Rough [02] - Roughhousing (14 page)

Sheila was still sobbing on the floor by his feet. James leaned down and touched her shoulder. “Go call the police.” She shook her head no and crawled away from him, a fresh round of tears breaking out.

Regaining his breath, Nick climbed to his knees. He suddenly sprung to his feet charging full tilt at James. He knocked James into the wall and landed two good punches to James’ face. One clipped his mouth and jaw, but the second punch was a direct hit, smashing into his left temple, splitting skin and sending shooting pains through James’ head and down his neck.

Reactions slowed by alcohol, Nick gave James time to regroup and retaliate. Lashing out with all the strength he could muster, James delivered an upper cut to the drunken man's chin and fiercely shoved Nick away.

Nick stumbled and tripped, hitting the edge of the open doorjamb with his left shoulder. A gristly crunch made James flinch and Nick screamed as he went down, crumpled and wedged between wall and floor at an odd angle. The man's left shoulder twisted unnaturally. Every attempt to get up only resulted in a bellow of pain and frustration from him. Slurred curses were mixed with demands for assistance that went ignored from a silent and glassy-eyed Sheila.

Back to the wall, James debated trying to make it to his apartment versus calling for help when Macy's door popped open and she fluttered out still in heels and a slightly longer, powder blue kimono.

James slowly eased down the wall to sit in a sprawled heap, head pounding and the walls spinning around him. Nausea flared, but he managed to pant through it until it subsided. The sudden sound of sirens registered on James just as Macy knelt down at his side.

She pressed a cool hand to his sweaty forehead. “I called the police and an ambulance. Someone always needs an ambulance."

He raised his gaze to meet Macy's wide-eyed stare, trying to blink away the triple images of the dancer that shimmied before him. Macy made a tsk-tsking sound and gave him an exasperated smile. “Couldn't stay away, huh?"

"Guess not.” James grunted and clutched his side, a low groan escaping as he leaned forward to try and lessen the pain.

Macy sighed and held onto his arm, helping to keep him upright. “It's okay. I didn't think you would. The nice ones can't."

A bone chilling baby's wail came from the open apartment door a few feet away.

"Christ, we forgot about the baby.” James struggled to stand, but the room dipped and the floor under his feet dissolved. His ass hit the carpet hard and he gasped as the jarring impact rippled through his bruised body and head.

"It's okay. Kitty's fine. Aren't you, baby girl?” Macy smiled and snapped her fingers low to the floor. A tiny, tan and gray-tipped streak rocketed out of the apartment. It raced across James’ lap to jump into Macy's waiting arms.

The small Siamese kitten gave James a baleful, blue-eyed stare and let out a thunderous, spine-tingling wail, the same cry that haunted his earlier dreams.

"Macy,” James ground his teeth against the increasingly sharp pain in his flank, “is that ‘Kitty'? The same Kitty you baby-sit?"

"Uh-huh. Isn't she just gorgeous?” Macy cooed and petted the sleek little animal until its contented purr filled the sudden silence. Kitty wailed again, the cry still mournful and disturbing to James, sounding just like a baby's wail.

Crumpled and pale against the wall, Nick stirred long enough to spit in their direction and shout, “God damn rodent. Shut up!"

"You leave her alone, Nick.” Showing the first signs of intelligent life since she hit the floor, Sheila crawled on her hands and knees to sit beside Macy. The two women shielded the kitten from Nick's murderous glare with their bodies, both wearing stern, protective frowns.

James thought how much that look reminded him of his own mother after one of his parents’ arguments. Both Sheila and his mother would take abuse aimed at them without comment, but even suggest harming someone else under their protective arm and they were all fire and brimstone. He didn't think he would ever understand women.

Sheila's eyes brimmed with tears again, but she managed to look Nick in the eye. “You can't stand me loving something that loves me back, can you?"

"Bitch, no one could love you.” Nick's words were slurred and tired. Even the venom in them held no real conviction that James could hear. He decided these two were so used to fighting they couldn't even find new insults to hurl at each other.

The elevator pinged and the stairwell door burst open at the same time. Heavy footsteps jogged up to them and James tilted his head around far enough to see four policemen and two ambulance medics coming toward them.

