Page 28 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

Chapter Twenty-Six

LUKA

I doze off for what could be just a moment, or maybe it’s an hour, before I hear her voice. “Oh my God, you’re barely even conscious right now! I’m calling nine-one-one.”

I open my eyes and clap my hand around her wrist. “I got my own doctor. Don’t need him.”

He’s busy. With Storm.

“You literally have a traumatic brain injury and who knows what else.”

“I’m fine.”

“At least let me get Orton.”

“I’m gonna sleep. That’s all I need.” I turn over.

“You need medical attention.”

“How do you know Arianiti’s eagle?” I ask.

“That’s your question? Luka! No! You need medical attention.”

“How?”

“You’re hurt.” A gentle hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be a big bad gangster.”

“Is that an upgrade from a dirty heathen criminal? ”

“No, you’re still a dirty heathen criminal, but don’t you wanna live to be a dirty heathen criminal another day?”

The worry in her voice sends a ripple through my chest.

“I’m gonna sleep. You’re relieved of your duties.”

“I feel like I should call a doctor. You need one.”

“Did you not hear me? You’re dismissed.”

“I’m un-dismissing myself.”

“Can’t... un-dismiss yourself.” I pull myself onto my elbow and point to my pants. “Bring me my phone.”

She gives it to me, and I hit the button for Orton and hand it over.

I hear her talking to Orton, stressing how dangerous a concussion can be if it goes untreated.

I let my eyes drift closed while she argues with Orton.

At some point, the call ends, and she announces that Orton is not a good friend to me. “You have a concussion. You need somebody to wake you up periodically.”

I groan. “That’s not a thing.”

“It’s completely a thing! A hundred percent a thing. You’re supposed to be woken up every three hours. I saw it on TV.”

“TV, huh.” I’m lying on my back next to her as she recites information from websites on her phone. She’s going on about hydration. Limited exposure to bright lights. No loud sounds. Something about ice.

There’s a silence, and then I’m conscious of a gentle hand on my forehead, like a hallucination from some other life.

She’s wrong about the sleep thing, but I don’t care anymore.

“And no sex.”

“Uh-oh,” I say.

“It’s not funny.” She busies herself arranging sheets around me, but then…

“Wait. What is this bruise?” Busy fingers unbutton my shirt.

She gasps at whatever she sees on the side of my rib cage.

“Did you two just scrub off the blood and call it a day? This is how you treat injuries? Just wash the blood off and you’re good? Go d.”

“...not real injuries,” I manage.

“Oh, not real injuries? Okay. Yeah, not real. Nothing to see here.” She’s mumbling about keycards and pharmacies. She seems to be leaving.

The next thing I know, bags are rustling and she’s pulling off my shirt, gently urging me up and down and over.

There, there, good...

Then she’s stroking something onto what I’m gathering is a gash on my chest.

It was a fuck of a fight. We did a lot of damage to each other. Pushed each other into a lot of things.

She moves her fingers tenderly over the spot that burns the most.

My mind floats back. I suppose our nanny must have patched us up. Or did she? I see her towering over me, always angry. My older brother, ranting and smashing things.

And then Tucumayo. Nobody would’ve bandaged me there.

Even Sara wouldn’t have thought to bandage me. She was more of a marveller, gazing wide-eyed at various injuries, more shocked than helpful, though she was a victim herself, and we were young. We were like mice in those places, forever finding holes to hide in.

Edie lifts up my arm, movements gentle. I shut my eyes against the pleasure of it.

Fingers pressing something onto my chest. Edie. She’s dressing it, probably. Bandages. It comes to me that I’m not thinking straight. I’m disoriented. If Storm or Orton were here, I’d add that to my list of symptoms.

The smell of antiseptic pulls me back in time, back to a field hospital in Sri Lanka, bandages fashioned from ripped clothing.

Crude fishing-line stitches, soldiers trying to get each other well enough to travel.

The dust and the stench and the punishing sun out the window.

Shouts from broken-down Jeeps. The dust. So much dust .

“What about the dust?” she asks.

I open my eyes. The curtains are drawn. The room is pleasantly dim. She’s holding something cold to my head.

Was I talking out loud?

“Who was shouting?” she asks.

“Nobody.”

“Sit up all the way and drink.”

I take great gulps, and it seems to wash the dust from my mind. She takes the glass and arranges pillows behind me. Gentle fingers slide over my bicep. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

“Let me get this all the way off.” She urges me forward and struggles with my shirt.

I’m still in the dust and sun. Then, the mossy walls.

Her gasp breaks through the haze of my memories. “What is this?”

Fingers trace along my back. Tracing crisscrosses.

It’s Edie, touching my back.

I need her to stop, but I can’t quite bring myself to make her stop. I try to think of how to get the scorn back.

“What happened to you?” People have seen those scars, but nobody has ever dared to ask.

Edie’s different.

“Bad-guy stuff.”

“Was this the not-a-military school?”

I force myself to open my eyes, to glare at her with all the hell inside me. “Leave it.”