Excerpt 1 (More like I made this too long oops 1)

—————————

“Did y’all want anything? We’re getting Chinese.” Keily’s muffled voice comes from inside the plain blue t -shirt she’s pulling over her head. I glance over the top of my book, find her unkempt hair and Gabe grinning behind her, and giggle. Tony’s shaking his head, but there’s a smile on his face.

“What?” She pouts, reading the room. I smirk and go back to my book. Her lips brush the top of my head and she taps my temple. “Hello! Did you want anything darlin?”

“I’m fine, Keils. Thanks though.” I smile up at her.

“Are you sure? Have you even eaten yet? We’ve been here a month and I don’t think I’ve seen you touch any food.” Her concerned face looms over me and her tanned arms are draped over the back of the couch. She has crinkles in her forehead and her shapely lips are pursed; her bright brown eyes are still sparkling from her earlier activities.

“I’m fine,” I say again, “Pinky promise.” I hold up my pinky as my book closes over my other hand. She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously but still wraps her pinky around mine.

“Oooookay,” she replies, “Are you gonna be okay with Mr. Stoic while I’m gone?” Her eyes slide to Tony, who is currently hunched over the fake -wood dining table with Gabe. I sigh.

“I think so. It can’t get much worse than being constantly outright ignored, right?” I ask. She gives me a sympathetic look and pats my head gently.

“Are you ready, cariña?” Gabe flicks his short, dark hair out of his eyes. Keily giggles and flounces over to him, falling dramatically into his arms. He laughs, catches her, and swings her up and around. Her smile is huge and full of white, gleaming teeth. I don’t think I’ve seen her smile like that since we were kids.

They both pull on jackets and go laughing out the door, so absorbed in each other that they leave it open. I roll my eyes and will the door to close itself, but after a moment of that and Tony not moving from the table, I sigh and put my book face down on the couch. I groan internally while I push myself up and place my hand over the wound I stitched this morning. When there’s no blood, I slowly move toward the door and click it closed. I lay my forehead against the cool wood for a moment and then flip the lock and head to the small kitchenette.

The light over the sink bathes the counter tops in a soft white, and the cream -tile floor is cool under my feet. I open the fridge, root around for a second and decide on apple cider. As I’m reaching for the plastic cups I spy the chilled hotel -provided wine glasses and think, why not. I pull down one and, with a glance at Tony’s head, two. Because if I’m going to spend a year with him you can be damn sure I’m going to be civil about it. I pour cider in both glasses, the tan liquid frothing at the top, and put the carton away. I give myself a moment for my stitches to stop throbbing, grab both glasses, and trek back into the living room.

I hesitate at the tension in the small living room, but set the glass down next to him anyway. I move on and sink back into the safety and comfort of the grey hotel couch. I fold my feet underneath me and sip at the cider, which rolls sweetly over my tongue. Tony’s head moves a bit to glance at the glass but he doesn’t touch it.

“I don’t drink. But thanks,” he says gruffly.

I take a long, loud, slow sip before replying, “It’s cider. I don’t drink either.”

He doesn’t turn but he does take the glass. He sniffs it and then takes a sip. “Thanks.”

“Of cou-oh,” I feel a stitch pop. Tony glances at me then.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Fuck,” I breathe. The hand on my stomach comes away red with blood. “Can you grab me- Tony?” I look up but he’s no longer in the room.

“Tony?” I say louder. I brace myself on the arm rest and get myself up. I try to step away from the couch and find myself stumbling.

“Sit,” Tony commands and grabs my arm. He helps me to one of the chairs around the table and sits me down gently. In the other hand he has a large duffel bag with a medical cross on it. I’m sweating from the exertion of moving, but hold my hand out when he pulls out a medical needle and thread.

He looks at my outstretched hand and promptly ignores it to place the supplies on the table. He moves a few papers out of the way and drags a table lamp closer. I reach for the needle and thread but he moves them away. “What’re you going to do? Stitch then yourself?” He pulls out disinfectant and gauze pads as well, laying them neatly overtop a small towel.

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” I say through gritted teeth and reach again for the thread. He gives me a horrified look.

“Been doing?” He reaches immediately for my shirt but hesitates before grabbing the hem. “Is this okay?” He asks softly, glancing up at me. I nod my consent, surprised that he asked.

He rolls my now blood soaked shirt up gently and pulls it over my head. I watch his jaw tighten at the mess in front of him. “You’ve stitched all of these?”

“Yeah,” I reply quietly, assessing him. His eyes aren’t as hard as they have been since I’ve met him. They roam over the scattering of soon-to-be-scars.

“They’re not.. bad. Not for doing them yourself anyway. You could’ve caused some really severe tissue damage doing this shit, though.” He pulls on a pair of gloves and douses a gauze pad in some sort of clear liquid. “The stitches on that one won’t hold because it’s deeper than the others. And because you’re not using medical thread.” He frowns disapprovingly.

“I didn’t exactly have access to real medical supplies,” I whisper. His eyes are far away when he nods, as if he’s thinking about what that could mean.

“This is probably going to hurt,” he says, pressing the pad onto the open wound.

