Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9) Page 6

  The area around his temples was more yellow, an indication that the bruising was already almost gone.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t so bad that Tobin didn’t think he could cover most of it with makeup.

  The swelling itself was minimal, which was also another positive sign.

  But the true test would be to look at the incision itself. The problem was that his greasy hair hung on his forehead as if strategically placed to cover it up.

  Sucking in another sharp breath, Tobin reached up and lifted his damp hair.

  “Oh my god…”

  He immediately pulled his hand away from his face and swallowed hard.

  Dr. Cratom had warned him that not only was there a real risk of his skull caving in post-surgery but that he might also need hair plugs if the scar healed poorly.

  The incision was still visible on account of some dried blood and the thick black sutures, but it wasn’t oozing yellow slime and his face wasn’t peeling off like a Cenobite.

  Tobin hadn’t realized that he was holding his breath, but when his mind forced him to breathe, the fresh oxygen brought with it a feeling of euphoria.

  He even moaned.

  So far, everything was as good as he could have hoped. But that wasn’t the real test. All this proved is that Dr. Alex Cratom hadn’t operated on him with some rusty lawn tools and that he wasn’t completely drunk while stitching him up.

  The real test was how his profile looked.

  Despite all the positives so far, Tobin was still hesitant to turn his head to the side.

  Come on, just do it. Put on your big boy pants and do it.

  For some reason, he heard this inner monologue in Lucas’s deeper voice and not his own. This gave Tobin the final push he needed.

  Lifting his hair once more, he turned his head to the left.

  And then he started to smile.

  The two lumps that had caused him so much anguish over the years were noticeably smaller.

  No, not noticeably smaller; more like deliberately smaller, measurably smaller, actually smaller.

  Still grinning like a maniac, Tobin took the first two fingers of his left hand and probed the area just above his eyes.

  This proved to be a terrible mistake.

  Stars shot across his vision and his knees buckled. He nearly smashed his chin off the edge of the sink as he went down, missing it by mere inches.

  Completely unaware of what had just happened, Tobin lay immobilized in a heap on the cold bathroom floor. He was unable to move, to speak, or even to breathe.

  A second later, it was as if someone had strapped a defibrillator to Tobin’s chest and sent an electrical charge directly into his heart.

  He bucked and came to.

  What the fuck was that?

  Tobin carefully pulled himself to his feet. Concerned that he might fall again at any moment, he made sure that he was leaning away from the counter when he addressed his reflection once more.

  He couldn’t believe it. There were two small indentations from where he’d applied pressure.

  In his head, he heard Dr. Cratom warn him about his skull being too thin.

  But the man hadn’t said anything about not having a skull at all.

  No, that’s impossible. This is just a temporary thing…

  Tobin was tempted to gently push around the indentation like a golfer trying to eliminate a divot on a green, but he resisted.

  Just the sight of those dents was enough to make him cringe.

  It’ll go away, just like the swelling. I just need to do what Dr. Cratom said, just lie down and take it easy. Keep it clean… no stress, no sweat, no makeup.

  Even though this debacle had put a definite damper on Tobin’s mood, as he turned his head sideways once more, his smirk started to return.

  The important thing was that the bumps were gone.

  Laughing now, Tobin made a concerted effort to pull his eyes away from the mirror. Then he stepped into the shower and began the laborious process of scraping off a week of dried blood and sweat.

  When he emerged, Tobin Tomlin was no longer.

  It was Lucas’s time now.

  Chapter 15

  Dr. Alex Cratom had told Tobin that under no circumstances was he to apply any makeup, concealer, or even hair care product for fear that it might complicate the healing process.

  But Tobin just couldn’t help himself.

  After his warm shower, Tobin was pleased to see that not only did the incision look even neater but that the indentations on his forehead were now gone. And with a couple of dabs of concealer and some foundation, the bruising was rendered nearly invisible.

