Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9)

by Patrick Logan

  “There was someone else here?”

  “Focus, Tobin!”

  The man’s tone was so sharp that Tobin’s eyes were immediately drawn front and center.

  “I warned you that your skull was thin… I did my best, managed to shave off a few millimeters of bone. But here’s the thing; your skull is really thin now, Tobin. I mean, really thin. I cannot stress enough how careful you have to be, especially in the next few months. All it will take is one hard knock and…” Dr. Cratom looked seriously concerned now, but this did nothing to dampen Tobin’s excitement. He was ecstatic about the results. And after the swelling went down, he suspected that it would only look better. “Well, just be careful. You need to stay lying down as much as possible for the next week or so. No jumping around, no running, none of that shit. The longer you stay immobile, the better. Do you understand?”

  Tobin nodded.

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  Dr. Cratom, still looking dour, produced two orange prescription bottles.

  “One to prevent infection, the other for pain and swelling.” Tobin took the bottles. “Not only should you lie down as much as possible, but you need to keep the incision clean. That means no sweat, no makeup, no perfume… nothing like that. Wash it every few hours with a clean, warm cloth. Clean, like straight out of the washer clean. If it starts to leak anything yellow or green, or start to smell, you need to go to the hospital right away. Now, I used two sets of sutures to close you up: the deeper ones, the ones you can’t see, are absorbable. You don’t need to worry about those. The others, the ones on the outside, need to be removed—you’re going to have to do this yourself. After about a week, use a pair of clean scissors to clip each one and gently pull them out. Be gentle, Tobin, you don’t want your new forehead to permanently look like a pincushion. Finally, the IV I have you hooked up to should keep you feeling good for the next few hours but after that wears off, you’re going to be very sore.”

  Tobin tried to frown, to furrow his brow, but it simply didn’t work. He couldn’t even squint.

  “I can’t—I can’t stay here?”

  Dr. Cratom shook his head.

  “No chance. You’ve been here for almost twenty-four hours already. You can’t stay any longer.”

  Twenty-four hours?

  Tobin reached below the sheet that covered his lower half, and searched his pockets.

  Dr. Cratom, knowing exactly what he was looking for, turned his hand over, revealing a familiar-looking device. Tobin knew, in an instant, that the video he had had of him and the doctor talking about his nose job had mysteriously vanished from his cell phone.

  Not that it mattered—he’d already gotten what he wanted, what he needed.

  “I’ll give you an hour or so to catch your bearings, but then you need to leave.”

  Tobin took his cell phone and nodded.

  “And Tobin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “After you leave here, I never want to see you again. Do you understand? I don’t care about the money you owe me—I don’t ever want to see you back here again.”

  Once more, Tobin’s head bobbed up and down. With that, Dr. Cratom started out of the room. He’d made it about halfway before returning and giving Tobin the mirror again.

  When he was alone, Tobin held it up to his face and tilted his head at every conceivable angle.

  Dr. Cratom might be a veterinarian, and an asshole, but he was also one hell of a surgeon.

  Jan Fucking Dewalter, you’re going to regret that email… you’re going to regret ever turning me down… because Lucas Lionell and his luscious followers are going to take over the fucking world.

  And then, for the first time in a long time, Tobin Tomlin laughed.

  Chapter 11

  Tobin borrowed a black sweatshirt he’d found lying in Dr. Cratom’s operating room. Slipping it on was easy now that his arm was back in place, which, while weak, was thankfully no longer painful. With the hood pulled down low over his forehead, the stitches were no longer visible. This time, when he took the bus, he felt no shame.

  Tobin just felt happy, for once.

  The bumps on his forehead were finally gone. Jan and all the other producers who had passed him by were about to get a shock.

  When they met the new Lucas Lionell, they would line up trying to hire him.

