Chapter Five
Duke
I wake to the sound of beeping. There's frantic movement as doctors and nurses rush forward down the corridor. For a brief moment I think they're coming for me, until they move straight past and into the room next door.
I sit up, my head groggy, and take a few seconds to remember where I am. The hospital. The fucking hospital. Not again.
I came in last night to get the cut on my head sorted. According to one nosy nurse I was also showing signs of concussion, so they decided to do some extra tests and keep me in overnight. I guess that fucking pimp must have caught me with some decent shots after all.
It wasn't me who'd started the fight. That skank at the bar had clearly gotten the hump over my arrogant dismissal of her, so she'd gone and told on me to her dumb-ass pimp boyfriend. When I left, he came at me from behind, knocking me in the back of the head. From that point on I was on the back foot, so no wonder Brick had to step in.
I've got no complaints though. You reap what you sow, and in some fucked up way I guess whatever happens down there you deserve. Just for being there. If you're stupid enough to go there then you're stupid enough to get your head kicked in. That's my simple philosophy on the place.
I run through a quick check to make sure I've got everything I came in with. I still seem to be wearing my clothes, and I can see my leather jacket hanging off a hook on the wall. On the little bedside table next to me I see my wallet, phone, and keys. A sigh of relief bursts from my lips. Nothing's missing.
It takes me longer than I'd like to get discharged. That damn nurse from the previous night seems intent on keeping me in, for some reason, but eventually I manage to assure them all that I'm fine. I mean, bravo for making sure I'm OK, but let me the fuck go when I want to leave.
Hospitals have always freaked me out, so it's a wonder I'm so willing to return to them by getting into fights. The shrink that my dad forced me to see gave me some real insight into both of those. Apparently it all stems from the death of my mother, overcome by cancer when I was in my early teens. A time, apparently, when I was going through a transitional period in my life and needed security and stability. Having to visit your dying mother every day was kinda the opposite. So, according to Dr Thorpe, that's why I hate hospitals and that's why I can act out from time to time. Well no fucking shit, Sherlock.
Speaking of Dr Thorpe and his ingenious psychological assessments, I've got a session with him this afternoon. I can't wait to see what he makes of my latest scrape.
I suck in the cool early winter air when I finally step out of the main door. Even though hospitals are meant to be places of healing, they have this funny way of making you feel sick. Seeing all these poorly people on death's door. Having to endure that caustic smell of disinfectant, constantly lingering around your nose. It all adds up to a pretty unpleasant experience, and one I'm glad's ended.
For some reason, I don't seem to realize that my white shirt is still bloodied until I step out of the door. I've got this bandage around my head, which I feel is a little excessive, and a few band aids on my knuckles and wrapped around my fingers. I look like I've been hit by a car.
I tighten up my jacket and check the time on my cell. Damn, past midday. Dr Thorpe is expecting me in about an hour and, owing to the deal I made with my father, I'd better be there.
First of all, though, I need to change. It's one thing actually attending my session with Dr Thorpe, and another entirely turning up in the state I'm in. My battered appearance, bloodied shirt, clothes that still stink of tobacco and marijuana. He'll take one look at me and know what I've been up to. And no doubt report back to my father. Fuck client confidentiality. He's the one paying the bills.
I begin walking down the street, my head throbbing. I don't know if it's the fight or the vodka that hurts more, but the combination has created the worst hangover I've had in a long while. And that's saying something.
When I reach a coffee shop I don't hesitate to turn in for an espresso hit and large glass of fresh orange juice. People stare at me as I sit, whispering among themselves.
“It's rude to stare, you know,” I say loudly, raising my eyes to the main culprit. The old woman ducks her head back down to her crossword and doesn't look back.
I don't stop too long. Much to the relief of the crossword lady, I'm up and out within a few minutes, now on the hunt for a new set of clothes. Boots are OK, jeans stink a bit, shirt's shot to bits, and jacket could do with a dry clean. Right now, I need an entirely new outfit.
I cast my eyes up and down the street. I'm not exactly expecting to see Armani and Gucci around here, but something beyond a thrift store would be nice. The only place I can see that looks even remotely suitable is a shop called Turner & Grace. Never heard of it, but the double name thing usually suggests some decent tailoring.
A quick look through the clothes inside tells me I'm way off the mark. Mainly cheap tat, but at least there's a fairly comprehensive male selection. All I need is a simple outfit for the session, perhaps a long sleeve sweater that will cover my knuckles. I can't do anything about the bandage on my head, but I can throw Dr Thorpe off the scent with that one. I fell down the stairs is the classic lie. I'll come up with something similar.
It's at this exact point that a vision of last night jumps straight in front of my eyes. Not a memory or some hazy drunken recollection. But an actual vision. A real person. Right ahead of me fiddling with some clothes on a rack.