  The only thing that stood out now was the stitches. Dr. Cratom had given him instructions on how to remove them himself, but he’d warned Tobin that if he took them out too soon, the incision might open up. If that happened, he would either have to go to the hospital to get new sutures put in or to deal with a much larger scar.

  Neither of these were viable options for Tobin, so he decided to leave them in… for now. Instead, he carefully styled his hair forward to cover the unsightly threads. His hair being nearly the same color helped, and when he was done, Tobin was fairly happy with the result.

  Nodding, he finally let his eyes drift away from his face to his body. Eight days with little or no food did wonders for your physique, it appeared. Tobin puffed his chest and clenched his fists. Sure, he’d lost a little muscle mass, and he didn’t have much to begin with, but that didn’t matter; nobody wanted jacked-up juice-monkeys with veins popping out of their eyeballs anymore. What people desired was what Tobin had: a slick, smooth, hairless, and slender body. Androgyny was in, and if it weren’t for the penis dangling between his thin legs, Tobin would have been more eunuch than man.

  He turned sideways, marveling at how thin his profile was.

  Just wait until you see me now, Jan. Just you fucking wait.

  Finally done with his routine, Tobin retreated to his room and started to search for something to wear. Not even the fact that everything he owned seemed to be either wrinkled or soiled could spoil his mood now.

  Tobin eventually decided that simple was better; after all, a loud t-shirt or scarf would just detract from what he wanted people to see.

  The new him.

  He settled on a pair of dark jeans, his go-to white Chuck Taylors, and a salmon-colored t-shirt. Tobin considered throwing his all-black sweatshirt on top, just in case he needed to use the hood, but it was crusty with vomit and he tossed it in the corner instead.

  I need a new outfit… no, I deserve a new outfit.

  Tobin’s phone started to buzz and worried that the sound would persist in his head as it had before, he immediately answered without even looking at the caller ID.

  “Hello?” His voice was upbeat but also tight from not having spoken in a few days.

  “Fuck boy, where you been at?”

  Tobin stopped smiling.

  “Kevin, I—I told you… my arm… when you drove away, I fell and—”

  “Buck up, Toby—don’t be such a pussy. Your arm’s fine. I mean, if it were that bad, you would have put in a formal report, am I right?”

  Shit.

  Tobin had completely forgotten about filing an official injury report.

  “Well, I mean… you saw me, right? I couldn’t do anything. And it just kept on getting worse.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “It was separated… I had a separated shoulder.”

  “Riiiight,” Kevin replied dryly. “So, you’ve got a doctor’s note, then?”

  Tobin nodded.

  “Yeah, yeah, I have—” Fuck. “I mean, I don’t have a note, but a doctor put my shoulder back in. I can call Mr. Maldrim myself and tell him if—”

  “No, you can’t, fuck boy.”

  Tobin felt a headache starting to come on, and he searched his desk for something to take the edge off. He found nothing; the Oxycodone that Dr. Cratom had given him was gone, as was his personal stash of Xann
ies and Percs.

  He made a mental note to head back to Dr. Cratom for a refill. The man had said not to return, but that was just his emotions speaking. Dr. Cratom would want to see the outcome of his work, wouldn’t he? Who wouldn’t want to see Lucas Lionell again?

  “Why—why can’t I call Mr. Maldrim?”

  “Because I stepped up, called him on your behalf already.”

  Tobin’s suspicions peaked: the idea of Kevin doing something for him, something to help him out, was not just foreign but downright ludicrous.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, he kept asking where you was, so I went ahead and said you was sick.”

  “What? Sick? Why? I hurt my arm on the job, Kevin.”

  “Just listen up, fuck boy. I told Mr. Maldrim you was sick to keep your damn job. What was I supposed to do? Tell him that you couldn’t come into work because you were busy fisting your boyfriend?”

  “Fisting… Kevin, what the—”

  Kevin ignored him and blathered on.

  “And you wanna know what Mr. Maldrim did?”

  “No,” Tobin replied hesitantly.

