Page 72 of Skin Deep

I leaned forward and winced when I saw that he was slowly removing a patch of skin on the back of Bowen’s hand.

“I’d hold still if I were you,” I advised Bowen. “Don’t want him to slip.”

Bowen answered by spitting a string of curses and slurs at me and pounding his head against the table.

“Please secure the patient,” War barked.

“Gotcha.” I stepped up to the table and slid another strap over Bowen’s forehead to hold his head in place. When Bowen tried to spit on me, I grabbed a wad of wound dressing from the table next to War and shoved it between his teeth. “You ever do any roleplay?” I asked War, leaning against the table and raising my voice over Bowen’s screaming.

He didn’t even look away from what he was doing. “Like what?”

I shrugged. “I could be your nurse.”

He looked up at me and his cheeks turned pink when I winked at him. War grunted and went back to work. “That’d be like me suggesting you play a sexy road construction worker. Hand me that suction tube over there, would you?”

I glanced around until I spotted what he was gesturing to and handed it to him. “Okay then. What if I was the teacher and you were the naughty schoolboy?”

“I hated all my teachers,” he said flatly.

I snapped my fingers. “I got one. You be the cheerleader and I’ll be the star quarterback.”

His face reddened a little more. “I’m trying to concentrate, Paxton.”

I chuckled and glanced up at the timer. Eight minutes had passed. Bowen’s desperate screams had died down to pathetic whimpers, and War had pulled away a good section of the skin on the back of his hand, exposing muscle, tendon and bone. In that time, we’d left Tiffany behind for some Madonna with “Material Girl.”

“You got a whole soundtrack set up?” I asked.

War froze and looked up. He pulled his mask down and frowned. “You don’t like my music.”

I shrugged. “It’s hard to argue with the queen of pop, but… It’s not my speed. You like Jackson?”

“Michael or Janet?”

Bowen grunted.

“Nobody asked you,” I said and shrugged. “Either, I guess.”

“They’re all right,” War replied and then sighed as he looked up at the clock. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“I don’t have enough time to finish.” He glared at Bowen. “Hold still because I have to hurry, and if you flinch, you’ll lose the whole fucking hand.”

Bowen’s muffled screams renewed as War went back to cutting, moving faster, though he was still careful. He stopped when the timer ran down and there was a loud buzz. Bowen sagged with relief when War moved away, peeling off his gloves, mask, and the surgical gown he’d put on, shoving them in a black trash can in the corner of the room.

“All right, Bowen,” War started as he went to wash his hands.

I picked up the remote and shut off the music so we could make sure Bowen heard.

“Are you ready to talk?” War looked over at him.

I wasn’t sure Bowen could see where he was standing, so I stayed right in front of Bowen, staring him down.

Sweat shimmered on Bowen’s pale face and blood dripped from the large open wound on his hand, pooling on the factory floor. “You people,” he panted, “disgust me.”

“You’d better answer him,” I advised. “Because the next round is mine.”

Bowen’s eyes flared wide for a second and his heart rate sped up again. He looked at War as if War would save him, but War glared back.

---