“No. I just…fell. I’m fine.”
“Sure, okay, man.” The clerk clearly knew exactly how Stone had gotten hurt, but he said nothing.
“I’m feeling kinda sick, you know?” Stone said. “So, if you happened to know where to get some antibiotics, there’d be another one of those in it for you.” He tapped the $100 bill with his forefinger, which was crusted with blood he hadn’t managed to clean off.
“I might. Not cheap, but I get it.” He glanced at Wren, his expression openly curious, if not lustful.
She blushed under his scrutiny and giggled, pressing closer to Stone and nuzzling his neck. Stone had to force himself to stay calm, to play the part. It was difficult, though, with Wren’s mouth against his throat, her shy laugh in his ear, her arms around his neck. It was a game, an act, though it felt like anything but.
It was purely to convince the clerk, then, that he pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then her lips. It wasn’t that he wanted to kiss her, obviously. He just had to play the part. That’s all. Yet he couldn’t catch his breath as he tasted her mouth, felt her warmth, her tongue touching his upper lip. She was responding, giving in, playing the part back.
Only, the kiss went on longer than it needed to, and when they broke apart, Wren’s flushed face and widened eyes didn’t look faked. Nor did her surprise, or her raw desire.
“I tink you need room for dat, huh?” The clerk handed them the envelope with two key-cards, the room number written in marker across the front. “Number two-two-tree.”
Stone took the envelope with the keycard and tugged Wren to elevator. She clung to him, but now it wasn’t merely for support. There was another element to way she held on to him. It was closer, somehow. More intimate. Her palms were flat on his chest and her eyes were locked on his face. Her full breasts were pressed against him, showing him tantalizing glimpses of her tan skin.
The elevator opened, and a young Caucasian couple stumbled out, laughing uproariously, holding on to each other, reeking of alcohol. The man had dreadlocks held back by a white bandana, and he wore khaki capri pants, flip flops, and a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt. The girl was dressed similarly.
“Dude, you’re like, bleeding, man,” the dreadlocked drunk said. “You okay, dude?”
Stone growled. “Dude, I’m, like, fine. Mind your own, like, fucking business.”
The guy held up his hands. “Sure thing man. Whatever. I was just thinking, I’ve got some vikes in my room. Thought you might want one, you know?”
“Vicodin?”
He nodded. “Yeah, man. They ain’t, like, legal or whatever, but they’re the real deal.”
Stone fished out a $50. “I could use one.”
The couple lurched back onto the elevator, and Stone and Wren followed them to their fourth-floor room, which stank of pot and cigarettes. Empty bottles of vodka were scattered everywhere, and Stone saw an ashtray full of joint roaches. Dreadlocks picked up a small cellophane packet with four large white pills stamped with the word “Vicodin”.
“Here, man. The fifty should cover it.” He took the bill and handed Stone the baggie. “Anybody asks, you didn’t get that shit from me.”
“And you never saw us,” Stone said.
“Saw who?” Dreadlocks answered.
Stone just nodded, prodding Wren out of the room and toward the elevator. As the door left, he heard the girl ask her boyfriend, “Are you sure he wasn’t a cop? He kind of looked like a cop. And that looked like a gunshot wound.”
“I don’t know, man. He might’ve been. But he didn’t arrest us, did he?” A thoughtful pause. “Besides, we’re in the fucking Philippines, aren’t we? I don’t think an American cop can arrest us here. Juris-duty, or something.”
“You mean
Stone shook his head and led Wren back to the elevator. A thought struck him, and he dug into his pants pocket, withdrawing Wren’s cross. He dangled it in front of her by the chain. “I thought you might want this back.”
Wren took it in a trembling palm. “Oh my god, Stone. Thank you.” She pressed the cross to her lips. “This was an adoption gift from my parents.”
Stone hugged her briefly as the elevator doors whooshed open. As soon as they found their room, Wren dropped the backpack onto the floor and fell onto the bed, then winced.
“God, a real bed. Thank you, Jesus.” She pressed a hand to her ribs, taking a deep breath and shifting her torso.
Stone watched her sprawl, watched her breathing slow and become even, and then she was asleep. He watched her for a few minutes more, and then snatched the backpack up and moved into the bathroom. He lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat and then, holding his breath, peeled his shirt away from the wound, expelling his pent-up breath in an explosive hiss as the clotted, drying blood snatched at his skin and at the open wound.
Before he did anything else, Stone needed to be clean. He turned the shower on, washed down one of the Vicodin while he waited for the water to get hot, and then stripped out of his shorts and stepped in. The water scoured his skin and the torn flesh, but the heat felt good, relaxing his exhausted muscles. He stood under the spray for a moment, and then washed up and got out, wrapping a towel around his waist.
Taking a seat on the toilet, he grabbed the closest towel and pressed beneath the wound. He took an unopened bottle of water, and, using the tip of the knife, worked a small hole into the bottom of the bottle. The spray from the shower had set the wound bleeding again, so Stone held the towel beneath the entrance wound, and then, tilting his body back as far as he could, squeezed the bottle so water squirted in a thin, high-pressure stream into the bullet hole. His breath expelled in a gasping moan, but he gritted his teeth and squirted more water in, catching the excess as it sluiced away, pink with blood. He soaked through one towel, tossed it into the tub, and grabbed another, pouring water into the wound until the bottle was gone. Then he fished the small bottle of antiseptic spray from the backpack, opened it, and sprayed the entrance hole.
The next part was trickier. He had to do the same to the exit hole, which he couldn’t really reach on his own. He debated trying, but knew it would ineffective. Pressing the towel to the opening, he shook Wren awake.
She moaned, murmured, and then finally cracked her eyes open.
“Sorry, babe, but I need your help.”
Wren sat up and blinked, shivered. Her forehead was dotted with sweat, and she scratched at her skin, then caught herself and stopped. “Help with what?”
Stone crossed the room to resume his seat on the toilet, this time facing the tub to give her access to the exit hole. “Squirt some water into the hole for me.”
Wren knelt behind him in the small bathroom, taking the red-soaked towel from him. She handed him one of the unopened bottles of water, and he poked a hole into it, then handed the bottle back to her.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“I’ve got a bullet hole in my side,” Stone said. “Everything about it hurts. I’ll be fine.”
Wren cupped the towel against his back and poured the water onto the hole. Stone suppressed the hiss of pain, grinding his teeth until they hurt.
After she’d used the entire bottle, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now spray the antiseptic on it. A lot, from an inch or two away.” She sprayed it liberally, and he couldn’t stop a groan from escaping. “Good. Okay, now open the tampon for me.”
She did so, and Stone slid it into the hole, grimacing and growling as the cotton scraped the raw edges of open flesh. The string hung down his side, and he ripped a piece of the medical tape and fastened the string to his skin so he could pull the tampon free later. Wren had bought a roll of gauze, so he wrapped that tightly around his body, covering the wound and applying a bit of pressure. He taped the ends to his skin and then sank back against the cold porcelain, trying to even out his ragged breathing.
It would have to do for now. He was lightheaded and weak, which meant he’d lost a lot of blood.
“What now?” Wren asked.
“Now we hope I don’t pick up an infection. If that clerk can find some antibiotics, I’d be happier, but if not, we’ll just have to pray.”