  The two 80mg Oxycodone tabs hit hard and most of the bus ride back to his apartment was a blur. He was just thankful that his roommate wasn’t home when he got there. Tobin had no idea how often Kenneth looked in the envelope under his bed, but the day would come, sooner or later, when he realized he’d been robbed.

  No, not robbed. I borrowed it—I just borrowed his cash… and goddamn, was it worth it.

  After helping himself to one of the most delicious glasses of cold water that had ever graced his lips, Tobin sat on the side of his bed. Eventually, his cheeks started to go numb from smiling, which reminded him that he had to do something.

  Licking his lips, Tobin slowly pulled himself to his feet and then slumped behind his computer. His limbs were leaden and airy at the same time, a contradiction that his mind was having a hard time reconciling.

  Dr. Cratom has some powerful shit.

  Muscle memory soon took over, and Tobin had no problem navigating to his Instagram account. His goal had been to further elevate his mood by reading more comments on his Hollow Shelter video but he never got that far.

  “I made another post? Really? What the—ohh.”

  The photo of him in front of the red Lambo jogged a memory.

  Tobin chuckled.

  “Soon, it will really be mine,” he slurred. “As soon as I win Savage Money.”

  Tobin’s hand dropped to the crotch of his jeans. As he started to rub himself through the thick fabric, he read the comments under his post.

  About halfway down, he stopped stroking himself and instead squeezed hard.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” he grumbled. “Not you again. What the fuck is your problem? Just leave me alone.”

  Anon42819 was back.

  This isn’t your car.

  The next comment was by one of his luscious followers.

  You’re just jealous.

  But Anon evidently wasn’t going to back down that easily. The asshole had gone to great lengths to piss Tobin off; he’d enlarged a portion of the Lambo’s windshield and posted it beneath the original image.

  Tobin’s heart sunk.

  A fucking rental? Seriously? A rental?

  Furious, he reported and deleted all of Anon’s comments. Then, for what felt like the thousandth time, he blocked the troll.

  Tobin didn’t stop there. He navigated to Anon’s page next. To his horror, he saw that the man was almost exclusively posting about him.

  The old adage of any press being good press might previously have been true, but someone throwing shade at him while he was trying to get his big break wasn’t going to cut it.

  Tobin let out a stream of nearly incomprehensible curses as he reported all of Anon’s posts as offensive. When he was done, he rolled his chair back and threw up his hands.

  “Let’s see you troll me now, asshole! Let’s see—”

  A knock on his bedroom door startled Tobin so badly that he nearly fell to the floor.

  It’s him… it’s Anon, he’s come for me…

  His eyes went so wide that something in his forehead stretched unnaturally. Tobin cried out, which inspired another knock.

  The Oxy was clearly wearing off.

  “I need rent monies,” Kenneth Leung demanded from the other side of the door. “I need rent monies today.”

  I can’t fucking deal with this shit. Not now, Ken. Not fucking now.

  “Yeah, yeah, soon. Just leave me alone.”

  “Tobin, I need rent monies today. I no kidding this time.”

  “Just… fucking… leave me alone!”

  A wave of nausea so strong that it brought Tobin to his knees came out of nowhere. He barely manag
ed to grab the sides of a plastic waste bin before caustic bile filled his mouth.

  The liquid rolled over his tongue and trickled down his lips like magma out of a long-dormant volcano.

  “Tobin, the monies. I need the rent monies. You very late this time.”

  Tobin started to tell his roommate off, but another violent spasm deep in the pit of his stomach usurped his insult.

  “Today. I need monies, today.”

  Tobin’s only response was more thin vomit.

  And then everything went dark.

  Chapter 12

  Tobin had no idea where he was.

  He also had no idea when it was and had only a faint idea of who he was.

  The only thing that Tobin knew with great clarity was that there was an intense buzzing inside his skull as if a whole hive of hornets had taken up residence between his ears.

  When he finally gathered the courage to open his eyes, real panic started to set in.

  He couldn’t open his eyes; the lids felt dipped in cement and refused to budge.