  He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs, or lack thereof, or just fatigue and exhaustion settling in, but he had no idea what was happening.

  “He gave me your check.”

  Tobin closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Why couldn’t he just mail it to me?” he asked softly.

  “Cuz we friends, that’s why. Cuz I felt like doin’ you a solid. So, you want your check, or what?”

  “Yeah, of course… so, can you mail it? I mean, I—”

  Kevin laughed and Tobin shuddered at the sound.

  “No need.”

  “Please, I’m not feeling great, Kevin. Can you just—”

  “No need, because I’m right outside your fucking door. So, put on a goddamn skirt and come get your fucking check.”

  Tobin’s eyes shot up and he leaned out of his room to look toward the apartment door.

  He half expected the knob to turn and for the big man to come barreling in.

  “I’m still not—still not well, Kevin. I can come by—”

  “Toby, you have thirty seconds to open the goddamn door before I wipe my ass with your fucking check. You understand me?”

  Chapter 16

  Tobin had barely finished turning the deadbolt when the door was thrown open. He jumped backward just in time to avoid being struck by it.

  Kevin stood in the open doorway, his legs spread, his bulky figure filling the frame. A vicious sneer could be seen through his orange beard as he looked Tobin up and down.

  The man’s eyes finally came to rest on Tobin’s right shoulder.

  “Don’t look like you injured. And what’s with the stupid hat?”

  Tobin instinctively reached up to adjust the beanie that he’d found under his bed and had used to cover his sutures. When he saw Kevin’s sinister smile grow, he cursed himself and lowered his right arm. He also slumped his shoulder a little, only to instantly regret this, knowing how fake it all must have looked.

  “It’s—it’s still sore. It was separated but I got it put back in,” Tobin said desperately, holding out his left hand. “Can I please just have my check?”

  Kevin appeared disinterested in this request, despite it being the reason why he was here, and decided to look around instead.

  “What a shit hole,” he grumbled.

  “Kevin, can I please have my check?”

  Kevin took his time reaching into the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve an envelope. Then he teased Tobin with it, holding it just out of reach.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. This whole arm thing… it’s just a fuckin’ lie, isn’t it? I mean, you just wanted time off to get your stomach pumped, am I right?”

  Stomach pumped? What the hell?

  Tobin looked at the open door behind Kevin and for perhaps the first time since moving here more than a year ago, wished that Kenneth would return.

  “Wait—how’d you know where I live, anyway?”

  Kevin sucked his upper lip into his mouth, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth.

  “Mr. Maldrim told me. After all, we’re best buds, aren’t we, fuck boy?”

  Tobin’s headache had fully matured now. All he wanted was for this ginger bastard to give him his check and get lost so he could lie down and get some rest.

  Doctor’s orders.

  “Just gimme the check, please,” he whined.

  Kevin shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you what, fuck boy. I saved your job by telling the boss that you was sick, so that’s gotta be worth… what?” As Kevin spoke, he started to open the envelope and pulled out a check. Once more, Tobin attempted to grab it, but Kevin blocked him with a meaty palm. “Fourteen-hundred and seventy-six bucks. Hmmm… well, I’ve got…” Kevin lowered his hand and pulled his wallet out next. He removed a handful of twenties and a couple of hundreds. “…about four hundred bucks here. I think that’s fair, right?”

  Tobin took a step backward. He furrowed his brow, but the numbness that radiated from the incision made this uncomfortable and he abandoned the expression.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I saved your job. So I’ma give you this four hundred and change, and you’re going to sign the check over to me.”

  “What? That’s my money.”

  Kevin tapped his forehead with a fat finger.

  “You bleedin’, fuck boy. If Mr. Maldrim saw you like this—if someone told him that he should pay you a visit, see how yous feelin’, I don’t think he’d be too happy, do you? So, yeah, take this four hundred. That’s fair.”

