Page 101 of The Sculptor

Vance grins. “Attaboy. For a moment there, I thought you were broken.” He grabs Remington’s shoulder as he tries wrenching away, but Vance holds him still, a silent conversation passing between them before he steps back, patting his shoulder. “I’ll bring you back a blow pop.”

Remington blows a puff of smoke in his face, grinning. “Don’t forget the beer.”

Vance rolls his eyes, but I can see the relief on his face. He was worried about leaving Remington and me in the same room. Whether that concern was for Rem or for me, I don’t know. All I know is Vance smirks as he passes me. “Just remember you asked for this meeting.”

I nod. I did. I asked to see my son.

And even if this conversation results in a black eye, I will have told him everything.

Duke

“Don’t even think of stabbing me with that thing,” Remington threatens. “I don’t care what Vance said. I’ll be fine without it.”

I push further into the bathroom and take note of the supplies on the counter, particularly the numbing agent. “You don’t want me to numb your hand while I suture?”

His jaw locks. “No.”

My hands are already balmy.

Relax, Duke. He’s the same Remington you’ve known for a year.

But he isn’t really, is he? Can we look at each other the same, knowing we’re father and son? Guess we’ll see.

I stride up to the counter, pacing my breaths. I need to think of the water, the ripples on the surface. The surface has changed, but the man inside hasn’t. I’m still Dr. Duke Potter, who saved his infant son. “Digging out the glass will hurt,” I explain in my physician’s voice. “Worse than the suturing—though both are painful.”

Like the true Potter he is, Remington lifts his chin. “I’ll be fine.”

Of course, he will, because the Potter men are stupidly stubborn.

I shrug. “Have it your way.”

Eliminating the space between us, I take Remington’s hand—which is scratched to hell and dripping blood onto his pants—and assess the damage. “Do you hit mirrors often?” I ask, setting his arm down on the counter while I wash my hands.

“Why? Are you planning on making me stand in the corner?”

His sarcastic comeback has me chuckling. “I didn’t realize you got off on that sort of thing.”

Remington might be my son, but right now, I want to be Dr. Dumbass and create a space for us to talk. I have no unrealistic views about him hugging me and calling me Dad. This is Remington, the man, who’s been through more than we know. The best thing I can do is become his friend again.

“I prefer a nice lashing every once in a while,” he says dryly, “but you don’t have the tits for it.”

“What a pity.” I grin, drying my hands and grabbing the antiseptic, ignoring how his body tenses when I pick up his hand. “You might want to look away,” I encourage.

Miraculously, he does, and I use the distraction to inject the worst gash with the numbing agent quickly.

“Ow! Fuck! What are—” Remington tries jerking his hand away, but I keep him still. This isn’t my first rodeo with a patient who hates needles.

“Be still.”

“Fuck you. You don’t tell me what to do.” He tries snatching his hand away again, but goes nowhere.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to say that.” While he sits there fuming, I inject him again, which seems to shock him into speaking—or at least growling.

“I’m gonna beat your ass,” he threatens.

At least he’s talking to me like he used to. I call that progress.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been living with Vance for too long. He’s putting pretty little delusions in your head if you think you will beatmy ass.”

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