Restraint is Useless Here

The siren’s wails crescendoed as the ambulance closed in on him. Fitting, given the steadily intensifying throbs screaming throughout Jack’s body. He couldn’t quite localize the point of origin—he consisted entirely of pain.

Was it even a mercy that the singer called an ambulance for him?

He had no girlfriend anymore.
No powder.
And as he lay on his back in a dirty alley, no fucking dignity.

He coughed and sputtered as he turned his head to the side. His gut churned at the movement. Blood mixed with mucous in a steady stream down his throat didn’t allow for effective breathing as he lay supine. His nasal airways were useless. The guitarist had obliterated the cartilage, possibly the bone. At the very least, only one fracture. At most, he’d need the full-blown Michael Jackson treatment.

He’d vomit soon, that much was inevitable. Blood was a natural emetic.

In vain, he willed his body to stop trembling. Using his foot, he urged his body to the side in just enough time to spew blood, the clots sticky and staining the asphalt. The constant flow of tears—thanks to his broken nose—blurred his vision, but he was shocked at the amount of red. His heart threatened to crack through his rib cage from dehydration and adrenaline and the paradox of being high, yet still craving more.

Fuck. His stash. It was drenched, but it was contraband.

The simple act of sliding his hand into his pocket was the most grueling thing he’d ever done—bones creaking and grinding and pulling with the effort. Nobody realizes how many tiny muscles and bones it takes to move an inch until your entire upper body is broken. A part of him withered to even consider tossing it.

The siren droned a final warning, probably within a quarter mile now. He had to ditch it.

This would not feel good.

Gathering up every ounce of strength he had left, he launched the baggie as deep into the alley as he could, right before his vision exploded with white, brutal shock waves echoing through the right side of his chest. He slowly brought his legs up in the fetal position and choked back a sob.

He watched the puddle of blood slowly expand outward, connecting and consuming the scattered rusty specks on the ground, until the flicker of blue lights reflected off the crimson surface.

________
Jack awoke to a rather irritating fanfare.

A very round, very hairy man whistled a lively tune as he clicked and scrolled through the recovery room’s computer. Not a normal whistle, though. One of those airy, toothy whistles. Like he’d never bothered to learn the proper way.

Click.
Sssst-sst-sssssst.
Click.
Click click.
Sssst-ssssst-st-st-ssst.

Despite the buzz of whatever painkiller coursed through his system, this grated Jack’s nerves. He opened his mouth in attempt to protest, but groaned at the stiffness in his neck and upper body. His eyes fell to a sling, securing his right arm against his chest at a 90 degree angle.

The man spun in his stool to face him and his fuzzy eyebrows jumped two inches up his forehead. “Well, hello there, son! I’m Dr. Richards, with ortho. Nice little fracture you had there, so I got that clavicle all set for ya—just some pins and screws. How’s your pain?”

Jack grimaced at his cheeriness. It hurt. Both the grimace and the cheer.

Without waiting for a reply, the man rolled his chair forward to press the red button on his bed rail, calling for more morphine.

Dr. Richards stood and leaned forward to peel back the surgical dressing, his pendulous belly strained against his scrub bottoms and rested on Jack’s arm. The downward draft from his nostrils was hot and moist. How the hell was this walking heart attack an orthopedic surgeon? How did he function?

Disgusting.

“Site looks good. Should heal up pretty well. But whoever did this did a number on you, Mr. Marino,” he said, resting a plump hand with five sausage fingers on Jack’s good shoulder. “In addition, your facial imaging was concerning for a severely deviated septum and a periorbital fracture, though that’s not really my bag of tricks. Probably need a dentist for that fractured tooth, too—don’t know if the nerve’s involved.

“We can control your pain and swelling, but you’ll still need that nose straightened as soon as possible to try and save that handsome mug of yours. Do you have an otolaryngologist for us to consult?”

“No,” Jack replied, which sounded more like dnoh. He basically had two tampons shoved up his nostrils. He was a disgrace. “My parents are surgeons in Seattle. My mother, Emilia Marino, is a nationally renowned plastic surgeon. I need her overseeing my case and to select the ENT.”

“Oh?” Dr. Cholesterol raised a thick brow, studying Jack over the rim of his glasses. “Is she affiliated with this hospital?”

“Regardless of affiliation, she’ll oversee my case. I’ll need air transfer arranged if your hospital isn’t willing to accommodate.” He was every bit of the patient he hated to deal with. He didn’t care. “Cost isn’t an issue.”

