Vice (Tortured Heroes Book 1)

by Jayne Blue

I took a step toward him. He widened his stance. I couldn’t help but smirk. If I wanted to go at him, he’d already be down on the ground. “What the fuck do you want, Jase? You wanna keep going? Try to get in another sucker punch? We’re not kids anymore. It’s getting old. I’m tired of it. You wanna lecture me? I’m tired of that too. Believe whatever you want, but as much as I kinda wanna keep bashing your face in, I’m also pretty glad to see you. It’s been too long. I’m tired and not nearly drunk enough for this. I just wanna find a place to crash. You gonna make that a problem for me?”

  Jase shook his head. “Do whatever you want, Colt. Just like you always have.”

  I put a hand to my temple. My fingers came away sticky with fresh blood. My head started to pound. I wiped the blood on my jeans. Shit. I walked to the window on the side of the bar. The reflection was blurry but even so, I could see one ugly fucking gash running right across my right eyebrow. I could barely see from the blood running down.

  Jase leaned back against the brick wall and shook his head. He rested his hand on the handle of his holstered service weapon. “You need stitches, dipshit.”

  I took a chance. Jase’s temper seemed to have quieted. I stepped forward and put an arm around him, pulling him to my side. “I’m sorry,” I said, slapping him on the back. “I’ll just head on over to the E.R. and get fixed up.”

  “I’m not letting you drive, dickhead.”

  I laughed. “You gonna give me a ride in your fancy patrol car?”

  “Just, come on.”

  Jase muttered a few other things as we walked through the alley and down the street where he’d parked. His patrol car was fancy. At least for the Lincolnshire P.D. He hit the door lock and motioned to the passenger side. I thought about cracking a joke about how I usually rode in the back, but things were a little easier between us and I didn’t want to risk pissing on it.

  Jase slid into the driver’s side as I slid into the passenger seat. He let out a sigh as he gripped the wheel just before he turned the engine. He looked at me. “Son of a bitch, Colt.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shove. “It’s good to see you, man.”

  Jase closed his eyes and exhaled. “Yeah. You too.”

  Amy

  I knew fifth-grader Trevor Meaney was about to go thermonuclear the minute he pulled the pencil package out of his backpack just after the eight o’clock bell. His mother must have packed the wrong kind by mistake: he liked mechanicals. When I remembered this later, I’d always blame number-2 pencils for starting the chain reaction that would upend my entire life.

  Trevor dropped the pack of pencils to the ground as if they were on fire. I had a choice to make in a split second. I hesitated too long, and it was as if I’d cut the proverbial red wire. Tick. Tick. Boom! Trevor Meaney bolted from his desk, crashed out into the hall, and flung himself against a row of metal lockers. They were the double-decker kind with a door for coats on the bottom and a square shelf on top for books. He hit one so hard one of the top doors popped open, grazing his head. Trevor slid to the ground hugging his knees in front of him and started to rock.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I ran out after him, leaving the rest of my class staring after me with gaping mouths.

  “Trevor,” I said in as even a tone as I could muster. “Honey. It’s okay. I have some mechanical pencils in my desk. You just need to give me a minute to find them. Can we count to ten?”

  Trevor was beyond the ten count. He stared red menace at me and opened his jaw so wide I wondered if he’d actually unhinged it. I got my hands up over my ears just in time to muffle the worst of the shriek that came out of young Trevor’s mouth. He rose up to his feet, his fists balled at his side, and flung himself backward against the lockers. The top door swung out and back again, threatening to smack him.

  Double shit, I thought. I knew what was coming next. His body went rigid, then he flung himself backward again letting his head carve a dent in the army-green locker door behind him. If I didn’t get a hold of him, Trevor was liable to give himself a concussion.

  But I was ready. Before Trevor could rear backward again, I grabbed him in a bear hug, pressing his arms to his side. I dropped to the floor, thankful that I still outweighed his seventy-pound frame by a good thirty pounds though I was only an inch or two taller. I’d need every ounce to press home my advantage. I splayed my feet out in front of me bringing Trevor between them. With my arms wrapped around him, I made myself into a sort of human cage as he tried to batter himself against me. I held him close enough that he couldn’t get the leverage. I just hunkered down and held on. I knew Trevor’s tantrums were fast and furious, and I was betting on fast this morning.

