Page 36 of Wilde's End
“Your patient is released. Next time, bring me a real challenge.”
Wilde grunts and climbs into the driver’s seat while the doctor helps me to the passenger side. “What two main things do you need to do to recover?”
“Darkness and elevation.”
“Good.” His eyes drift down to my bare chest. “Don’t forget to bring those stitches back to me.”
My face scrunches up, and I nudge him away so I can slam the door between us. I’m going to take these damn stitches outmyself. “Thanks,” I mutter through the open window as Wilde guns the engine and pulls away.
I wait until the doctor is out of sight before I ask, “What the fuck is wrong with him?”
Wilde doesn’t answer me.
“He seems like the kind of guy who’d slice and dice a man and enjoy it.”
At first, I think he’s going to keep ignoring me. “Booker’s harmless.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, but that’s a lie.”
Silence wraps around us again, and I fucking hate it.
“You sure you didn’t get a bit too angry?” I ask, just to push him. “A little slip of the fist, a little squeeze of the hand …”
From his profile, I see his jaw clench again.
“Maybe you thought it would be an easy way to get rid of me.” It hurts to think of words, but running my mouth is second nature.
I swear his nostrils flare, but he’s still acting like he can’t hear my bullshit. His knuckles are little white hills, standing out against his sun-battered skin.
“Nah … I’m pretty sure I could take you.”
Nothing.
“Bet you’re all talk, no action.”
Still nothing.
“Were you the one who tore my shirt off? Wanted a closer look?”
“You’re so fucking irritating. I should have punched you.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Nothingagain. I almost groan in frustration. What the hell is with this guy? I glare at him and his messy beard, the wild hair, the way he barely fits in his seat. In addition to the scar through his eye, he’s got tiny white ones all up and down his arms, but thesleeve tattoos on one arm make them harder to see. “What are the scars from?”
“I already told you that isn’t your business.”
That makes me frown. “When?”
“When you broke into my house. Right before you took off and broke yourself.”
I was in his house? Apparently, that was caught up in the memories I knocked from my head. I’m squinting behind my sunglasses as I try to remember, but everything from today feels like soup, and the harder I try, the more it makes me want to punch something. “Tell mesomethingabout you.”
I’m fully expecting him to ignore me again, but he answers. “I don’t like you.”
“That’s fine, no one does.”
He goes back to boring silence.