“Not as bad as getting it did,” I gasp at the chill more than the sting. He smirks.

“Interesting sense of humor,” he replies. Then, more serious, “Did you do this to yourself?” The twists in his hair rearrange themselves when he bends over the medical bag. I snort.

“Yeah, I love shoving knives into myself and then treating the gash I’ve made. Really gets me going.”

He gives me another disapproving glance and pulls the bloody gauze pad away to replace it with a fresh one, dabbing lightly. “I’m going to have to pull the ones you put in.”

“Fun,” I reply unenthusiastically.

“This looks really red. How long have you had this exactly?”

“How long have we been here?” I ask, my head relaxing back against the chair.

“A month.”

“Add a week, and bam.” I gesture to my stomach.

“You’ve just been constantly re-stitching?” He asks, his brows go up in surprise, “That’s insanely dangerous.”

“Yeah,” I reply. The skin around the wound is warm and the more he prods at it the more it hurts. The med bag rustles when he reaches into it.

“Open your mouth.”

I snap my head up and my body goes cold with fear. I’m suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am sitting here, with no shirt on. I glance at the clock but knowing Keily she won’t be back for hours. He pulls something out and starts to reach for me.

I flinch violently backward, yelling incoherently, and nearly topple the chair over.

“Woah, hey,” he’s on his feet in a second to steady me. I whimper when his hand brushes my shoulder. “Hey,” he says again, soothingly, softly. My heart is pounding out of my chest. Fabric rustles and he squats down in front of me. I’m shaking when I meet his concerned amber eyes. He holds up a small plastic thermometer. “I just need to take your temp. That’ll give me a clue to whether this is an infection or not. Would you rather do it?” He holds it out towards me and I accept it gingerly, trying to steady my hand.

“I don’t um… know how to use it.” A wave of shock, and then embarrassment roll over me as I realize how crazy I must look. Freaking out over a thermometer. “I’m sorry,” I add quietly.

He’s already busy in the bag again. “Just click the small button to the right there and put it under your tongue.. like that, yeah.” Several more tools have appeared on the table, I recognize the medical scissors and tweezers. His voice is soothing, and his movements are slow and calculated like he’s trying not to scare me. I put the tip of the thermometer under my tongue and make a face at the taste of the metal tip. Tony almost smiles.

“When it beeps, just take it out and read me the numbers. Don’t talk while it’s going or it might give me an off reading.” I nod in reply. He gives me a small, comforting smile before going back to sterilizing. “And you have nothing to be sorry for,” he adds quietly.

Surprised once again, I take a moment to admire the way he’s working. His hands are large but despite their size are putting a thick thread throughout needle. He’s watching his own movements, double checking each one as he goes. He replaces my soaked gauze pad with a new one and leaves it there to soak. The thermometer lets off a small round of tiny beeps. He glances up as I pull it out and waits patiently while I turn it around to read off the 98.4 that’s flashing at me. He nods, but says nothing.

He picks up the surgical scissors and pulls the table lamp even closer. The white light spreads over the wound, giving the blood an eerie look. His breath is hot on my skin when he bends his face close.

“So what are these conferences for?” He asks nonchalantly, like we’re two people in a coffee shop catching up. He snips a stitch and uses the tweezers to gently pull out the thread. I wince at the odd feeling.

“No one told you?” I ask, “Have you even watched one?” Im grateful for the distraction.

“They prefer me to be a dumb henchman with a gun. Less to say in court, if it ever came to it.” Another poorly done suture slides out. He’s moving slowly, waiting a moment between them.

“Ah,” I reply, looking up instead of at his hands. “Well.. human trafficking. They want me to tell my story, they being some insensitive um… senators? I think. They want me up there once a week telling a room full of survivors that it. gets. better.” I pump my fist weakly on the last three words.

“Hold still,” Tony murmurs, then asks, “Doesn’t it?” He looks pointedly at the too -large diamond on my ring finger. I hold it up and watch it glisten in the manufactured light of the hotel room.

“No,” I reply bitterly, “No it doesn’t.” I take the ring off and set it on the table.

“So Ian did do this.” It isn’t a question but I feel the need to answer anyway.

Something akin to terror grips my heart, and whispers to me that to say anything is certain death. A million excuses run through my head, and a million more lies. Finally, though, I simply whisper, “Yes.”

Yes! I swallow hard. Yes. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Hm,” is all he says in reply. He works in silence for a few minutes. The only sound is the odd thread being pulled out of my skin and my controlled inhales.

“I remember you,” he says into the silence.

“I was starting to think I was crazy,” I reply slowly. My back is tense and my teeth slide over one another.

“I definitely took a minute. But I do. You were outside Kamals office that day.”

“And Ian was who was inside of it.”

He makes a noise of agreement. Some part of me that’s been wondering for all this time finally settles.

“That’s when he made the deal for me, right?”

Tony looks up from his work and pulls the last stitch. I wince. He pulls off his gloves and uses a gauze pad to wipe the wound. “We weren’t just there for you.”