  “Help,” he groaned. “Please heeeelp.”

  Tobin’s vocal cords were taught and dry.

  As panic transitioned to sheer terror, he sat bolt upright, only to slip off his bed and land painfully on his knees. By some miracle, his flailing hands knocked his computer chair out of the way just before his face smashed into it.

  Tobin had to physically lift his upper eyelids with the first two fingers of both hands to see. But the second he did, and light spilled in, he cried out and pulled his hands away from his face.

  Moaning, he fell back into a seated position and waited for the pain to pass. After a while, it subsided, but the damn buzzing inside his head remained.

  Did Dr. Cratom fuck up? Did he—

  Tobin’s stomach flopped and he reached blindly for the garbage. It was still slick with last night’s vomit, but he didn’t care.

  His entire body heaved, but this only served to generate about an ounce of slime, which he promptly spat. It struck something with a resounding thunk.

  The violent, visceral act made his face swell even more until his head felt as if it were as large as a hot air balloon.

  Tobin collapsed to the floor, his arms still desperately clutching the garbage pail.

  ***

  The buzzing never left, but the blanket of unconsciousness had at least dampened the sound.

  Tobin moaned and licked his lips. There was a foul taste in his mouth reminiscent of decaying meat.

  He was, however, now able to open his eyes. Sure, his lids still felt heavy, and he could only spread them a few millimeters, but this was enough to let some light in.

  I’m in my room… I’m on the floor…

  These normal thoughts were like revelations to Tobin. And the buzzing? He quickly located that sound, as well: it was coming from his cell phone. The device was pressed up against the side of his keyboard and every time it rang, it caused the individual keys to rattle.

  Tobin reached for his phone, but his depth perception was off, and he ended up knocking over the bucket of vomit instead. The sight of the yellow/green sludge that sluiced onto the carpet made him gag.

  If he had had anything left in his stomach, and if his diaphragm wasn’t aching from previous assaults, Tobin had no doubt that he would have puked again.

  A heavy knock at his bedroom door almost sent him reeling again.

  “Tobin,” Kenneth barked in his thick accent, “Tobin, there’s someone at the door for you.”

  Someone at the door for me?

  For some reason, this simple statement confused Tobin.

  Yeah, there’s someone at the door… it’s you… you’re knocking on my door.

  “Tobin, open the door.”

  But Tobin didn’t open the door—he didn’t even know if he was physically capable of doing much more than standing.

  “Tobin, you need to pay me rent—yesterday I come and you no answer.”

  Yesterday?

  “I’m—I’m sick,” he croaked.

  Either Kenneth didn’t hear or understand, or he simply didn’t care.

  “Open, Tobin—someone at door for you.”

  Fuck, leave me alone. Just leave me alone.

  But Kenneth was persistent. He pounded on the door again and then tried the knob. Tobin couldn’t remember locking it, but he must have… and he was grateful.

  The last thing he wanted was his roommate to freak out at the sight of him and call the cops.

  “I’m sick,” Tobin repeated, doing his best to enunciate this time.

  “Someone at the door,” Kenneth replied, but this time it sounded as if the man was retreating.

  Tobin took a deep breath. For a moment, everything seemed to stop, even the buzzing in his head… or his phone, or wherever it was really coming from.

  When it returned a few seconds later—low and slow at first, less grating, less irritating, but persistent—Tobin knew that it was here to stay. Sighing, he grabbed the two pill containers that Dr. Cratom had given him post-surgery.

  Without even bothering to look at the labels; he popped both tops and then tossed several pills into his mouth. The first swallow successfully sent three pills on their way to his stomach, but he nearly gagged trying to get the rest of them down. His throat was so raw and sore from vomiting, that the small tabs felt like mangoes being squeezed through a straw.

  After several more agonizing attempts, Tobin managed to swallow the rest of the drugs.

  It took what little energy he had left to crawl back onto his bed and pass out.

