Page 33 of Wilde's End
He manages a painful, unamused laugh. “Why didn’t you?”
“You were too close to my house. Your body would have attracted bears.” It’s not a complete lie, but as much as I want to never see his face again, my conscience wouldn’t let me leave someone—anyone—to die. Not even Foley.
So Hudson isn’t special.
“Bears. Right.” He lets out a long, painful noise. “Why does everything hurt?”
Booker takes that moment to return with a catheter, and I don’t miss the upward tilt to his lips as he slowly slides the needle in. “There we go,” he says, sounding sympathetic and not at all like a sadist. “The pain will disappear relatively quickly. I’m going to clean you up to see if anywhere needs stitches. Then we’ll deal with your burn, which won’t be fun—for you—and after that, we’ll move on to anything else that’sannoying you. The good news is that I think it’s all cosmetic. Well, except for the concussion, but that’ll only scramble your head for a couple of days.” He turns toward Hudson’s chest. “Oh. But if you have sunglasses, put them on. I’m keeping the light angled away from you, but I need it to see what I’m doing.”
It doesn’t look like Hudson followed any of that. “Sunglasses,” I snap at him.
He pats down the pockets of his shorts, but he still looks confused.
With a huff, I stalk closer, reach into the same pocket he pulled them from earlier, and slide them out. One side has a deep crack in it, but they’re mostly in one piece. “There.”
He takes them without a thank-you and shoves them onto his face. Thankfully, they hide his eyes from my sight, but even that isn’t enough to relieve my bad mood. “I’m going,” I say. “You’ve got it from here, Booker.”
“Actually, you can’t,” he says in that annoyingly singsong voice. “I don’t have a car, and he’s going to need a lift home once I’m done with him. It’s not like I can discharge him in this state—what kind of doctor do you think I am?”
I glare at him, and he smiles innocently back. Then my gaze moves on to Hudson.
He smirks in my direction, but it sounds like it hurts to talk. “Doctor’s orders.”
The challenge in his tone has my hands curling over into fists. Give me my post, and we can settle this like fucking Wenders—until one of us can’t stand up again. I’d like to see Hudson smirk then. “You really trust me not to dump you in the middle of the forest?”
“Trust? You?” The heavy pain in his voice is fading. “I’d rather take my chances with the bears.”
“Funny …” Booker glances at me. “Isn’t that what men callyou?”
“Fuck off.”
Hudson settles his head back against the bed. “You gay?”
“You fuck off too.”
“That means yes.” Even with painkillers kicking in, his voice is slurred.
“I don’t care. It’s none of your business anyway.” I’m ready to ignore him for the rest of the time Booker is treating him, but he keeps talking.
“I’m gay. Kennedy is bi, and Hart is … something.”
“Something?” I ask and then want to kick myself for caring.
“Don’t know if he dates. Or hooks up. Won’t talk to us.”
“Guess you should go back to the city, then, so he can meet someone.”
“Ooh, nice try.” He spares me an appreciative look, and I assume his pain must be gone now. “But it’s still a no.”
Booker leans in and whispers, “He’s always been like this. Very serious. One-track mind.”
“What did I say about fucking off?”
He lifts a shoulder and goes back to cleaning melted skin. “It’s true. If you’re not looking after the town, you’re in Peril matches, and if you’re not in Peril matches, you’re down in Wayward once a month, hooking up.”
“That’s my business.”
“Nah, can’t see it,” Hudson says.
