Page 67 of Shrapnel

Why hadn’t he gone to the Weavers? Or to Elijah?

Jackson wanted to ask him, but he let him sleep. The wound wasn’t serious, but it was old. Looked like a bunch of jagged punctures and lacerations. He didn’t get a good look, but it wasn’t a knife or a bullet. The crappy first aid kit in his motel room should be good enough.

The motel he had been camping out in was his usual fare. A pay-by-the-hour, just be grateful the door locks kind of place. The clerk hadn’t looked up when he checked in and there were no security cameras. Just the way Jackson liked it.

He dragged Jamie up the cement stairs to his second-floor room. Jackson knew he wasn’t a big guy, but he felt frail in his arms. Had he lost weight? He couldn’t remember. South America had been a few weeks ago…and he wasn’t exactly thinking with his upstairs brain at the time.

Jamie was soaked and only partially conscious enough to help with his undressing. Jackson pulled his dress shirt and pants off—stupid Weaver uniform—tossing them over a chair to dry. Jamie’s skin was cold and clammy. He turned up the radiator before beginning to sort through the medicine in his bag.

He handed Jamie a water bottle and a handful of pills. “Anti-biotics and pain meds.”

Jamie tossed them back, chugging the entire bottle before flopping onto the bed with his eyes closed.

“What was it?”

“Broken bottle,” Jamie slurred tiredly. “Tweakerella got the drop on me.”

“Dumbass.”

Jackson flicked the lampshade off and set the lamp next to Jamie’s hip. From his medical bag, he pulled out a pair of forceps and a bottle of alcohol. He doused the forceps, his hands, and Jamie’s belly.

“Jesus!” Jamie came to life, eyes flaring open at the sting.

Jackson felt his lips quirk. “Pretty sure Jesus doesn’t come to places like this.”

Taking the forceps between his fingers, he began digging. Fresh blood spilled from the wounds as Jackson ripped them open again. He had to see if there was any glass. The pain pills hadn’t kicked in yet and Jamie was gripping the polyester comforter with white knuckles. His teeth were clenched so hard Jackson thought they might shatter.

In the end, he only found a couple of pieces of dark glass. They probably would have worked their way out eventually. Another splash of alcohol had Jamie muttering about religious figures and their assholery, and then Jackson was wrapping his abdomen in fresh gauze.

With Jamie still, he finally had a chance to look at him. Besides the obvious nipple piercing—which Jackson was annoyed to discover might be a new kink of his—Jamie’s body was covered in a multitude of scars. Hardly unusual for someone in his line of work. Old burn scars littered his wrists and shoulders, some of them obviously from a cigarette, the skin shiny and hairless where it had healed.

Jackson’s fingers lingered over a raised scar just above his belly button. It was old. Healed, but clearly a knife wound. He had a similar one on his leg.

Jamie didn’t offer an explanation and Jackson didn’t ask. He just cleaned up his kit and tossed the bloody rags on the floor. The cleaning lady had probably seen worse.

Ignoring Jamie, he pulled off his wet clothes. With the heater on full blast, the room was almost stifling. Just in his damp boxers, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Jamie looked up at him, reaching up with a wince to trace a finger along Jackson’s back. The whip probably left blemishes, but he couldn’t see them. Jamie seemed to enjoy tracing them, his blunt fingernail snaking along the lines of his muscles. It felt good. Unbidden, he remembered the way his mom used to scratch his back to help him sleep. Light touches that made him realize why cats liked to be scratched.

The hand slipped down over his thigh in a way that wasdistinctlynot maternal.

“What are you going to do?” he asked Jamie as he slapped his hand away. “Bleed on it?”

Jamie huffed a laugh, rubbing his hand listlessly. “Don’t kink shame me.”

Jackson stood and shuffled over to the mini-fridge. It didn’t really work but it kept the cans of beer just this side of too warm. He set one on Jamie’s chest, chuckling when the kid hissed at the cold.

He popped the tab for them both and watched as Jamie struggled to drink it while lying flat on his back.

“Why didn’t you go to Elijah?”

Jamie smacked his lips. “He’s at the Mesa.”

It didn’t take a genius to know that Jamiecouldhave called any number of Weavers and he would have been given a hell of a lot better care than Jackson in a filthy motel room. But he didn’t. And Jackson wasn’t sure he cared enough to ask.

“Are you going to see your brother?”

The aluminum can crunched under Jackson’s hands. Why was everyone asking him that?