Page 61 of Dead Rockstar

“You shit,” I seethed through my pain, too angry to keep my mouth shut. “Mark my words, I will make you pay for this. And when I’m done, you’ll be taking meals through a straw in a face that’s even uglier than it already is.”

“Shut up, bitch.” He pushed me to the door none too gently and I stumbled again. I fiddled with the door handle, trying to wrench it open with shaking hands. My head felt fuzzy and I had tunnel vision. The gun pressed harder into my back and I began to whimper, finally managing to get the heavy old door open. Shank gave me another shove and I lurched forward, bracing myself for the inevitable fall when my knees would hit the concrete hallway.

Instead, I fell into a pair of strong arms, and almost wept with joy when I looked up to see Phillip's face. He caught me, instantly appraised the situation, and propped me up against the door frame.

“Stay here,” he advised.

Shank had already started backing into the room, holding out the gun, aiming it at Phillip. He was cornered, but he wasn't going to surrender easily. I clung to the door frame, fighting the waves of nausea and the aching in my head.

“Phillip, be careful!”

He took no notice of my warning and advanced on Shank. “I'd say you were the stupidest fucking person alive for daring to come here,” he said, his voice full of acid. “But you're actually doing me a favor. Going to the police is probably the right thing to do, but where's the satisfaction in that? I'm going to enjoy beating you to a fucking pulp.”

“Stay the fuck away from me, you dead piece of shit.” Shank was waving the gun around erratically. I was paralyzed with fear. “My orders come from Guthrie and it ain’t a good idea to fuck with him-”

“I don't give a fuck, man.” Phillip reached Shank in a few short steps, and before the words were fully out of his mouth, he reared back and punched him right in the face. Blood spurted from Shank's nose and he went down like a lead balloon.

It was the second time in a couple of days that I'd seen Phillip break somebody's nose. He did it with ease, like popping a piece of bubble wrap. My mouth filled with saliva, and my gorge rose at the vivid visual before me. I swallowed hard, and slow-blinked, surveying the blood all over Shank and the floor, and exhaled slowly.

The gun was on the floor and Shank was reaching for it, but he couldn't really see because his eyes were swelling up. Blood poured on the carpeted floor. “I'm going to kill you, you dead fucking bastard.”

“Like to see you try.” Phillip's voice was eerily calm as he reared back with one massive leg and kicked Shank hard in the chest. He kicked him again, leveling him out on the floor. Then he was on him, pummeling him with his fists. Shank was trying to put up a fight, but he was no match for someone of Philip's size and strength. I had no doubt that Phillip was going to kill him. Because of me, Phillip was going to have a death on his hands. I wanted to yell, to scream at Phillip to stop, but I couldn’t find my voice. A small part of me wanted him to keep going, to rip the scourge away from us. One less specter looming over our lives. I felt faint. Before I knew what was happening, I was going down, my vision tunneling and blackness rising to meet me.

A pair of arms caught me just before my head hit the concrete. Phillip. God, how did he move so fast? Just moments before he'd been pinning Shank down, beating his face to a pulp. He cradled my head in his arms, which were streaked with blood. “We can't let you get another head injury, sweetheart,” he said, his voice full of tenderness. He paused just long enough to place a kiss on my forehead, prop me up against the door, then he straightened up and turned, ready to finish off his work.

Neither of us were aware that Shank had stood. How, I didn’t know, since Phillip had beaten him senseless. He was covered in so much blood he looked like something from a Rob Zombie movie. House of a Thousand Pricks, I thought with a ludicrous, swimmy-headed giggle. Except in this one the corpse has a heart of gold.

Shank had found the gun, aimed it at Phillip and fired. Phillip recoiled, his left hand raising up to clutch at his right shoulder, and then he staggered and went down on one knee, onto the floor, blood seeping from his arm. I screamed.

Shank lowered the gun, took a look at us through his swollen, blood crusted eyes, and made a beeline for the door.

I couldn't let him get away. He had fucked with us enough; they all had. Through my pain and dizziness, I managed to get myself up off the floor and I hobbled in front of the door, blocking it. He made no move to slow down, like he planned to barrel right through me. I rallied my strength and tackled him as hard as I could, using my body weight to propel him forward, both of us falling into a heap on the concrete floor. My head split into shards of pain that seemed to come from all directions. The gun flew out of Shank's hand. I rolled him over, pinning him, and managed to grab the gun before he could reach for it. He struggled against me, but most of the fight had left him.

“You stupid bitch,” he spat, his hateful eyes fixed on my face. “I should have broken your arms when I had the chance.”

“You should have,” I agreed. “I’ve had enough of your limp-dick bullshit.” I cradled his head in my hands, picked it up, and cracked it as hard as I could against the floor. His skull made a wet, thick sound as it hit the concrete beneath the thin layer of carpet. He screamed out in pain, but I wouldn't let go. Thud. I did it again, and he was still.

“Jesus,” said Phillip in a weak voice from the corner of the room. I looked up in surprise. He was lying against the wall, clutching his arm, his face pale. “Remind me never to piss you off. You just cracked his head like a fucking egg.”

I managed to stumble over to the bed and eased down on it, my head an odd mixture of horror, nausea, elation, and pounding-hot migraine. I turned to Phillip, dazed. “I told you I'd protect you,” I said stupidly, then passed out cold.

The nurse attending me had an unsmiling mouth and squeaky white shoes. She was professional, but I could tell she wanted to roll her eyes when I asked for the fifth time to see Phillip.

“He's in with the doctor right now,” she said to me, which was more information than she'd given before. “You can’t see him right now. Neither of you have been cleared for visitors.” She tucked the sheets in around my legs. “Now please, try to get some rest.”

As it turned out, I did have a concussion, and I was also dangerously dehydrated as a result of whatever drug I'd been given. We were still waiting for the results to come back to find out exactly what it was.

After I'd dealt the blow to Shank and then passed out on the bed, Phillip had managed to crawl over to the phone and call 911. I had come to shortly afterward and seen him struggling at the mirror with a useless, bloody arm, trying to put his hair up in what appeared to be a man-bun. I tried to sit up, recoiling with horror when I saw Shank still lying on the floor. “Is he...dead?” I asked slowly, the memory of cracking his head on the floor rushing back. “Oh no, Phillip, did I kill him?”

“No,” he told me hastily, turning around with a grimace. “He's breathing. You just cleaned his clock, that’s all. Just lie down, Stormy. I called 911. They're on the way.”

“Come sit with me.”

He did. His arm was bloody and hanging at a strange angle. I could tell he was in pain but trying to pretend he wasn't. He'd done a half-assed job of tying a towel around it to stop the bleeding. “Let me,” I said, ignoring the woozy feeling in my head.

“It's okay, Stormy,” he said, shaking me off. “Just rest.”

“Shut up, you stubborn ass.” I took off the towel, folded it into a strip, and wrapped it around Phillip's arm, trying not to look too closely at the wound, which was still gushing blood. “We need to stop the bleeding.” I pulled it taut, which wasn't easy among the slick blood and the fact that his arms were so huge, and the motel towels so tiny. I pulled it tighter, pretending not to see him wince. “There,” I said finally, looking over my work, hoping the EMTs would get here quickly. It was still bleeding; the towel was already turning pink from the blood seeping through.

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