Page 17 of The Heart We Guard
He mocked the clothes when I showed up with them until he realized it was those or walking around naked.
And while he threatened to do the latter, I’m glad to see he’s rocking the gray joggers and black T-shirt and smelling fresh as a daisy.
“You got any beer?” Butcher asks as we situate him in the living room.
“No. No beer.”
He looks at me hopefully. “In the house, or for me? Because I can give you some cash to go pick some up.”
“Contrary to whatever impression you seem to be under, this is not a hotel. I am not your server. And second, given the volume of drugs currently passing through your system, you need to give your liver and kidneys a break.”
He pats his cut that I placed next to him on the sofa.
“You looking for those?” I say, tipping my head in the direction of his cigarettes and lighter that sit on the ledge above the fireplace, far out of his reach.
“What the fuck, Greer?”
I reach for the box sitting next to them. “Yeah, none of those for you either. Not in my house. You need to cold turkey it, wear a patch, or leave. I had some patches delivered the first night when I found your cigarettes. Here.” I toss them over to him.
He shakes his head. “This place is worse than prison.”
I laugh at that as he wrestles his clothes to put one onto his upper arm. “Yeah, because you get to lie on a four-thousand-dollar sofa while watching a sixty-inch television in prison all the time.”
He shrugs. “At least you can get a pack of cigs in prison.”
I gesture towards the front door. “If you want to leave and take your chances there, you know the way. Would be a lot easier for me if you weren’t still here, then I could get to work.”
Or sleep. Or shower.
A loud hammering at the front door makes both of us jump.
Butcher sits up straight on instinct, then places a palm over his shoulder wound. “Where’s my gun?”
I glance over to the tin on the kitchen counter that I put it in because I was scared of it. “It’s in the kitchen. But it’s probably some overly aggressive door-to-door salesperson.”
I look to the door, but Butcher grabs my wrist.
“Don’t answer it,” he whispers.
“Relax. I have a peephole. And I’ve managed to keep myself alive a long time.”
He shakes his head. “You and I both know I wasn’t being a saint before I showed up in your parking lot. It could be our enemies. It could be the cops. Either way, you’ve been involved enough.”
His words are enough to startle me. I hadn’t thought that there would be anyone out of the ordinary at my door. A parcel delivery. My neighbor Esme dropping off cookies. Someoneselling Girl Scout cookies—although, it would be really early if it were.
“Yo! Doc Hansen. You in there?” a voice shouts from outside. “It’s Phil Gray. Nicholas Gray’s dad.”
“A patient,” I say. I’ve called the hospital to see how he is, but now that I’m no longer his doctor, confidentiality was removed from me.
“And how does a patient’s father have your goddamn address, Greer? Think!”
I jump up, ignoring Butcher, and hurry down the hall. With a quick check through the peephole, I open the door. “Mr. Gray. How’s Nicholas?”
Before I know it, I’m in Mr. Gray’s arms as he hugs me. “Heard what you did, Doc. What it cost you. One of the nurses told me what happened.”
Unused to being manhandled, I wiggle my way out of his hold.
I’m sure my face must show my discomfort, because he puts his hands up. “Sorry…I just…that was some sacrifice you made for my kid.”