  This time when Tobin reached for the check, Kevin shoved him in the chest. Tobin stumbled but somehow remained on his feet.

  What the fuck is happening here?

  “Sign the check, Toby.”

  Tobin sucked in a wet breath.

  “No, that’s—that’s my money. I need that money. I’m not giving it to you.”

  His thoughts turned to the ‘eviction’ notices that Kenneth had left on the floor outside his bedroom door.

  “Sign it.”

  Tobin shook his head, which only exacerbated his headache. He could feel an uncomfortable wetness on his forehead now, and the beanie felt much tighter than it had even moments ago.

  If I don’t sign it, he can’t cash it. Then I can maybe convince Mr. Maldrim to issue another one… I mean, he’ll probably want me to cover the printing cost, but that’s nothing compared to what Kevin wants to take.

  Without realizing it, Tobin had backed all the way into the kitchen. Kevin slammed the door behind him and followed. Without warning, the man reached for the nearest drawer and pulled it open. Tobin caught a glimpse of an array of knives inside, and his blood suddenly ran cold.

  No, he won’t… there’s no way. Kevin’s a certified asshole, but he wouldn’t—

  Kevin reached inside the drawer and Tobin bumped up against the small, round kitchen table. He gasped when the man pulled his hand out, but he wasn’t holding a knife. Instead, clutched between his sausage fingers was something that looked almost comically small: a pen.

  “Sign it,” the man ordered. Kevin slammed the check and pen down on the table so hard that it nearly toppled. “Sign it, fuck boy.”

  Tobin crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

  “I’m not signing anything. Either you give me that check and leave now or—”

  “Sign it, Toby, or I’ll tell Maldrim that you forced me to cover for you.”

  Tobin shook his head.

  “I didn’t do that. I—I—I—I didn’t do anything.”

  Kevin reached for his face, and with his arms crossed, Tobin couldn’t move fast enough to block… whatever the man was trying to do.

  It could’ve been a slap, a punch, or just a condescending caress, but given Tobin’s recent operation, the end result would have been the same.

  As soon as Kevi
n’s fingers grazed his forehead, Tobin dropped as he had in the bathroom earlier that morning.

  It was as if he’d instantly become a quadriplegic. For nearly a minute, he lay in a ball on the kitchen floor, shuddering slightly, his entire body slick with cold sweat.

  When he was finally capable of looking up, he saw Kevin hovering over him, a strange expression on his face.

  “I’ll sign it,” Tobin whispered. He would have done anything at that moment just to be alone. Alone with some Oxy, Xannies, Perc, shit, at this point just regular ibuprofen would have offered some relief.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? I barely touched you.”

  “I’ll sign it.”

  Kevin had gone from aggressive to disgusted in a matter of seconds.

  “What’d you say, fuck boy?”

  “I said, I’ll sign it,” Tobin repeated, slowly pulling himself to his feet, using the table as a crutch.

  His vision was blurred, but he managed to flip the check over and endorse it with his signature.

  “Ha, I knew you’d come around, fuck boy,” Kevin said. He tossed the cash onto the floor and then started toward the door. “Hey, you got ‘til Monday to get your shit together. Then you gonna come back to work as if everything is all Kosher, got it? And, for fuck’s sake, do something about that jizz stain on your forehead.”

  Chapter 17

  Unlike the incident in the bathroom, this time, it took Tobin a full five minutes to recover the complete use of his extremities. Even after signing over his check, watching Kevin leave, and picking up the cash, there was a strange tingling that started in his face and seemed to diffuse down to his toes.

  It’s the Oxy leaving my system… and me wanting more.

  Tobin gritted his teeth, trying to battle against his headache.

  It’s dangerous, Tobin. Your skull… it’s too thin.

  A cold glass of water and an apple brought him closer to feeling normal again. Things improved even further after Tobin carefully peeled the beanie off. It stuck a little to his incision, but he teased his bangs down over his forehead and did his best to ignore it.

  Out of sight, out of mind.