Page 7 of Road Rash

3

Jonesie

My head hurts like a son of a bitch. I’d cry with relief at seeing Old Man’s face if I didn’t think it would only make my head hurt worse. He stayed. He stayed with me.

Old Man reaches his hand up to press against my cheek and I find myself leaning into the touch. His hand is warm, the skin there simultaneously calloused yet soft. And it smells like him. He comes from the generation of men who wear old spice. It’s a warm and comforting smell bringing up safe, happy emotions the longer he keeps it there.

“Whatcha mean what happened?” he asks.

“I remember opening my eyes to you holding me last night. In pain…”

“That’s all you remember, baby?” His brows pull down as sad and confused as me. “Nothing else?” he prods.

I start to shake my head then stop because it hurts to shake it, swallow hard and answer, “No.”

“Baby…” he whispers. Baby. He’s never called me that before last night. His hand glides down to cup the back of my neck as he bends in to place a kiss to my temple. That’s another thing—the touching. Don’t get me wrong. Now that he’s started it, I crave it. It’s just… different.

“What’s with you calling me baby?” I ask.

“We’ll talk about it once you're outta here.”

“I hurt.”

Dipping his eyes and his chin, he acknowledges that he gets it and presses a button to call the nurse. It takes a couple of minutes for her to respond, her voice crackling loudly through a speaker. “How can I help you?”

“Jonesie’s in pain,” he answers for me.

“Okay, we’ll be in momentarily.”

Old Man’s ice blue eyes continue to fix on me, every time I wince, I swear his butt lifts from the seat he’s occupied since last night. It’s almost like he wants to intercept my pain to keep me from feeling it. I can’t explain it any other way. Something has changed between us. I just wish I understood what.

The nurse, a new nurse who introduces herself as Joyce, walks in the room with a smile on her face. She has curly brown hair that falls past her shoulders. I’d wear my hair up if I worked in a place like this. Still, it’s pretty. She’s wearing white crocks along with her deep blue scrubs. It’s jarring, the contrast. The shoes are too bright. They hurt my head. Though, the pain begins to ease when she administers the pain meds into my IV.

“How’s that, baby?” Old Man asks and he leans in, clasping one of my hands in both of his. His touch warms me, straight to my bones.

I sigh. The meds are good enough to start easing the pain right away. Not taking it completely away, but for now, I’ll take this because it’s better than without it.

“Thank you for staying,” I whisper.

Instead of the top of my head, this time he presses a kiss to my cheek. I want more. I know I look hideous, lump on my head, large cut and scrapes running down the side of my face. At least it’s on the opposite side from where he’s sitting. He can see it, but in my mind, he can’t see it, see me, as clearly.

It’s a long day of waiting. The police show up to ask me questions but I can’t answer them. I hate that I can’t answer, but there’s this fog where a memory should be. I hear a muffled male voice then nothing. Nothing.

They tell me that Brandi and Drake were shot last night. Shot? “Shot?” I screech, tears running down my cheeks.

“You really don’t remember?” the deputy asks.

“Why would she lie, man?” Old Man barks at him, and he moves his whole body protectively to block me from the officer even though I’m lying in a bed and he’s in a chair. His behavior continues to confuse me. It’s far from brotherly. It’s how I’ve wanted him to act since the day we met. Those kisses on my head or cheek aren’t brotherly. He’s always, from day one, given me the impression with his looks or his treatment of me, that he wants me. What he’s never done is touch me, kiss me, or call me baby in the past decade I’ve worked for him.

And Brandi was shot. Drake was shot.

How could I not remember?

I squeeze my eyes shut, squeeze them tight, trying to call up anything that might help them with the investigation. Frustrated, I open my eyes to look at Old Man. “The last thing I remember is finding Brandi’s phone on the bar.”

“It’s okay, baby,” he tries to reassure me. “It’s his job. But, it’s okay. Don’t hurt yourself. It’ll come when it comes.”

The deputy bristles, apparently not agreeing. “If you remember anything, contact us immediately.” He then opens up his wallet to produce a card, handing it over to me, though Old Man intercepts it.

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