  I pressed my forehead against Trevor’s neck and held on for dear life. “Shh,” I whispered, praying I could hold out longer than Trevor. “It’s cool, Buddy. We’ll work it out.” Trevor was hissing through gritted teeth, and his body was still rigid. I felt him tense at his core as he tried to rear back again. I’d locked my forearms in front of me, and although the back of his head made contact with my shoulder, he couldn’t do much damage as long as I was able to hold on.

  By this time, half of my fourth-hour resource room class had ventured into the hallway to stare. “Hey, guys,” I called out, trying to make my voice as bright as possible. “Can I get maybe one of you to run down and get Principal Palmer or the school nurse for me?”

  Three of Trevor’s classmates ran off down the hall. I hoped like hell I could get Trevor to calm down before Palmer made it. I needed the backup but didn’t want to turn this into a bigger deal than it needed to be. The last five minutes notwithstanding, eight weeks into the school year, Trevor Meaney was starting to come out of his shell.

  “Miss Wyler!” Larry Barth, the gym teacher, called out. He ran down the hallway in my direction with his keys and pot belly jangling and his sneakers squeaking against the floor. It was an unfortunate name to have in an elementary school as most of the student body and half the faculty called him Mr. Barf behind his back.

  “Whoa there,” Larry Barf-Barth called out. He dropped down to a squat right in front of poor Trevor but had the good sense not to touch him. Trevor’s end of the spectrum made him prone to serious issues with sensory overload and the fact he was more or less tolerating me was nothing short of a miracle.

  But Larry Barth’s voice had just the right tone. If he had yelled or been stern, it might have wound Trevor up again. Instead, Larry flashed a dazzling smile and got on Trevor’s level. “Hey, champ, let’s take it down a notch. You’re about to break Miss Wyler’s arms. She’s apparently stronger than she looks but another minute of this and we’re gonna lose her.”

  I let my arms go slack. When Trevor didn’t move from his crouch on the floor, I slowly started to bring myself up to a standing position. The plan was to step carefully around Trevor and take myself to a safe distance outside of his personal space. It was a good plan and might have worked. But just before I got fully to my feet, Larry Barth reached out and tried to put a comforting arm around Trevor. My eyes widened and I started to whisper, “Don’t.”

  Too late. Trevor went rigid again and launched himself to his feet knocking me backward. Unfortunately, I’d already half turned sideways to step around him. Trevor inadvertently knocked me into the open top locker door. I lost my balance and slashed my forehead open on the metal edge. I felt the spread of warmth then stabbing pain.

  The sight of blood had a subduing effect on Trevor Meaney, as it turned out. In the back of my mind, I thought I should remember that in case I ever needed it later. He froze, and fat tears rolled down his pimpled cheeks. Despite all of his challenges, Trevor Meaney had a big heart. When I put my arms out again, Trevor let me wrap him in a hug.

  Larry peered down into my face. I saw his look of concern through a sea of red as the blood poured from my forehead.

  “Come on,” Larry said. “You’re gonna need a stitch or two.”

  Twenty minutes after
we got Trevor Meaney under control, I held a bloodied paper towel against my forehead while riding in the cab of Larry Barth’s pick-up truck on the way to Lincolnshire Hospital. I tried to tough it out but Larry warned me I’d end up with a face like Terry Sawchuk’s if I didn’t see a plastic surgeon. I had no idea who that was but gave in immediately after I googled him on my phone.

  “So how much trouble you figure the poor kid’s in after this one?” Larry asked.

  I shook my head. “None if I have anything to say about it. Trevor’s a great kid. He just has a trigger where pencils are concerned. The wood at the tip of number 2s drives him nuts when he touches it. His mom’s really good about not packing them but she has four other kids to send out the door and no help at home. Shit happens.”

  Larry whistled low. “That’s tough. Still, I finally get why they call you Mighty Mouse behind your back.”

