“Not happening. Gimme the mask and gloves, and I’m good,” he said. “If that prick infects me through that gear, it was meant to be.”

Although I was willing to do what I must, I was apprehensive to enter Braxton’s home. Now that Pratt had volunteered, I was able to exhale a sigh of relief. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this. I’ve been nervous all morning.”

He pulled a lollipop from his back pocket and peeled off the wrapper. “Want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“Got a box of ‘em in the truck.” He poked it in his mouth. “If you want one, I got every flavor these little fuckers come in.”

I chuckled. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” He chuckled. “Rourke got me to saying that. Suit yourself. He says it all the time.” He gestured toward my car. “Go grab the stuff. I better get in there before I come to my senses.”

“If you don’t want to do it—”

He pulled the sucker from his mouth and wagged it in my direction. “Women, the elderly, and kids.”

I was lost. His comment made no sense. “Huh?”

“Women, the elderly, or children. Can’t let harm come to any of ‘em, or Rourke would have my ass,” he said. “One of his rules. You ain’t a kid or elderly, but you’re one hundred percent woman. I’m just trying to make sure Rourke don’t furlough me for breaking the rules once he gets well.”

I laughed. “Okay.”

It was obvious the comments Marge made about Braxton a few days earlier were right. Contrary to what one might perceive from his sexual antics, Braxton was a good man on the inside.

I glanced at Pratt and then turned toward my car. His existence on earth was proof.

Braxton was a damned good man.

Anna

Day ten

Pratt got home and had to come right back to reconnect Braxton’s phone. Then, four hours later, Braxton had a fit while dreaming, and he disconnected the phone again. Pratt returned again, without one word of complaint. He moved the phone to the far side of the nightstand, so Braxton couldn’t reach it as easily. After that, we hadn’t had another incident.

All in all, I felt that things were improving. Braxton’s wheezing was now sporadic instead of constant. His fits of coughing were shorter and sounded much less invasive. The bad dreams continued, but his fits of shouting often lasted for no longer than a few minutes. Those tense moments, for both of us, were hell.

Pratt said on the day he got shot that everything happened in a span of 3- or 4-minutes, total. Hundreds of rounds—if not thousands—had been fired, six men were wounded, and one sniper was killed. All in less time than it takes to fill a car’s gas tank at the convenience store.

When it was over, the men didn’t get to go home. The wounded were bandaged up and continued to fight as soon as they were willing. The fortunate few who weren’t wounded were fighting in another battle on that same street thirty minutes later.

Pratt said he felt guilty during the time that he was prohibited from returning to battle. While he was in the hospital getting a blood transfusion, all he could think of was “when will they let me return to combat.”

That mindset, from what he said, was typical of the good men.

The devoted.