Page 9 of Brutal Prince

FOUR

Ollie

I tapped on her door armed with food, hoping she’d let me inside. I knew several things about her - where she worked, what she studied, but I had to scrounge around to find out where she lived. I knew she’s a KV native, so I assumed she lived in town and off campus. It was Lise Fontaine who gave me Gretta’s address in the end after plenty of begging, convincing her that I wanted to surprise her.

The apartment building was one of those shabby box shaped buildings that looked like every other box shape building around here occupied by people who are skint. Serenaded by crying babies, arguing adults, and thumping music I ran up the metal steps and waited for someone to open the door. Gretta Nelson was such a closed book I honestly had no idea if she was single and straight, and I only assumed she was a meat eater since she worked at Stads.

I bought tacos. Seriously, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

I caught a glimpse of that bright red hair, before I noticed her pale cheeks streaked with tears, those big eyes watery and strained.

“What are you doing here?” she wasn’t pleased to see me and I could hear someone groaning in the background.

I raised the bag of tacos. “I brought dinner…do you need help with something,” pointing past her.

“No. You can’t be here.” The person groaning sounded like a wounded animal, crying in pain.

“Who is that?”

Her lips trembled. “Who told you where I lived?” Not exactly the answer I was looking for, followed by more intense groaning in the background. She was clearly in distress. “Sorry, Ollie, I have to go,” and shut the door in my face. It’s a good thing I love tacos because I had a stack to get through.

Feeling defeated, I stepped away only to stall when a massive thud shook the floor. The door flew open and I turned back to her.

“Ollie,” she cried out, “I need your help.”

I wasn’t prepared for the sight when I stepped into the tiny apartment, but that’s because Gretta never spoke about her private life. If she’d been a little more open, I wouldn’t have stumbled in repulsion and swore under my breath.

A very large woman in a sea of her own naked dimpled flesh was lying awkwardly on the floor and seemed embarrassed or ashamed to see me standing there.

“Young man,” she cried out.

“This is my friend Ollie,” Gretta yelled over audience cheers peeling off the television set up on a table at the end of the bed. I think it was Jeopardy. Gretta turned the volume down so we could hear her mom speak under heaving breaths.

“How come I haven’t…” groaned in pain, “met Ollie before?”

“Now’s not the time for the third degree, Mom,” Gretta hit back. Addressing me, “the hoist broke and I called home help, but they said they won’t be here for another hour or so. She tried standing on her own, but slipped back down.”

“I’m so sorry, son, that you get to see this,” Gretta’s mom gasped, still trying to catch her breath.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked, although it was obvious what needed to happen here.

“We need to get her back in bed,” Gretta instructed. “She’s lying on her ulcer which is causing a lot of pain.”

I hesitated because even though I pump heavy weights at the gym, you’d need three of me to wrangle this woman up off the floor. Let me make it clear, I was doing this for Gretta Nelson.

Gretta instructed me on the best way to lift the woman, which required several steps of movement and it also meant I had to place my hands on the bare rolls of flesh. If it was anyone else, I would’ve scampered like a hare back to my car.

“I’m so sorry, son,” her mom kept saying, “it’s not a pleasant sight for a young man like you to see. I’m so sorry…”

At the risk of breaking my back and suffocating from the scent of rotten flesh, I did manage to get her back up into her large bed that was set up in the living room. Gretta quickly covered her over with sheets and quietly told her that she’d have to wee in her diapers, which I pretended not to see.

“Before you judge, it’s a disability,” Gretta spat when she’d finished consoling her mom.

“I wasn’t judging,” I said, moving my right shoulder in circles after straining it.

“I can see in your eyes that you were judging her.”

“I wasn’t judging. I bought tacos.” I left the bag on the kitchen bench. “I figured you’d be sick of burgers. There’s enough for your mom too.”

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