  “They do?” I plastered on a smile and tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything. Mouse. It was a nickname my father gave me when I was four years old that stuck among his friends. I felt that familiar twinge of sadness thinking about him. It had been almost five years since he’d died and I still missed him every day. He was the last family I had left.

  I thought I’d left the men who still called me Mouse far behind. Mouse was small, timid. She let big, strong men take care of her growing up. Men who saw her size and thought she couldn’t do it by herself. I wasn’t that girl anymore. Not after that one horrible night two years ago. If my father had been alive then, I wondered how different my life would be today. In some ways, it was better he wasn’t there. He’d be locked up for murder or dead himself.

  Larry’s laughter brought me back out of my head. “You should help me out with the junior high wrestling team. That was a hell of an arm bar you put that kid in. If you hadn’t he would have knocked himself out.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for driving me.”

  We pulled up into the Urgent Care parking lot. “You sure you don’t want me to go in with you? I can get my sub to cover for another hour or two.”

  I waved Larry off and gave him a thumbs up as I closed the car door. Larry gave me a two-fingered salute after I slapped the side of his car and watched him drive away.

  I took a steadying breath as I turned toward the hospital doors. My heart jackhammered inside of me. I hadn’t set foot in a hospital since that same night two years ago either. Every day since, I’d tried to put it behind me, focus on my strengths instead of my weaknesses. My cuts, bruises, and broken bones had long since healed. The scars people couldn’t see took longer to fade.

  “So what happened here?” The doctor asked me later as he scooted up to me on a wheeled stool. He’d been here the last time I was brought into the E.R. Lincolnshire is way too small a town. As he pulled up my chart on his tablet, I saw recognition cross his face. He gave me a skeptical scowl.

  “Long story,” I said, hoping he didn’t think I was about to lie. “Smashed it against a locker door.”

  “Locker door, huh? You still over at the Junior High? You’re a special education teacher.” He was still reading my history on his tablet.

  “Uh huh,” I answered, trying to keep my head still. “I could give you a run for your money if we played the Guess What I Had to Smell Today game.”

  The doctor laughed and shook his head. He seemed satisfied with my answer and my shoulders slumped with relief. I didn’t want to answer any more questions about my past. It was over. Dead and buried. He brought the examination lamp close beside my face. He gently probed the wound above my right eyebrow.

  “Six stitches, maybe eight.” The doctor held up his purple-gloved fingers after he’d gotten a look at the cut. “You’ll be good as new.”

  “Do I need a plastic surgeon?” The google image of Terry Sawchuk stuck in my mind.

  He shook his head. “I can call one if you like, but it’s a pretty straight cut. No jagged edges. And it’s more or less lined up with the natural lines of your forehead.”

  The nurse beside him slapped him in the arm. “She doesn’t have any forehead lines, Ed. She’s cute as a button and you’re going to make sure she stays that way.”

  The doctor winked and nodded. He gave a few instructions to the nurse before he walked away, promising to come back to stitch me up.

  “How are you with needles?” my chipper nurse asked me. Her name plate read Helen Battle and that seemed wildly appropriate.

  Icy fingers of panic snaked up my spine. The answer was bad. Very bad. Ever since I was a kid, just the sight of needles gave me the heebie jeebies.

  “I’m good,” I said, wincing. One look at my face and the nurse knew I was full of shit.

  “Well, you’re gonna have to probably deal with three of them. “When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

  I thought. “Um … probably the Clinton Administration.”

  “Well, let’s get you stitched up and we’ll add that to the menu before you leave. You let me know if you feel like you’re going to pass out. Ready for number one?”

  I nodded. Nurse Battle jabbed me with a needle right near the edge of the gash on my forehead.

  “That’s going to feel tingly in a minute,” she said. She was wearing scrubs covered with baseballs and her shoes squeaked when she walked. “Everybody says it feels like their face is fat for a couple of hours.”

  As far as I was concerned, a fat face would be a vast improvement over the throbbing pain I’d been having since I’d smashed my face.