We make eye contact and hold it. Someone else might take that like he’s accusing me of being self -centered, but I’m merely curious. He looks away first, and pulls on a new pair of gloves that snap against his wrists. He clearly doesn’t want to say what he means, so I change the subject.

“So where did a supposed ‘junkie’ learn to stitch people?” I ask. My hands are starting to go numb from just dangling so I move them slowly over my chest and out of his way.

A smile tugs at his lips, “Supposed junkie?”

“Come on,” I reply, “I can spot a junkie from a mile away. You aren’t one. Neither is Gabe. You were back then but… not anymore.” My head tilts just slightly. There’s anxiety in his shoulders and lines around his mouth. He doesn’t express it, though. He double -checks the threaded needle and places it carefully back onto the towel. In a small bowl he puts a few drops of another clear liquid and the original one he was using. He drops a gauze pad into the mixture.

“I see. And does anyone else have this superpower?” He asks carefully. I know his real question is, does Ian know.

“Don’t worry. I hate him as much as everyone else does.” The words are meant to be sure, straight forward. But I only sound meek like a child speaking ill of a loving parent in secret.

They have their intended effect, though, and Tony’s shoulders relax. I try to get comfortable but he reminds me not to move, so I settle with my face towards the ceiling.

“We weren’t originally there for you.” He says. I don’t reply but wait for him to continue. There’s something in his voice that warns me he’s trusting me with something.

“Ian and Kamal are friends. Business partners. Whatever.” The bowl clinks at the removal of the gauze and there’s more of a sting than before when he presses it against me. I flinch involuntarily. He goes on, “They have an arrangement. If any of Kamal’s people show up on Ian’s doorstep, he brings them back. Makes money off it, I guess. That’s what we were doing originally. Bringing a few girls back.”

He clears his throat and sits back on his heels. I raise my head to stare. I knew Ian was bad, fuck, I knew he was terrible. But to take away the freedom of a person who’s just escaped hell? A burning that has nothing to do with the wound starts within me.

“They were sixteen, three of them. One was.. thirteen,” his face twists in repulsion, “and they were crying the whole time we were driving. The little one begged us not to bring her back. She wouldn’t let up.”

“Katrina,” I whisper in horror. Tony’s gaze meets mine.

“You knew her?”

“I…helped her get out.” My voice is hoarse. His gaze drops again. “I never saw her again, though, what…” Air escapes through my nose when I realize where his story is leading.

“I’m sorry, Skylar.” He doesn’t look up again.

“He killed her,” I say. Tony shakes his head.

“When we stopped, I hopped out. She grabbed my gun somewhere in there and just.. she just fucking shot herself.” There’s a crack in his voice, however slight. “She died in my arms. With a god -damn smile on her face.” He whispers the last part like the world didn’t deserve to hear it. He sniffles only once, changes his gloves again, and pulls the gauze away.

We’re both silent. The clink of the soaked surgical needle being pulled from the bowl draws my attention back to the hotel room. Tony prods my wound, it barely hurts at this point.

“How the hell did you do your job after that?” I demand, sudden anger in my sadness.

His eyes flicker up to mine for only a moment before he bends back over me and places a gloved hand on my stomach. “That was the first time we’d been to Kamal’s. The first time we’d been a part of that. We were still rollin’ high back then. Constantly doped up.” The needle breaks skin but I barely feel it through my need to understand.

“That moment, Skylar, was a deciding moment. One look at Gabe and we both knew we were getting sober. We were never doing that again. We were taking Ian as far down as he could go, and Kamal with him.” His voice is dark and pointed directly at that moment in time. I can tell he’s no longer here with me, the slow suturing work on auto -pilot, he’s living that day over again. My anger ebbs away as fast as it came.

“So you got sober. Totally sober.”

“Don’t even drink coffee sober, yeah. And we got every single other junkie he employs sober too. Fuck Ian and my brother.”

My eyes widen, “You.. what? Your brother?”

“We organized them. We got them sober. We’re training. And, yeah. Carl’s my brother.”

“Eesh,” I sympathize, “And I thought I had it bad.” I think to the little rage -ball who serves as Ian’s right hand. His steely eyes look down on everyone he comes across.

Tony flashes me a genuine smile. “And to answer your question, I’m actually a surgeon.”

I half -laugh, “And I’m the president. You said training. What are you training for?”

His jaw is set and his forehead has small crinkles in it. “The paperwork is fake,” he says, “but I am actually a surgeon. A renowned general surgeon. The experience is real.”

“Oh,” I reply, brimming with questions. Before I can ask he adds, “They have us the guns and the ambition. We’re training to be hit men. And women. Hit people?” His nose wrinkles. “Either way, they gave us the guns. We’ve just gotten very good at using them.”

He goes on suturing, giving me time to process. I check the clock again, worried Keily will come back in the middle of this, but only two hours have passed. I’ve got a bet on four. I reflect on my questions and watch Tony’s hand move steadily across my abdomen, the long gash coming together much more professionally than I could make it.

Finally, I settle on, “Why are you trusting me with all of this?”

The corner of his mouth turns upward and he replies, “You’re trusting me quite a bit right now, aren’t you?”