“Alrighty, then.” The fat man drew out the L-sound as he said this. A sheen of moisture glistened along his thinning hairline. Patient satisfaction scores went a long way in hospital reimbursement, Jack knew.

Dr. Richards’ eyes darted to the door, his too-jolly smile returning. “Ah, Katie. Good, good. Please help Mr. Marino here get a bit more comfortable.” To Jack, he clarified, “Katie Blakely is one of our third-year medical students. She’ll be in and out with you today.”

The pretty, petite blonde breezed into the room, looking more sorority sister than doctor. Her glossed lips pursed into a grin as she scanned a small vial, then his hospital bracelet. He knew she probably smelled like vanilla, but the packing in his nose deprived him of this.

Of course they’d brought him to the same hospital where he practiced, beat up and broken like a schoolyard bully got the best of him. Literally insult to fucking injury.

“Sure thing, Dr. R,” Katie said, meeting Jack’s eyes with a smile. “I know Mr. Marino quite well.”

“Ah, good, good. Erm, Mr. Marino, one more thing,” the doctor said, halfway out the door. “Got an officer in the lobby waiting to speak with you about the assault. You’re absolutely certain you couldn’t identify the suspects?”

Yeah, the lead guitarist for Avenged Sevenfold. Turn on TRL and I’ll point him out to you. “I’m certain.”

The man waved as if to say I’ll leave you alone. He’d have been better suited for a job in pediatrics. “Send in the officer when you’re finished, Katie.”

“Couldn’t get a nurse to do your dirty work, K?” Jack tried to make his voice light.

As she twisted the syringe onto his IV port, Katie turned to be sure Dr. Richards was gone. A pale line around her left ring finger caught his eye, a noticeable contrast to the rest of her tanned skin. Concern darkened her features. “What the hell happened to you, Jack?”

“Sky diving gone wrong?” Shit, it hurt to talk.

She leveled him with a glare. “Don’t mess with me. Was it a deal gone bad? I told you not to go through anyone but my brother! It’s bad out here.”

That seemed more plausible than what’d actually happened. And less incriminating. “Yeah. Yeah, it was a deal gone bad. I fucked up.”

Her face softened as she curled her fingers around his wrist, her thumb caressing his pulse point. She always found ways to touch him. In class. During rounds. At 6am, before clinical, when they snorted lines in the backseat of her Range Rover.

He’d normally never had entertained the idea of betraying Anna, but he needed it for the focus. Even the basic shit Katie’s brother sold. And Katie... Katie did whatever Jack asked. She had easy access to coke. Not to mention easy to look at and easy to fuck when his blood was pumping and his dick was hard. Jack suspected this may have triggered the absence of her wedding ring.

But to him, she was only a means to an end.

She did have pretty blue eyes. Not as blue as Anna’s, though. Katie’s lacked the depth, the facets. He lost himself so easily in those fathomless eyes, over and over. How they shined when she teased him for his ferocity. She often joked that he was a shark, said the only way he knew was forward. They weren’t so unalike. She was his twin flame—he just needed to temper her fire a bit.

The thought of her, the thought of never looking into those eyes again was blistering.

The beeping of the heart monitor quickened and Katie’s fingers slipped between his, mistaking his rage for pain. She whispered, “Just give it a few minutes to kick in. I drew up some extra.”

Oh, there was pain, but not the sort morphine could stifle.

He had been so fucking close. Next year, he’d graduate. He’d propose. And they’d marry. She’d want for nothing. Ever. He’d have given her the perfect life. She’d give him the perfect family—babies with strawberry curls.

All she had to do was stay and do what he asked, but she refused. No, she had her own dreams and ideas. They didn’t depend on Jack. He bristled at the thought. He wanted her to need him and he tried to make her realize how much she did. She’d almost come to her senses last night, he thought, right before Gates decided to play avenging angel.

Jack gently blew out his cheeks as his fingers trembled within Katie’s. “What I wouldn’t give for a few lines right now. But, all this...” He withdrew his good hand and gestured to his face. “Not conducive to the usual mechanism.”

“There are other ways, you know. I can help.” Katie smiled conspiratorially. As she leaned in close, he could see a pinkish tint to the white of her eyes. Her fingers trailed up his inner arm, palpating the spongy vein of his elbow ditch. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered, “And don’t worry. I cancelled the order for a drug test before it could process. You’re still clean.”

A tingle slid up his spine at the possibility of getting high again. It was true—he did get whatever he wanted.

He was a shark. Always in forward motion.

And he’d spilled her blood last night. Wherever she went, whatever she did, he had her scent.

Notes