Bad Things by Tamara Thorne Page A

disgusted expression, he handed over one, then another, his lip curling as he watched Rick tape his flesh back together.
    â€œI can’t believe you did that yourself,” he said as Rick finished. “I’d pass out. Shit. You forgot the iodine. We’d better—”
    â€œNo. I don’t need it. I bled out all the impurities.”
    â€œWhat? Have you got a death wish? If it gets infected—”
    â€œI don’t get infections,” Rick said lightly. “I have the constitution of an entire bottle of antibiotics.”
    â€œPiper, you are acting extremely weird. What are you, afraid of doctors?”
    Quit’cher fuckin’ cryin’ boy, and take your whippin’ like a man! a new voice screamed in his ear. Dear God, how could he have forgotten about Uncle Howard? His head spun as he wondered what else he’d forgotten.
    â€œPiper, you need stitches, so quit your macho man act!” Dakota stood up. “Come on. I’ll get Cody and we’ll run down to the emergency room—”
    â€œLay off, already!” Rick barked. “I cut my fucking finger, big fucking deal. I’ll live.”
    His harsh words made Dakota flinch as if he’d been slapped. Instantly Rick felt terrible.
    â€œSorry,” Rick muttered. “I didn’t mean—”
    â€œMellow out, Rick,” Dakota interrupted. “I’ve never even heard you say ‘fuck’ before, and now you say it twice in one breath. Just a wild guess, hon, but I’d say something’s wrong.”
    Get out of my face! he wanted to scream. Instead, he spoke casually. “Nothing’s wrong. It was just a stupid accident.” God, it hurt so bad, he could hardly stop clenching his teeth to talk. The only thing worse than the pain was the humiliation.
    â€œIf I cut myself like that, I’d be squalling so bad, my face would be puffy for a week, and I’d be getting stitches and pain pills. Look at you, pretending it doesn’t even hurt.”
    Rick said nothing. It took every ounce of control not to scream at Dakota to shut the hell up or to humiliate himself by admitting it hurt.
    Crybaby, titty mouse, Ricky got a whipping! I’m gonna tell Uncle Howard, and then you’ll get another! Crybaby, titty mouse.
    â€œRick!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHere! Take these!”
    Dakota stood in front of him holding aspirin tablets and a glass of water. Rick hadn’t even realized he’d moved.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” Dakota went back across the room and took a bottle of wine and two glasses from a shelf. “Merlot, Cypress. A ninety-nine. I hid it from Lil. She wouldn’t appreciate it.” He uncorked the bottle and poured, handed a glass to Rick.
    â€œThanks again.”
    â€œWelcome again. So what’s eating you? When you cut yourself we were talking about Santo Verde. You said you have bad memories. They must be doozies.”
    If you tell, they’ll take you away, away, the little men in their white coats will come and take you away, away, away.
    Old memories, presumed dead, old voices, his voice, came alive in his head. “No, not especially, but I hadn’t thought about all those stories my grandfather used to tell in years.” Rick sipped the wine, then downed half the glass at once. “Going back to Santo Verde is sort of like going to the dentist to get a bad tooth pulled. You don’t want to do it, so you put it off, hoping it’ll get better. Maybe it seems like it does, sometimes, but it only gets worse and worse until you take care of it, once and for all. Refill, please?”
    â€œYou’re intriguing the hell out of me, you mysterious man.” Dakota refilled Rick’s glass, then topped off his own. He sniffed the wine. “It has a good kick, not to mention the nice bouquet. And the afterbirth is purely delightful.” Suddenly he nailed Rick with a look.