Page 9 of Hostile Saint

Model-Man replied, “I’ll call with an update. Thanks for everything.”

My eyes weren’t even attempting to open. They couldn’t. They were heavy as could be. I think that is why I fell right back to sleep for a little bit.

The next time I woke, from the hallway, I heard the doctor quietly say, “As you saw, he’s a fighter. Plus, every single stab wound was right where it needed to be to do the least amount of damage. Which is a good thing. My office is only closed for the weekend. After that, he has to go.”

VP sounded perturbed, “Has to go? That kid was spitting up blood, for God’s sake.”

“Hey, I’m breaking laws here. I’d prefer my staff to not be involved,” Doc replied. “As far as his spitting up blood, that has an easy, yet disturbing, explanation. He was most likely choking on all the blood draining down his throat. He has a gaping hole in his mouth where a right molar used to be—like less than twenty-four hours ago. With all the bruising on his face, I’m guessing a punch—or twenty—reopened the horrific wound.”

“Wound?” asked Model-Man.

“Yeah, no orthodontist did that gruesome removal. And no man could withstand that kind of pain of removing it himself. My guess? Last night was not this kid’s first run with gory torture. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Model-Man sounded annoyed. “You’re speaking English, aren’t ya?”

The doctor exhaled a shaky breath. “Sorry, I get all twisted when neglected animals are brought to my office. Such a young man? Totally fucking with me. I take home abused strays. How do I explain showing up with an abused young man to my wife?”

“Wait. Abused?” asked VP.

“Pfft! Did you not see the perfectly shaped scar on his right hand, right arm, the right side of his neck?”

“We were a little busy saving his life. Sorry for the miss,” smarted off VP.

Doc exhaled again. “Shit. Sorry. It’s just… This kid has been tortured for years. Many old scars. All on the right side of his body. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

My right. Her left…

“And he’s severely underweight. This kid needs a good home and lots of hot meals.”

As I fell back to sleep, I heard Model-Man grumble, “Jesus H. Christ.”

VP sneered, “No wonder the kid didn’t weigh shit when I carried him.”

When my mom left money on the counter so I could buy myself food, the brothers made it clear I wasn’t to touch it. I only took tiny amounts so that they wouldn’t notice. Sometimes, I didn’t even spend that stolen money on myself. Vanilla milkshakes for my Pretty Girl were what I bought. Due to her mother also being so poor, she had never had one before me.

I kissed her that day she had her first.

She loves my sugar kisses.

Her kisses made my starving so worth it.

Her sweet vanilla breath blew across my face as she whispered, “I love you, Tate.” I was lying underneath her naked body, loving her weight and soft skin on top of me.

Smiling, I held up my right hand. “Hold my heart, Pretty Girl.”

Knowing exactly what to do, she raised her left palm.

Our matching scars touched as our fingers folded around our joined hands.

“Find me,” she whispered.

On a pillow, my head tilted in question. “But, you’re right here—”

Voices yanked me from the dream. The doctor was in the hallway talking again. “My wife is asking questions, so I have to go home for a little while, but after he wakes, he needs to get up and move around…”

After an explanation of why my moving was so important, Model-Man said, “Thanks, Doc. Not a problem. And I’ll have him out of here before your office opens Monday morning. Just let me know what I owe ya.”

“Have you heard about what kind of shape the girl is in?”