Page 77 of Manhattan Tormentor

He thinks he’s invisible, the boy in the corner.

Hunched shoulders under the black t-shirt, his head tipped down, but he’s far from invisible to me. I know he’s been there for hours because of my son.

I pretend I don’t see him watching me when I take a seat in the empty waiting area. Sena and Bunny are fussing over Sage and have been for the past few hours in between doctors and tests. Much to my son’s chagrin, who hates being the focus of anyone’s attention. But as all Fierro men do, we know how to keep our mouths shut when the women we love need to shower us with affection.

I connect the group video chat to my other two hooligans. Lachlan’s blond hair is in tufts, as if he’s yanked at it a few hundred times. Theo looks tired.

“What did the scans say?” Theo asks. I half smile for his brotherly care.

“Scrapes and bruises, a dozen stitches on his forehead. His dislocated hip thankfully was the worst of it. But with the aid of a crutch and therapy, they say it’ll heal fine.”

“Holy shit. Only our mad scientist would come away unscathed from a car accident,” Lachie remarks. “How’s he feeling, Dad?”

“He’s sore and sleepy from the pain medicine, but otherwise he’s coping with your mom losing her shit.”

Both of my boys chuckle.

“Listen,” I start, “you don’t have to come, thankfully it’s not as bad as we first thought and they should allow him home in a day or two.” We are waiting on a scan to check there is no damage to his brain and then for his hip to be put back into place. My fucking nerves are shot. One car accident in any family is one too many, but I’ve suffered through two now. Remembering all too well being on the phone and listening to Sena’s car accident when she was pregnant with Theo. The horror of it never truly went away, and now I’m reliving it with my boy.

“Dad, we’re coming. I have a flight in two hours, Lachie, when’s yours?”

“First thing in the morning, I couldn’t get anything sooner.”

I smile at them both. I have wonderful kids.

I tell them I love them after I’ve lightened their concerns, and we hang up. Rising to my feet, I see the boy from the corner of my eye. He’s moving from foot to foot, resting a shoulder against a wall. It’s been a long night. Not one I envisioned when I woke this morning with my pint-sized wife climbing all over me.

After doing a few more fast calls to my parents, siblings and in-laws, I stroll over. The boy stiffens and tries to act invisible.

“You need to go home, Son.” I say and his head comes up. I see he’s exhausted too, his eyes are sunken, coated in dark circles. When he stands there with his hands deep in the front pockets of his jeans, I repeat. “It’s late, you need to be at home.”

“I wanted to see if he was okay.”

“He will be fine,” I turn to return to Sage’s room, but I’m stopped when he asks, “can I see him?”

I inhale and stare at the young man. He’s like my two oldest, an abundance of self-confidence, probably thinks the world owes him a favor. I might know his family if I looked into it, Manhattan isn’t all that big when it comes to business associates. Sena is the one who flies off the handle in our family. More so since we had the kids. She’s had more than one tiff with other moms before now in defense of our cubs. But as I look at his stooped shoulders and imploring eyes, all I hear in my mind are the details Raene reeled off to me of the things this kid has done to my boy in the past year. There’s a lot of fucking rage bubbling under my skin. It doesn’t matter their age. Or if they can fight their own battles. My instincts are to wade in and make itright. This boy has hurt my son and I don’t have calm in me.

And now Sage is in a hospital bed.

I don’t know if those two things are connected yet.

“You were there, how did it happen?”

His movements are short and tired, he rakes a hand through his hair and meets my eyes. “I honestly don’t know. We were talking, he went his way, I went mine. The next I know, I hear tires screeching and Sage was going through the air.” When he inhales he lets it out in a staggered sequence. From everything Bunny has told me, this guy hates Sage. But the emotion I see now is far from hate. It’s as if he’s reliving the event, agony on his face. “I tried to warn him, I called out, but it was too late.”

I nod, somehow believing him. I’ve dealt with too many lying assholes over the years. I speak with cops most every week, it’s easy to pick out liars.

I believe this kid, and that makes it marginally easier to rein in my banked anger.

“Go home.”

“But…”

I pin him with a stare. “In answer to your former question, no, you cannot see Sage. I’ve been informed of everything you’ve said and done to him.” The wash of guilt on his face confirms. I have to swallow my fury that I didn’t know some little shit was terrorizing my son before now. “Excuses and reasons mean nothing. I suspect some of it is to do with how you feel. It’s no reason to justify your actions.” When his mouth opens to say something I press on, “the only reason I’m not putting you through the fucking wall, Son, is Thatcher said you handled everything at the scene. You made sure Sage was lucid until help arrived. That is the only reason. So, for your sake, and for Sage’s, you stay away from him from now on.”

He stares like he wants to tell me to go fuck myself, but he gives a quick nod and ambles off toward the exit.

I exhale, trying to regain my composure before I head back in.

---