My brain begins working towards a name. I wasn't exactly hammered last night, but those blows to the head have clearly knocked something out of me. It began with an 'L', I'm sure of that much. A name that didn't belong down there. Something sweet, like a flower....Lily!
I watch her for a moment as she arranges the clothes. She's petite, a few inches over five feet, with a cute head of shortish blonde hair. Her arms are slender, her hands delicate and small. Naturally, my eyes drop down her body to her ass. Round, nicely curved inside her black pants. Perfect.
I shift my eyes back up her body as my blood begins to boil. There's something about being horny after a night of drinking that makes you feel like a wild animal on heat. It's like you need this release just so that you can get on with your day without the thought of sex on your mind. Looking at her ass isn't helping right now.
With a bundle of clothes under my arm, I step towards her. She doesn't see me, her focus still on making sure all the clothes are properly aligned. When I get within a few feet, I see her hand, still black with ink and covered in my cell phone number. She's clearly scrubbed at it, the numbers all blurred and out of focus and leaving behind nothing but their shadow.
“I assume you wrote down that number before you washed it off,” I say. Her head lifts immediately, a look of surprise on her face.
“You! What the hell are you doing here?” She looks me up and down and her eyes drop to the clothes tucked to the side of my chest. “Shopping?”
“Well this is a shop isn't it? Needed to sort myself out.” I open my jacket up and show off my shirt, still stained crimson.
“Right, I guess you found Brittney in the end then? Or was it Destiny? I can't remember...”
“Ah this,” I say, gesturing at my look. She assumes I bunked up with some chick after she'd left. Fair assumption really, but inaccurate on this occasion. “No, the only destiny I had was with the lovely ladies in ER.”
A smile grows on her face as she nods. “So you took my advice then?”
“Sure did. Just got out this morning and needed to freshen up.”
She leans in and sifts through my bundle. Simple beige pants. Boring black t-shirt. Dull gray sweater. Hardly the stuff catwalks are made of.
“So you thought you'd buy a whole new outfit? Here's an idea: how about going home?”
“You know what, I didn't think of that,” I say sarcastically.
“So what then?”
“I've got somewhere I need to be, no time to get home and back. But, you know, I'm gl
ad I bumped into you.” I take her hand and lift it up, shaking my head at the faded series of numbers. “I guess I didn't make a good enough impression last night then?”
She laughs sweetly, although it seems a little put on. There's certainly something mysterious about her. As if she's got a barrier up or something. She's half playful, half cynical, although she clearly enjoys flirting. If she didn't, she'd tell me to fuck off and leave her alone. She seems like the type to tell it as it is.
“How do you know I didn't write the number down before I washed it?”
“And did you?”
“Maybe. I wasn't sure whether to label it as Duke or Mason.”
“Either works. We have the same number.”
“We? You sound like a schizophrenic.”
“Maybe I am. You just never know about people do you. There's Duke who enjoys getting beat up outside the Den. And there's Mason who enjoys buying clothing that makes him look about 80 years old.”
“Well I know which one I'd prefer to date,” she says, laughing. She leaves a short silence before continuing. “Mason, obviously. I've got my problems too. Grandaddy issues is one of them. Those geriatrics, they're soooo sexy.”
It's rare for a woman to make me laugh, but she does it right then and there. Unfortunately, we're cut short by the sound of a woman's voice, looming ever closer from across the room.
“Lily, is this a friend of yours?” she asks.
Lily turns to the woman. She's got an uptight look. Boring is the word I'd use. “Um, not really,” she says, glancing at me. “Just a customer.”
The woman turns to me, her nostrils twitching as they fill with the concoction of smells rising from my clothes. Clearly she runs the place. Maybe owns it too. Could be one of the names above the door. What were they again – Turner and Grace?
“I don't mean to be impolite sir,” she says, her eyes now dropping to my bloodied shirt, “but Lily here needs to get back to work. If you'll escort me to the checkout we'll get you sorted with those clothes.”
Ah, I see what's going on now. This isn't about Lily wasting time with a customer. It's about me. She thinks I'm a damn shoplifter or something, ready to dash out of the store with this bundle of crap under my arm. If that's what she thinks, I've got half a mind to live up to her expectations...
I laugh at the thought as she tries to usher me to the checkout. I must really look bad if that's what she's thinking.
“Come along sir, right this way.”
Before I'm dragged off I have just enough time to catch eyes with Lily again. Hers are smiling. It's obvious she's got the same thought in her head and is finding it all very entertaining.
“You'd better go Duke...she'll have security on you in a moment,” she whispers. “See that fat guy over there. His name's Duncan. You don't want to be sent back to hospital so soon do you?!”
I glance at Duncan, standing to the side in his security outfit. He's the size of a small hippo.
“Cheers for the heads up,” I whisper back. “I'll tell you how it all goes when you call me.” I wink and she smiles. It's all I need to know.
She'll call me. And if she doesn't...well, I know where she works now.