Page 105 of Savannah Royals
It matters not. He meets me at the streetcar stop in the late afternoon.
I’m not sure how to greet him, but Matthew makes things quite simple when he leans in and kisses me on the temple as we wait for the streetcar to arrive.
Then we stand in roaring silence, the kind that punishes your eardrums.
After we board the streetcar, Matthew speaks. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine. He’s doing well.” A note from Abe two days past said as much. “It’s…it’s nice of you to check on him with me.”
“I said I would.”
When the train pulls up to the bayou stop, I grab his hand. Together, we weave through the streets until we reach the loft. I keep ahold of him as I unlock the door. He gazes with interest at the riot of color in our den. The draped silks and tapestries. Persian rugs. Well-worn furniture and eclectic—stolen—knickknacks scattered on tables.
“It’s very…you,” he pronounces.
“Really?” I look around, a bit surprised.
“Bohemian,” he observes. He lifts our joined hands. “Like your rings.”
“I suppose.”
We go to Paul’s back bedroom, and I steel myself before giving a sharp knock on the door. Just one, then I push it open and walk inside with Matthew. Our entrance sucks all the air from the room. Tony lets out a stream of Spanish curses, more colorful and lengthier than I’ve heard from him before.
“What the hell is he doing here, Kat?” Paul immediately tries to sit up.
“He’s here to check your stitches, idiot.”
Tony paces, still muttering curses. Abe is dumbstruck, paling at the sight of a newcomer to our sacred loft.
Paul shakes his head. “Kat, why on earth would you bring him here?”
“He’s not going to say anything, Paul. We can trust him.”
“I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him. Which, right now, isn’t very far.” He glances down at his abdomen.
“Ha ha,” I mock laugh. “You’re hysterical. Just let him take a look, would ya?”
Stony silence. Allaround the room.
“Phew.” Tony exhales, breaking the tension. He glances from Abe to Paul to Matthew, all of whom are glowering. “Mierda. I want no parts of this.”
He shoulders past me to escape. Abe moves too, settling himself in the doorway like a guard dog.
“I guess it’s a good thing we moved out of the Catacombs a few years ago.” Paul watches Matthew, assessing. “You’d probably piss yourself if you had to go down there for a house call.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Matthew answers steadily, leaning over Paul to pull off his dressings.
“What?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Matthew glances at me before answering. “Not every trauma makes it through the doors of the hospital, Kat. I go where I’m needed. It’s part of the new emergency protocols the hospital is trialing, the ones I told you about. You know where there’s a lot of trauma? The Catacombs.”
“Well, aren’t you a saint?” Paul practically gags.
“Not quite,” Matthew replies, giving a strong yank of the dressing tape. Paul grunts.
Abe snorts in the doorway.
Once the dressings are off, I lean forward. The area around the stitches is light pink and a little puffy.