"Everybody stay where you are!"

The cop's command echoed down the silent hallway.

Suppressing a groan, James licked away a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and whispered, “Like I could actually move anyway.” He rested his head on the wall. His vision blurred, the edges ringed in a fuzzy black. Then the darkness leeched toward the center of his sight.

Someone knelt down beside him and jarred his shoulder. The sharp pain that had been dancing behind his eyes unexpectedly lanced through his head and James slipped into the comforting shadows of oblivion.

Chapter Eleven

James’ return to consciousness was neither pleasant nor voluntary. An insistent voice nudged at the edge of his consciousness, coaxing and cajoling him, calling out his name again and again. It was irritating. The voice wasn't unpleasant, just unrelenting. A woman's voice, firm and commanding, but with a kind undertone that made James think she wouldn't really mind if he ignored her for a little while longer. A sudden, brisk, painful knuckle-rub over his sternum chased away that little fairy tale.

"James? Jim?” The insistent voice was joined by the irritating rub.

James heard himself groan. The rubbing stopped, but the voice continued to nag at him. “All right! Signs of life.” He could actually hear the sense of accomplishment in the voice. “Can you open your eyes for me, Jim?"

His lips felt tight, immovable, while each eyelash had turned into a heavy weight holding his eyes shut. Bright lights danced across his vision. He raised a hand and it flopped down over his eyes to block out the spotlight, but harsh pinpoints of glaring light remained. He rubbed the back of his hand over his face and realized his eyelids weren't even open. Great. No relief in sight. The fireworks display was inside his head.

"Jim? Answer me."

He groaned again and found the strength to correct her. “'ames."

'Jim’ was his father and he would never be that man. He ran his dry tongue over even drier lips and tried again. “Not Jim. James."

"Okay. James it is. Can you open your eyes for me, James? I want to get a look at your eyes. Need to check your pupils.” The voice was close by.

James felt the warmth of a body standing at his shoulder. A cool hand touched his cheek before it moved up to pry open an eyelid. A laser beam of pain flashed across his eye once then again at the other. He flinched and jerked, but stopped when the top of his head threatened to explode. He moaned and swore softly, frozen in place by a burst of pain and nausea. The hand held him in place and the beam of light obediently followed his movements.

"Okay. Sluggish, but they're equal and reactive. That's good.” The hand released him and the sharp light disappeared. “You're lucky. The CAT scan of your head was negative. Looks like you'll be all right in a couple of days."

"Wha'?” The sudden hum of an electric motor buzzed beside his head and something squeezed his arm until it pinched, beeped, and then released him. Nothing made any sense.

Despite the rising nausea, James needed to see where he was and who was talking to him. He raised his head up and looked around the semi-darkened room to find himself in a totally new and strange environment.

It took a few moments for it to register that he was in a hospital emergency room lying on a hard, uncomfortable stretcher. A lumpy pillow cushioned his aching head and a thin, coarse blanket covered him from toes to mid-chest. His shoes were missing.

He pushed to prop himself up on his elbows, breathing through the round of nausea that hit him. Tape pulled at the tubing attached to the crook of one arm and a dull ache deep in his flesh told him an IV catheter was in place under the dressing.

The small movement was too much for him. James couldn't stop the unexpected surge of stomach contents that spilled out his mouth. Strong hands pushed and pulled at him until he was on his side and a large basin was shoved under his chin.

The room swirled and dipped, even with his eyes closed. It took a good five minutes before he realized people were again talking to him. Instead of sitting up again, he stayed on his side and focused on the face nearest him.

The woman was middle-aged, medium height, and dressed in a horrible, geometric-patterned, black and white scrub outfit. If he wasn't already dizzy and nauseated, her outfit would have made him that way. She was blond, twenty pounds overweight, and the hand that gripped the steel side rail in front of his face was bent and twisted with arthritis. Her face was free of make-up, and her skin slightly ruddy, but her eyes were kind and her voice was soft and coaxing.

"Lie back and take some deep breaths, James. It'll pass if you lay still. My name's Wanda. You're going to be all right. Shh. Just relax and breathe."

