Page 7 of The Love You Hate
Her neck works down a swallow. “You’re a liar. Your eyes. I know it. I know when I’m being played.”
“And yet you’re here with me, alone.”
I narrow my eyes at the doctor’s office that appears to be, you guessed it, an old house.
Presley slides it into neutral, pulls the parking brake, and meets my eyes. “Jake knows I’m with you for starters, so I’m not alone even though I am. You took a dog attack for me so you earned a little credibility.” I don’t say anything, I sit with her assessment, and thank God, the dog bit me. I didn’t take into account that Presley has been surrounded by people who lie for a living since the moment she was born. “And if it’s actually true that you like to bake, like you say, that gives you a few bonus points. Something I’ll easily be able to determine at work. If you’re lying, Nate, I will know. I will catch you.” Presley takes the keys out of the ignition. “We’re here. I’ll wait here for you.” There is no way she will stay, she’ll leave my ass here and I haven’t even bugged the Jeep yet.
“Will you come in? In case he needs an eyewitness account of what happened?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Okay,” she replies, exasperated.
“Am I an inconvenience?”
Presley shakes her head. “No, just a little confusing. Are you going to call your girlfriend?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t want her to worry. I’ll call her later.”
Presley scoffs as she opens the door and gestures for me to go in first. “But she’d worry about a scratch? Liar.” The last word she says under her breath, but I was meant to hear it.
“Hello,” I call out when I see an empty front desk.
Presley steps in front of me. “We have an emergency.”
Cradling my arm, I step up to the desk and ring a bell on the counter. Three times for good measure. As predicted, an old, weathered man comes from somewhere in the back, briefcase in hand. “Oh, I was leaving for the day.”
Had we have walked; we would have missed him. “Jake’s dogs down at the junkyard attacked, and I need to be stitched up.”
The man’s face is ruddy, and the wrinkles beside his eyes deepen. “Why did they attack, were you trying to steal from them?”
Presley looks like she might rage on him. “We didn’t steal anything! The dogs came out of nowhere while we were looking at cars to potentially purchase.”
The doc nods his head to the Jeep through the window. “You paid for that vehicle out there then?”
I have to laugh. The doc turns his suspicious gaze to me. “You from around here?”
“Listen, I haven’t bought it yet, but I’m bringing Jake the money tomorrow,” Presley butts in. “We’re both new to Gold Hawke, and I have to say everyone has beensowelcoming.” She folds her arms across her chest and looks like she’s about to rail into him.
“Can you blame those of us who have called Gold Hawke our home for most of our lives? Newcomers come into our small town, steal our cars, barge into our businesses at closing, and order us around.”
I groan, shocked at how awful, and hopefully misunderstood these people are. “The car isn’t stolen. Call over to the junkyard if you don’t believe us. Jake let us take it to get here quicker, which doesn’t seem to matter because I’m bleeding and you don’t give a shit.” I pull up my sleeve and let the blood start dripping on the tile floor. “If you point me in the direction of a med kit, I’ll gladly take care of this myself.”
That gets his attention, but only barely. “There is an ER up the freeway.” He pauses, rubbing his salt and pepper beard.
“But obviously, you won’t make us drive up the freeway when you could fix him up right here. Do not make him stitch himself up. Please. I’m not sure I could exist anywhere near his ego, if in fact, he is also capable of doing such a task.”
Turning, I smirk at Presley, and the annoyance dripping from her words. It’s cute. “Matter of fact, I can stitch up myself. I’ve had training.”
The doctor grumbles under his breath about the liability and nods his head to the back. “Come on then.”
“Wow, your bedside manner is something to behold. I’m not lying,” I say loud enough for her to hear. “I was a medic when I was in the military.”
And, now I have his full attention, clearly this man is a veteran. Sitting on the bench I shrug out of the sweatshirt and ball it under my left arm. He scoots toward me on a stool and opens a storage cabinet next to me. Presley tentatively stops at the doorway and leans against the frame. She’s trying to learn about me so she can dissect me. Or worse, make up relevant jokes. “What branch?” the doctor asks. Not because he’s trying to distract me from the pain, because he really is curious.
“The Navy. I don’t really like talking about my time served though.” A lot of shit went down before I tried out for The Charge Men. While the SEAL Team resume bullet point is probably the main reason I was accepted into the fold, it’s also the reason I’m mentally fucked, and distance myself from everyone and everything.
“He’s a baker, too,” Presley pipes in. “And probably a candlestick maker.”
I roll my eyes. “That wasn’t a good joke,” I deadpan, but when I meet her eyes, I will her to hear my nonverbal thanks for changing the direction of our conversation. “I picked up a few skills here and there by necessity is what she’s not so eloquently trying to say.” The doctor grunts, and begins stitching. The antiseptic burns.