  “Okay!” Nurse Battle took a step back and flashed me a toothy grin. She was older, maybe close to retirement with a pleasingly plump frame and long red hair pulled back into a ponytail that didn’t quite fit her age. “That’s about the end of my part. Dr. Jennings will be back to take it from here.”

  I tried to smile back. My face really was starting to feel fat. I leaned back on the exam table and tried to get comfortable. The doctor said he’d be back in ten minutes. In hospital-speak, I was guessing that meant closer to an hour. I slipped my phone out of my purse and scrolled through emails to pass the time.

  Lilting laughter caught my ear. It was coming from the nurse’s station. At the edge of my field of vision, I could see a pretty, young, brunette nurse smile wide and flap a hand to her chest. She cocked her head sideways and fluttered her eyes. Oh, I recognized that gesture, all right. The flirting dance of the single white female.

  I scooted forward on my gurney to see what had her so hot and bothered. I hissed from the stab of pain shooting across my forehead. My nurse was going to have to give me another dose of whatever was in that needle before I’d let the doctor come near me with sutures.

  I cocked my head sideways to get a closer view and my heart damn near dropped to the floor. Shit. No wonder that nurse was trying so hard.

  I saw him in profile. Tall, broad, muscular. He wore a plain white t-shirt that stretched over the rippled muscles of his biceps. He ran a hand through his dark hair. Jet black and long enough to cover the nape of his neck. As he leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbow, his hair fell across one dark eye. If he’d been standing that close to me, I’d have had the urge to reach up and brush it away. The nurse at the desk took a step back and her smile widened.

  Oh. He was working her good. He crossed one booted foot over the other and smiled wide, flashing a perfect row of white teeth. He had the girl in the palm of his hand just with the casual way he leaned toward her. He was a player and only ditzy girls like her couldn’t see that a mile away. He laughed at something she said and tilted his head to the side. Oh yeah. Mr. Manwhore was getting ready to close the deal. One more smoldering look in the girl’s direction, or maybe a lazy finger running down her arm, and he’d have her well and truly hooked.

  Oh, but Mr. Manwhore was bolder than I gave him credit for. He leaned forward and pulled a pen out of the girl’s breast pocket. Then he turned her hand, exposing her palm, and started to write on her. Oh brother. I couldn’t help it. I b
arked out a laugh. The acoustics were better than I expected. He looked up and his eyes found mine.

  He froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed. They were gorgeous eyes, with thick, dark lashes that made him look like he wore eyeliner. His full mouth curved into a sly smile as our eyes met. The girl next to him giggled and leaned forward, pressing her breasts against the counter right in front of him. He gave her a quick glance then looked back at me, his sexy smirk still firmly in place.

  I mouthed the word “busted” at him. I couldn’t resist. If she couldn’t see his moves a mile away, they were pretty easy for me to spot from twenty feet. But dammit, he was good. He fixed that smolder right at me and my own heart started to beat a little faster. He had a small bandage over his own right eyebrow, in the exact same spot as the cut over mine.

  I shrugged and nodded with my chin back toward the girl. Better focus, buddy, you might lose her. He shot me a wink and straightened. As he turned back toward his nubile quarry, Nurse Battle came around the desk and grabbed the younger nurse by the shoulders.

  “You finished running those labs, Kayla?” Kayla’s face turned beet red; she gave an apologetic smile to Mr. Manwhore and scooted around the desk and on down the hall. Here’s hoping he’d finished writing his digits on her hand.

  I didn’t have time to shoot him a satisfied grin. The doctor was back and ready to stitch me up. I thought I was under control, but when I got one look at the suture needle, my gut clenched and I felt this morning’s breakfast bubble up.

  “Hang on, Ed,” Nurse Battle said. She only had to take one look at me to realize I was in over my head on this one. “Let’s get you a cup of water, honey. We’ll get you through it.”

  I nodded, feeling silly. I’d faced up to a lot worse than a couple of measly stitches, but every time Dr. Jennings raised that suture needle, my vision blurred and the room spun.

  “Just keep your eyes on me, honey,” Nurse Battle said. “Don’t think about what Dr. Jennings is doing. He’ll be done lickety split. Just focus on me. You just need a little distraction. That’s all.”