James listened to her calm voice, relaxing his shoulders and taking deep breaths through his nose. Slowly the nausea subsided and the room only twirled a bit.

The rustle of fabric and the distinctive squeak of leather on leather forced James to tilt his head to locate the source of the restless noise. Near his feet a uniformed police officer paced back and forth. His hands rested on his gun belt, one palm absently rubbing over the grip of his stun gun. When he realized James was staring at him, he stopped pacing and stepped closer, gaze never leaving James’ face. The steady stare seemed to take in every centimeter of James, examining and assessing him both inside and out.

"Awake, huh? Good. James, is it?” The officer looked to the nurse for reassurance he had gotten it right, then turned back to James. “Can you remember what happened?"

"Tried to help a lady up off the floor and got the crap beat out of me for it.” James looked at Wanda and asked, “Is she okay? Sheila, I mean. The lady in the hall. The one he hit."

Wanda gave him a sad half-smile and nodded. “She always is. So far.” At his confused expression she added, “We see those two a lot here."

The officer cleared his throat and pulled out his notebook, obviously trying to change the subject. “Yeah, well, even with that being the case, I'll need a statement from you sometime soon, especially if you plan on pressing charges."

James rolled to get into a more comfortable position and a sharp pain stabbed through his right flank. He jerked and grimaced, a tight hiss of agony leaking out between his clenched teeth. “Holy shit!"

He grabbed at his side and the room swirled and shimmied again. Without any warning he vomited, suddenly finding a basin clamped tight to his jaw and a gnarled hand holding his forehead.

"Later, Mark, okay?” Wanda's firm tone penetrated the haze blanketing James’ mind. He missed what response the officer gave, but he heard the slap of footsteps as the man moved away, but not out of the room. He could still hear the creak and bend of leather.

A cool cloth wiped over his lips and his shoulder was pushed back so he was lying on his side again, head now supported with two lumpy pillows. Wanda pulled the blanket up to his chin and smoothed his hair off his damp forehead. James just sighed and tried to stop the entire world from trying to throw him off.

Wanda patted his head and bent down close to his ear. “You'll be allowed to go home in a couple of hours, James. You can't drive or be alone. Is there someone I can call to come and be with you?"

No matter how much he hated doing it, there was only one person he wanted right now. One person who could make him feel better even when he was falling apart. One person who might not even agree to come, but he'd never know unless he tried.

James started to nod, then stopped when the first jarring movement made the nausea lurking in the pit of his stomach swell. He settled back, closed his eyes tightly, and licked his lips before croaking out an exhausted, “Yeah. Yeah, there is. 555-4554. Ask him to come get me."

"Okay.” He heard the scratch of pen on paper. “Who do I ask for?"

"Bram.” He almost choked on the word. A wave of longing and misery washed over him.

"Bram. Got it. Is he your brother? Cousin? Friend?"

Keeping his eyes closed, James took a deep calming breath and clearly stated, “Boyfriend.” The creak of leather stilled and the room got very quiet for several heartbeats. “He's my boyfriend."

"Gay?” The officer sounded like he was talking to himself. Wanda seemed to ignore him well enough. “He dislocated Ellwood's shoulder, broke his arm and his nose, and he's gay. Shit! Who'da guessed?"

The cool cloth swiped over James’ forehead again and Wanda patted his shoulder. “You got it, slugger. I'll call for your ride."

* * * *

Bram barreled through the double automatic doors into Emergency, coat tails flying. The expression on his face and his towering bulk kept most people from getting in his way.

He was too familiar with the hospital and all of its closed doors and stammering clerks and security personnel that guarded its facade of legal confidentiality and flimsy patient rights.

He'd spent months here in this exact same hospital and emergency department where his sister had been brought at the time of her traumatic car accident. The bland, pale blue walls and cold, hard floors held only sad memories and bad news. He couldn't believe he was back in here again, looking for someone he loved who had been hurt by another. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he'd failed again.

Ignoring the older security guard's commands to stop, Bram firmly shouldered the man aside. The man, wisely, didn't follow. He barely slowed down at the nurses’ desk long enough to demand, “James Justin. What room?"