  The last thing he saw before darkness took over was Jan Dewalter’s face staring down at him.

  The woman was nodding.

  Smiling.

  Accepting.

  Chapter 13

  The next few days were a complete and utter blur. Constantly grasping at the evasive tendrils of consciousness, Tobin Tomlin only left his room to use the bathroom.

  He didn’t shower, didn’t shave, and couldn’t remember eating.

  After a week, when he was finally able to fully open his eyes without assistance, Tobin decided it was time to emerge from his Hollow Shelter.

  The pills—the antibiotics and the painkillers—were gone, which concerned him, given that Dr. Cratom had told him that they should last a month or maybe even more.

  But they had worked: his face didn’t feel as puffy and although he had deliberately avoided looking at anything even remotely reflective, Tobin felt that the surgical incision was healing well.

  And this realization brought a smile to his face.

  After all, this surgery—frontal eminence reduction, as Dr. Cratom had referred to it—was more important than his nose job, lower lip filling, or even the eye lift he’d gotten when he was much younger.

  Because the damn bumps on his forehead were the most noticeable thing on his face. It wasn’t his strong jaw, flawless skin, or dark eyes that people saw first; it was his fucking blunt horns.

  But that was before. Now, if this worked…

  Tobin was giddy with excitement when he finally built up the courage to look at Dr. Cratom’s handiwork. But first, he made sure that Kenneth wasn’t sucking back noodles in his bathrobe, wandering around their small apartment.

  Tobin still hadn’t paid his rent—he couldn’t have, he had no money—and by now, there was a high probability that Kenneth had discovered his missing cash.

  An investment, Tobin reminded himself. Ken just invested and I’ll pay him back as soon as I get the Savage Money gig.

  He sucked in a deep breath and opened his bedroom door all the way.

  If Dr. Cratom did good work, that is.

  After confirming that his roommate was either holed away in his room or not home, Tobin stepped into the hall with the intention of hurrying to the bathroom.

  He made it three steps before slipping and falling on his ass.

  Tobin cried out and his heart skipped a beat when he thought his forehead was going to c
ollide with the opposite wall. Somehow, in an act of sheer desperation, he managed to twist on the way down and his right elbow and hip took the brunt of the impact.

  “Fucking hell.”

  There were white envelopes strewn all around him. Confused, he snatched up the closest one and brought it to his face.

  Tobin’s name was scrawled in black ink across the front.

  What the hell is this?

  The envelope wasn’t sealed, and he quickly pulled out a typed letter.

  Tobin Tomlin, you have not paid rent in three months. You cannot stay here. You have one week to leave, or I get you evicted.

  It was signed: Kenneth Leung.

  Frowning now, Tobin grabbed a second envelope. The letter inside was dated a few days prior to the first, but other than that it was identical.

  Who the fuck do you think you are?

  Tobin scooped up all six envelopes and then tossed them into the garbage bin that was simmering with week-old puke.

  I won’t let a fucking prick like you bring me down, Ken, Tobin thought as he, more carefully this time, walked into the bathroom. And you know that loan you gave me? Yeah, well, there won’t be any bonus in it for you. No interest paid. And when I’m all over every fucking newspaper in this city—shit, this country, and you try to tell your friends you used to know me, that you lived with me? I’m going to fucking deny all of that shit. You’ll see.

  Tobin placed both hands on the side of the sink and stared into the basin.

  You’re going to regret the day that you fucked with Lucas Lionell.

  And with that, Tobin finally raised his head and for the first time in more than a week, stared into his own eyes.

  Chapter 14

  Tobin Tomlin was shocked.

  Before seeing his reflection, he’d considered every possible outcome from the absolute worst to perfection.

  Reality, as it often did, fell somewhere in the middle.

  The area surrounding his upper eyelids was tinged either a faded purple or blue.

  And that’s why I couldn’t open my eyes… damn eyelids were all full of blood.