Page 11 of Seeing Grayscale

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to, Gray. Is that something we can arrange?”

I’d kill for some medicine—fucking killfor it. “Is it a real doctor? With like…a license or whatever?”

“Of course.”

“Can they write prescriptions?”

“If needed, yes.”

Fuck. Medicine costs money.

“I’ll cover that too if that’s what you need.”

Our eyes meet, his hazel ones swirling with cautious sympathy. “Can I shower first?”

“It wouldn’t be today. I have to make some calls, but I hoped tomorrow would work.”

“Alright.”

“Good.” He nods and glances at the watch on his wrist. “Food should be here in about forty minutes. They know to come to the door.” Flicking his eyes over to the nightstand housing a lamp and landline phone, he points at it. “I’ll leave my number there.”

Flashes of the motel door being kicked in, Dan’s threats, and statements of seeingallcome to mind. For all I know, one of his lackeys works for the restaurant. What if they aren’t done with me? What if I’m still in Dan’sturf? I didn’t pay that much attention after the highway incident.

Why didn’t I pay attention?

“Can…will you stay until the food gets here?” I manage to ask, hating how pathetic I sound.

“Sure,” he says easily.

Nodding, I swallow the panic and push to my feet. “Gonna shower.”

“I’ll be here.”

I’ll be here.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard those words and even longer since I dared to believe them.

Looking was a bad idea, but I needed to know.

Feeling it happen was one thing, the blood, too. But seeing it with my own eyes has a sob pushing past my lips as I smother it with my palm.

I knew it’d be swollen; the pain whenever I sit down is gnarly. I knew it’d be red. I didn’t think it’d look so fucking bad, though. That it would look like three men took turns with no care or patience.

I force myself in the shower, thankful for the steel bar on the wall to keep me steady. This hotel supplies shampoo, conditioner,andbody wash. All liquid. All in little bottles. I hiss as the hot water cascades over every open wound. Scrapes along my hips and stomach, the raised, inflamed ring around my asshole, and the cut on my temple. It’s not relaxing in the slightest, but if a doctor is going to come out here, I’m going to be fucking clean.

Using the washcloth, I scrub my nails until most of the grease and dirt are gone. When I get out, I wrap up in the bathrobe that, sure enough, was in the bathroom closet, just like Hunter said. The material is thicker than it looks and rough against my skin, but it hangs to my knees and covers my arms. I tie it shut and limp out of the bathroom.

“Food got here early,” Hunter says when he sees me.

There is a small buffet laid out on the table: three containers of pasta, a foil wrap, a personal pizza, and what appears to be salad. He also had the foresight to get extra water. A few bottles sit beside the food. “I can’t eat all that.”

“There is a microwave and mini fridge.”

I know what he’s doing. He wants to push to find out more, but he’s using his departure as a way to make itmychoice. Autonomy or whatever. Like I have any of that anymore. “Just fuckin’ eat with me. I know you want to.”

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