Hot Revenge Box Set 2

James

And now, for the first time, I push the door, quiet as I can, looking in.

Mitch is there, a pad on her lap, sketching. She sits by Charlotte; sleeping, so pale.

No, not pale; pallid.

What they did to you…

But she’s clean and warm and comfortable. And by the side of the bed, within touching distance, also sleeping…

Cara…

My daughter…

And in a chair by the window, a hawk-eyed nurse.

What’s been happening?

Mitch smiles, holding up her pad: a half-drawn sketch, in pastels, of mother and baby. Then she looks me up and down, pulling a face.

?

I mouth silently. “What?”

She nods me to the mirror and I see myself.

Oh, My God…

Even though I changed, brushed my hair, I can’t let Charlotte wake up to see me like this. Or Cara…

The eye is not a pretty sight. It’s not so swollen now and it’s beginning to open again, but the colour, a kind of reverse rainbow in blue, green and sickly yellow, is enough to put anyone off their… milk… There’s not too much I can do about the bruising, but at the least, I should clean myself up.

I stoop, kiss Charlotte’s cheek. She stirs, mumbling something soft. I can’t make out the words, but sleeping, her lips are curving.

I stroke Cara’s tiny face, and eyes-closed, she blows a bubble.

Then, with a nod to Mitch, I turn to leave. And Michael’s there. He too holds the pair in his gaze, then with a tap to my chest. “Let’s let them sleep.”

Mitch follows us out, picking up a baby monitor en route and popping it in her pocket.

*****

A hot shower and I feel more myself. Then Richard snags me, bullying me through to where the doctor I saw is waiting.

“I’m sorry… What’s happening?”

up palms… “It’s settled and she’s fine, but under the circumstances, for the sakes of both Elizabeth and Charlotte, and considering Charlotte’s feelings regarding hospitals right now, I have assembled a

for the next few weeks and are on 24/7 call should we need them. Meanwhile you…” He levels a finger at me… “…are going to let Doctor Polinski examine that eye. Along with any

*****

my ingredients together. Prawns, ginger,

inspects my work area and Hmmms, then grins as he gets a look at me. “Well, if it ain’t my old friend Capt’n Bluebeard.” He elbows me in the ribs. “Oohhh, Aaarrr!” Then, slaps his forehead as I wince. “Sorry, James.

“Please don’t.”

place at

the bloody thing off.” The tang of onions rides up my sinuses and I try to rub my nose, then realise my

don’t have to cook for me, James. I’ll be happy with a

It helps me relax. I could do with

turns,

her eyes. “Larry, why are you moving like that?” She looks closer. “You're bleeding. Did Baxter get

down at himself, seeming surprised. “Oh! Must have done. Um, yes, he did,

the top he's wearing, Michael's, and

are soaked through with

apparently unconcerned by the damage to himself. Quite the opposite. He seems gratified by her attention, eyes

off,” she says. “Let me have a

them up, fingers tugging at the bottom hem, then hisses,

me.” Mitch hooks

from the gash underneath; a wicked slice, six inches long, scored from shoulder to chest. At the edges, blood crisped dry resists, plucking at

the briefest of looks. “That needs a doctor. I’ll go get him…” He makes as though

Klempner calms, then apologising with his eyes, says, “They have an

bowl, soap, clean rags and a tube of antiseptic cream on the table. Then he rummages through drawers before producing gauze, bandage

bloody tops removed, Klempner's naked chest is smeared in blood, red

at himself. “It looks worse than it is,” he comments. “My

gives him a look calculated to swat flies then, starting at the outer edge, working

only a minute or two, silently, Michael fills another bowl

seen as a clean slit, starting shallow, but slicing deeper. Mitch slaps a pad of clean cotton

replacing it with his

as though you've done this before…” She halts in mid-sentence, staring at his chest. “Good God, Larry. What

weighs in. “Or

of flab, apparently constructed from whipcord and leather, Klempner’s chest is crisscrossed with scars, slices and punctures. Some deep and red, some fine white lines. Trying not to be obvious about it, I steal a

it and then I can get some clothes on

fleece. “Not in these clothes, you

stitches,”

cotton pad from Klempner’s reluctant fingers and peers close. “Stopped by the breastbone from going any deeper. It does need stitching, yes.” He presses

his forehead. “You telling

I shrug.

small tube; hands it to Mitch. “Superglue. Use a dot wherever you would stitch but keep to the edges. If it gets onto raw flesh,

at the