Page 43 of Guitars and Cages

“I’ll think about it,” I said, getting tired now. “How long have I been here?”

“Five days.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. You had us all pretty worried. Your band came around the bar looking for you. I told them about your hand, so they know they’ve got to replace you.”

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s good, actually; I was thinkin’ of quitting. I don’t play so well anymore, my hands and the strings don’t work together the way they used to.”

“It’s from the fighting. Docs X-rayed your hand when you came in. There was a fresh break, but there were older fractures still healing. You need to quit that shit.”

“I’m good at it.”

“You were good with your guitar, too; could be again if you let your hands heal. If you don’t wanna do that, you can learn to be good at something else, but you don’t need to be fighting for cash like some animal.”

I sighed, ’cause there was no arguing with logic. “I guess I’ll think about that, too.”

“I hope you will.”

For a few minutes, I was silent, and so was he; then he broke the silence again.

“Your buddy Conner’s been around every day to see how you are.”

I sighed. “He ain’t my buddy. Can’t you ask them not to let him in here?”

“You’ll have to ask them yourself. You might wanna tell him he ain’t your buddy, though, ’cause he sure seems pretty concerned about you.”

“He’s just some guy who moved in across the hall and can’t seem to keep his nose outta other people’s business.”

Morgan chuckled. Why the hell is it that even when I don’t mean to make people laugh, they seem to be laughing at me? “It’s a good thing, then. If not for him, we might not have found you before you passed out.”

“Yeah, I, um, guess I owe him a thank-you for bringing Mark.”

“You do. And if I were you, I’d think about the whole non-friendship thing, because you need some good friends like him.”

“I got you, my brothers, Mark, and the rest of the band. Don’t need no more friends than that.”

“You can never have too many friends, Asher, especially not good ones who care.”

I closed my eyes, knowing he was right, but there was so much that I wasn’t ready to tell him. I heard him stand, and a moment later I was startled by his hand on my head, brushing my hair back.

“I’m going to go get some coffee. I’ll be back in a bit. Try to get some more rest; the psychologist will be in tomorrow and you should think about what you’re going to say.”

“I will,” I said. The sensation of his hand in my hair felt good. I was reminded of how much I missed simply letting someone comfort me, or hold me just because. Since Gage, there hadn’t been much touch in my life that wasn’t pain, or for money or a quick, fast fuck. I wished he wouldn’t stop, but he did, and the sound of his booted steps leaving the room was the last thing I heard besides my own thoughts before I gave in to the need for sleep.

Chapter Seventeen

Morning meant being poked and prodded by doctors, and checked over and fiddled with by the nurses on the shift. I could handle that as well as the generic questions, the “How are you feeling?” and “Does anything hurt?” ’cause those were easily answered with “Fine” and “Nope.” The shrink coming in, that was different. She was an older lady, her hair more gray than brown, cut short in one of those no-nonsense looks. Her brown eyes were sharp and shrewd as she looked over the cuts on my arms, and I blushed as she peeled back the blanket to see the ones I’d cut along my side. Those were pretty fresh; I hadn’t ever done that before. I’d started when my arms had gotten so bad there was no place left that wasn’t scarred or healing.

“You’ve been cutting for quite a long time,” she commented, trying to make eye contact while I tried to avoid giving her any.

“Yeah,” I said; there was no point in denying it.

“Why?”

Well, wasn’t that straight and to the point.

“I want to feel, so I cut. When I feel enough, I stop,” I told her. It was quickly becoming my stock answer.