Page 38 of Devil's Due: Sarge

I shake my head no. Big mistake. That damn well hurts, too.

“Vlad said when Greer called him, she was a mess. She’d dropped you off here, but brother, to get you here, she killed those Hangmen with your truck. It’s dented to hell. Cracked headlight—the works.”

“It’s just a truck. She’s more important. I need to find her. I need to—”

He cuts me off. “Jesus, first Vlad and now you. Don’t you know women are nothing but trouble? They fuck with your head way more than they fuck with your dick. The ratio is too unbalanced. You stick with the bitches, you don’t get burned.”

“Yeah, well… Now there’re extra bitches for you to enjoy. Fuck away, my friend… I don’t plan on ever letting her go.”

“That must be some seriously sweet pussy to want to give up the rest of the pussy-wielding world for life. It sounds more like a prison sentence to me.”

“She’s seriously sweet everything. And I’m banking this conversation to use in future when you find yourself knee-deep in the throes of one woman.”

“Never happen.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious,” he barks, obviously irritated with my lack of confidence in his conviction.

I shrug. “Okay.”

“Fuck you,” he throws over his shoulder as he stomps out of my room. It’s the first laugh I’ve had in days. But with the keys to my truck in hand, I’ve got bigger things to consider and press the nurse call button.

Jeanie’s shift ended, bringing a new nurse, Gerry, to answer the call. “What can I help you with?” he asks.

“I need to get out of here.”

“The doctor hasn’t released you yet.”

“Listen, Gerry, please pardon my tone here, but I don’t give a fuck if he’s released me or not. I’m leaving. Where’s my clothing?”

“In the closet.” He points over to a thin door. “Just wait a few minutes. They said your stuff is torn and covered in blood. We have a donation bin—let me find you something clean.”

He gets a sharp nod while I try to ignore why a hospital would have a donation bin. And wait. I hate waiting. It used to not bother me. Missions were mostly an exercise in waiting. Now it just reminds me that Greer has gotten farther away from me.

While he’s gone, I remove that damn IV, scratching at the spot. It bleeds, but not too badly. Then I stand to retrieve my boots and cut and—whoa!—my head feels light and my legs give out. It’s a good thing there’s a bed behind me to catch my fall. Taking a couple of minutes to collect myself, this next try, I stand slower, finding my land legs.

By the time Gerry returns, I have my cut draped over the bed and boots next to my feet on the floor.

“The jeans might be a little big,” he says, handing them over. “But I think the T-shirt will work fine—sir, I really must insist that you wait here for a moment. We have papers for you to sign and it’s hospital policy to wheel you out to the front.”

“Whatever. Do what you’ve got to do.”

Slowly, I push myself up to stand again and walk over to the bathroom, more than ready to get this gown off. The jeans are a size too big, causing the waist to hang below the elastic on my boxer briefs. The T-shirt is actually a size too small, plastering the light blue fabric against my arms, chest, and back. When I emerge from changing, I look like a member of a boy band from the 1990s. I feel ridiculous until I get my cut back on. Only then do I feel a little more like myself.

Nurse Gerry’s an idiot if he thinks I’m waiting any longer or letting him wheel me downstairs to the front of the hospital. Shit’s not happening.

My phone, keys, and wallet in hand, I toss the ruined clothing in the wastebasket next to the bed and leave my hospital room. It hurts to move, can’t lie about that, if only to myself. But the thought of Greer in trouble outweighs any physical discomfort I might endure.

It takes all my strength to walk down that hall like the damn biker I am and not like I have to puke, which is how I feel. Several doctors and nurses pass me and don’t stop to see if I’m okay, so I must be believable. Thank the good lord above when I finally reach the elevator. It’s empty and I press and hold the ‘door close’button to keep anyone from boarding with me because once the elevator car starts moving, I fall back against the wall, using the rail to hold myself up. I stay that way, sweating and gritting my teeth, until the car stops and I force myself to stand tall again. When the doors slide open, I’m the picture of health once again.

The exit leads me through check out, where I stop at the desk to pay my bill.

“Dustin Lennox,” I tell the woman in the navy-blue scrubs who does the payments.

“I don’t have any discharge papers for you,” she says, eyeing me up and down. She sounds a tad too suspicious. I don’t need a damn inquisition.

Pulling my wallet from my pocket, I slip my credit card from the sleeve, dropping it on the counter. “Here’re my discharge papers.”

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