Page 51 of Devil's Due: Sarge

She reaches over to the table next to my bed to pick up a plastic cup with a white straw inside and lifts it to my lips. “Drink,” she orders. As I sip lightly, not having the strength to do more, she picks up an object, placing it in my hand. “Press the button on top to top off your pain med.” Then she moves the cup back over to the table.

“Thanks.”

“Rest,” she says in reply. “Save your strength. Your body has gone through a lot of trauma in a short amount of time.”

Then Greer does something completely unexpected. She takes my hand in hers, pressing the palm against her cheek. I’m not even sure she realizes she’s doing it, such a simple gesture but at the same time so intimate. She holds that position until the meds put me out again.

The next I wake Block is checking my vitals. “Greer?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Haven’t seen you in years, then you show up at my door full of bullet holes and the first thing you ask about is a chick?”

“I’mnotfull of bullet holes. One hardly equates to full.”

“Where’d you meet her?”

“Safehouse.”

He shoots me a very clear ‘excuse me?’ stare. “She was hiding out from her family. We gave her protection.”

“And they found her?”

“It’s complicated, but yeah.”

“And you two are fucking, then?”

“Say that again and I’ll gut you. It’s more than just fucking with Greer.”

“Pretty ballsy to piss off your doctor, but I’ll let it slide considering you’re on heavy meds.” He laughs. The bastard. “She’s hot, I’ll give you that.”

“She’s more than that, asshole.”

“Well, she’s eating with the men.”

“Dark? Reap?”

“Dr. R. patched up your friend Dark. He’s out there eating, too. Reaper, he’s better than you, but laid up in the other bed.”

“Thanks, man… I owe—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he barks at me. “You don’t owe me shit. You and I both know I’d be dead ten times over if not for you.”

I don’t bother to respond. We’ve been through hell together. No matter that I have a different set of brothers now, that’s a bond that’ll never be broken.

“What do you got to eat around this place?”

He chuckles. “Same old Sarge. I’ll bring something in.” Then he moves to leave the room.

“It better not be oatmeal,” I call after him. He laughs harder, flipping me the bird.

The bastard comes back with Cream of Wheat. “Are you fucking serious?” I ask.

Smiling like he got one over on me, he says, “It’s not oatmeal.” When all I do is grumble as my reply, he goes on. “Listen, there’s a reason we don’t put you right back on solid foods and it’s not just to piss you off—that’s a perk. Your stomach can’t handle anything more. You’re lucky you’re not on liquids.”

I shovel Cream of Wheat into my mouth then get down to what’s been weighing on me. “Heard any talk?”

“Had my ear to the ground.”

Block runs this clinic—mini hospital—for men like us, the kind of men who fare better not having to answer questions. There were plenty of times on missions when we had to rely on people who could be paid off to stitch and not snitch.

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