Page 64 of Dead Rockstar

“Are you sure you're okay to get up?” he asked.

“Phillip, you got shot and you're asking me if I'm okay?” I smiled and gingerly started to put on my shirt.

“I didn't get a nasty bump on the head.”

“Something tells me that if you did, you'd still be fine,” I teased. He offered me an arm and I stood, pulling on my jeans. He leaned down, one-armed, to help me with my socks and shoes, and my heart filled with tenderness.

He smiled faintly and stood back up, doing a quick sweep of the room. I handed him my cell phone, which he pocketed, and we made our way toward the door. I didn't feel sluggish anymore, and my head and my legs were no longer shaking. All that was left was the faintest of headaches. I touched a finger to the bump gingerly, wincing when I felt the scabbed flesh.

He craned his head to the door and listened. He nodded to me silently and I nodded back, opening the door as quietly as I could. I peered out into the hallway, formulating a plan to tell the nurses I was just hungry if they apprehended me. It wasn’t a lie; the hospital food they’d offered me – a hockey puck that was apparently Salisbury steak and a glop of icy cold rehydrated mashed potatoes – had sat untouched all night on my plastic tray. Luckily there was nobody in the hall. Phillip and I eased out together, walking carefully to the stairwell just off to the right of my room. It was too risky to take the elevator out in the main lobby, I understood that without him having to tell me. Phillip went in first, then beckoned to me with his long, thin fingers. As soon as we were heading down the stairs, he whisked off his arm sling and stuffed it in his pocket.

“Phillip, what are you doing? You probably need that-”

“My arm's fine,” he said in a loud whisper, not slowing. “I just left it on in case they saw me.”

“What do you mean, your arm's fine?” He’d gotten shot, for god’s sake. I knew he was tough, but Jesus Christ.

“They got the bullet out early this morning,” he said. “It was a clean shot, no fragments or anything. Didn't hit an artery. I'm good.”

I pulled on his shirt, making him stop. “Let me see.” I carefully pulled up his sleeve, bracing myself for the sight of a gunshot wound in his perfect, muscled arm. When I didn't see a bandage, I looked at him in surprise.

“I took it off,” he said. “I'm fine.”

“But you need to let it heal-”

“It's healed.”

“But it must hurt-”

“No.” He pulled the sleeve all the way up and I stared in surprise. The skin was smooth and white and soft. There was no bandaging, no bullet hole, no scar - no sign that he'd ever been hurt at all.

“Jesus,” I said. “I'm beginning to get really sick of all these super-powers of yours.”

He made a face and beckoned me to continue. We started down the stairs, me staring at the back of his head in awe. I almost tripped over my own feet and grabbed onto the banister.

“I guess I see now why you had to leave so fast,” I said. “If they'd seen how soon you healed...well, there would be some questions.”

“And I doubt they'd believe, 'my girlfriend raised me from the dead and now I have super human strength, psychic abilities and I heal from gunshot wounds.'”

He had called me his girlfriend. My cheesy grin didn't seem appropriate, considering all that had happened and how much danger we were in, but it was hard to stop. He said nothing, just kept trudging down the steps in front of me, but I felt a vibe come off him, and it felt like laughter. I stayed quiet, though it didn't matter. Psychic abilities. He was probably reading my every thought right now, the bastard.

“I'm trying not to,” he said with a chuckle. “But you think so loud.”

Navigating the lobby was stressful. We both did our best to blend in and look like visitors rather than patients, but it was difficult, me shuffling along, sleepy and with a headache, and him in his pale, 6'5” glory. We probably looked like two junkies on a drug bender, but thankfully, nobody milling around the elevators or gift shop gave us a second glance. We had to dodge one cop, but he was on his cell phone and didn't notice us as we dashed behind the map board.

“How are we going to get back to the motel?” I asked him when we were safely outside.

“We aren't. Too many questions to answer, and all that damage? No. Let Shank be on the hook for that, I'm not going back there.”

“But what about our stuff? Our clothes, your phone, the money...”

“We can buy new clothes. Same with the phone.” He smiled. “And the money is locked up safe and sound in your truck.”

“Which is in the motel parking lot,” I pointed out glumly. “I'm sure they have cameras all over the place.”

“Good thing I snuck out of here two hours ago and went ahead and got it before I came to get you,” Phillip said with a dangerous grin. “Your truck is parked right over there in the parking deck.” He extracted my keys from his pocket and dangled them in my face, looking very pleased with himself.

Fifteen

---