Page 105 of Without You, Scotch and Sammy 2

Kari’s eyes jump to mine in alarm as I come tearing around the corner. Fuck this! I’ll fix her fictionally sprained ankle, and we’ll try this another day – but she points at me and glares. Roy goes to follow her gaze again, but being some kind of award winning actress, Kari cries out and drops her weight completely. Roy scoops her up into his arms, cradling her until all I can see are her legs on one side of his broad body, her hair on the other, and a single arm as it hangs around his back. She continues to give me hand signals that roughly translate to ‘take care of fucking business, dumbass.’

I groan as he walks away with her in his arms, but I move silently in their wake until I reach the file room door. I look toward both ends of the long hallway, but with no one around once Roy turns the corner and takes my reason for living with him, I get to work on the door.

I attempt to turn the handle, just in case the universe decides to smile down on me, but it’s locked up tight and I swear under my breath. I was hoping to not have to break in.

I don’t know how long I’ve got. It’s going on two a.m. and Roy is our only security tonight, and right now, he’s busy with a pretty girl, but if someone else happens to wander down here, I’m fucked. And I’m probably out of a job. And going to jail.

I dig into my pocket and pull out my tools, then stepping in close to the door, I finger the wrench inside the cylinder and begin counting pins. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Sliding the rake in after it, I turn the lock and murmur to myself as I slowly feel the pins releasing. “We need him. She promised to come back. You love Scotch and Marcus and they deserve happiness. If Roy doesn’t take his fucking hands off her, he’s going to lose them.” I literally develop an eye twitch as I imagine what Roy and Kari are doing right now, but when the lock finally clicks open, I swing inside the room and slam the door shut behind me.

Pocketing my tools and switching on the lights, my stomach drops. Fuckkkk. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps six large filing cabinets and a Dewey Decimal system. But what I find is essentially a warehouse filled floor to ceiling with shelved archive boxes.

I stride along the rows and work my way back. At least they’re alphabetical. I move through ‘A’ and ‘B’ quickly, cursing when I realize we have way too many people with a last name starting with ‘C,’ then I jog toward the back in search of ‘T.’

Tabian. Tack. Tadiello. What the fuck does Taetzsch even mean? Talbot. Tate. Tennon. Thomas. Toby. Toda. Motherfucker! I need Ricardo, not Turner.

I shout under my breath and jog back a couple rows until I find the ‘R’s’, then I begin again.

I scan quickly over box after box until finally, I find the one I’m looking for. I stand on the edge of one shelf and reach up to the one above, then pulling Sammy’s file down, my eye tick turns to a full-blown stroke as time moves by and Kari doesn’t come back.

I drop the box on the concrete floor and rip the lid off. Flicking through file after file, guilt and disgust wash through me that I’m even looking. If she says she’s had a miscarriage, then she has the right to be believed. But still, I continue to flick, because I’m not risking Scotch’s happiness. He deserves so much more than he’s got, and if I can help, I’m doing it.

I flick until I find the exact file I need, then pulling it out, I read the loose sheets of paper as I scan for keywords.

Samantha Ricardo. Female. Eighteen years old. Positive pregnancy test.

My hands sweat and my stomach cramps when my eyes finally lock onto the words I need. Five weeks, two days. HCG levels elevated. Administered morphine and fluids. Admitted overnight. Authorized by Frederick Ricardo. Discharged seventeen hours later. Advised to rest and recuperate.

She miscarried.

For nearly fourteen years we’ve blamed Sammy. We’ve ostracised her. Hated her. Bitched about her in front of Scotch. Bitched about her behind Scotch’s back. We’ve used her name as a curse word and we’ve thrown girls at Scotch in an attempt to spite her and help him move on.

And all along, she was alone and sick and terrified, and she lost her baby while her folks bullied her.

I rip the sheet of paper from the top of the stack and shove it into my leg pocket. Pressing the lid back on, I stand and push the box back into place on the shelves. So long as no one pays attention to the disturbed dust for a week or so, no one will ever know I was here.

I stand and jog toward the exit, but adrenaline surges through my body as the handle turns and the fluorescence of the hallway sneaks in. I plaster my back to the wall and curse that I didn’t use a flashlight instead of switching the lights on, but it’s too late now, so I slow my breathing and I watch and wait.

“Luc?”

I dash out from behind the shelving near ‘A’ and snag Kari’s hand in mine. She squeaks out in surprise, but I don’t stop. I drag her back into the hall and flip the switch on the storeroom, then pull the door closed and wait to hear the snick of the locks reengaging.

“Did you get--”

“Shh.” I drag her along quickly and escape the hall our crimes were committed in. Down another long hall, I search for the storeroom I’m always collecting supplies from. We don’t pass a single soul in our travels, but I keep her hand clasped securely in mine and keep us moving.

“Luc, wait.”

“Shh.”

I swing the storeroom door open and shove her in.

“Luc!”

I slam the door shut, then spinning, I rush forward and slam her against the wall as medical supplies rain down around us. Bandages and syringes in protective packaging hit the floor. Boxes of gloves and sick bags smack us in the head, but I don’t care. I latch my mouth onto Kari’s and palm her breasts and squeeze.

She groans and presses closer to me, darting her tongue out to play as intensely as I do.

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