Michael smiles a small, rueful smile. “He’d say option C. I’d be more inclined to select option B.”
“So he didn’t go to your mother’s funeral?”
“Yeah. He didn’t go to his sister’s funeral. Didn’t approve of her marrying a black guy, or so I hear.”
I open up the dresser drawer, lifting out the sharp, curved blade that I keep there. The metal edge has been well honed until it’s wickedly sharp. Lethal. I hold it up, watching closely to gauge his reaction as I pass it back and forth in my hands. Again, I don’t get a reaction. I like that the guy is stone-cold, but a part of me is disappointed. I can’t think of a single occasion when I’ve been covered in blood, holding a knife in an enclosed space and the other guy hasn’t blanched.
“You think you can do me a favor, Michael?”
He starts slipping off his suit jacket, his mouth pulling up at one side. “Where is it?” he asks. He already knows what I need from him, and I like that about him even more than the stone cold thing.
I tap the blade of the knife against my stomach, flashing him my teeth. “Somewhere round abouts in here.” You can’t see the entry wound for all the blood, but I can sure as hell feel it. That’s the thing about stomach wounds: they’re seriously fucking messy. So much blood. They hurt like a motherfucker but they take days to fucking kill you. Or they can. This one might kill me sooner. Who knows?
Michael takes the knife from me, and also the bottle of whiskey. “I’m gonna need more light if I’m gonna do this. That cool?”
I give him a nod and he flicks the light switch on behind him, illuminating the horror show that I’ve made of the room. Bloody hand prints everywhere. The sheets are fucking ruined. Michael gives me a dubious look—almost half amused. “This isn’t all yours, is it?” he asks, waving a hand in my general direction, at the blood all over my face, drying and cracking on my neck, making my hair stiff.
“No. Not all mine. Some of it belonged to an Albanian called Ermir.”
“You need me to take care of Ermir after I’ve taken care of you?” He jerks his head toward the bed—get on. He’s taking the initiative, ticking more boxes. I only wanted to meet the guy, to get a vibe off him, but right now I’m beginning to wonder how I ever lived without him. Not that I’d ever say that out loud, of course. This must be how single working mothers feel when they find the perfect nanny.
“I’ve already dealt with that issue, but thanks for the offer.” I lie flat on the bed, throwing my hands up underneath my head, getting ready. This is gonna suck. I’ve had shit dug out of me before but the stomach is new. Been stabbed there a couple of times. The good thing about a knife is that there’s nothing left behind when it’s pulled out. A bullet…a bullet is a whole different ballgame.
Michael smiles grimly at me and then upends the bottle of whiskey over my torso, clearing back the blood, searching for the entry wound. He finds it pretty quick and then bends down to inspect it. He frowns, staring at the hole. I grind my teeth together, allowing the sting of the alcohol to stab through me.
“Was it a straight shot?” he asks.
I shake my head. “He was on the ground, I was standing. Gun was pointing up.”
Michael thinks about that some. “Hmm. Okay.” He pours whiskey all over his hands and the knife. I expect him to slide the tip of the knife in first, to go rummaging around with the sharpened steel in search of that nasty little bastard, but he doesn’t. He uses his finger.
It’s intensely fucking interesting how pain affects the body. I never make a lot of fuss when I’m suffering. For the most part I can let in the pain, absorb it, study it, accept it and ride it out, but finger probing around inside my body is nearly my goddamn breaking point. I’ll pass out before I complain, but I make a mental note: get the motherfucker back for this one day.
Michael’s brow creases with concentration as he jabs and prods inside me. I turn my head to the side, breathing deeply, getting ready to throw up. I feel him pause. “I think I got it.”
“Then get it the fuck out of me, by all means,” I grit out.
“You’re the boss.”
The next few minutes are excruciating. When Michael finally digs in my gut with the blade and pulls out the metal, it’s only maybe sixty percent of the bullet. He has to go back in, searching for the rest of it. He finds two more pieces, placing each fragment into the palm of my hand. “I can’t feel any internal damage, but I’m not exactly a doctor,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “You should get yourself one of those.”
I let out a hard laugh, reaching for the whiskey again. I need to pour some down my fucking throat instead of all over my bed sheets. “No, thanks. I’ve managed this far. I’ll think I’ll be fine for the foreseeable.”