I just blink up at this enigma of a man, his gun-metal grey eyes hiding more darkness than I thought, and when it clicks that not only was he trying to relate to me, but also used John’s nickname for me, my jaw drops a little.
Which causes Pope to roll his eyes again. “Jesus, I was just saying. You’re annoying as fuck, don’t get me wrong, but you’re not stupid and I don’t think you’re quite the sociopath everyone seems to think you are. And this”—he takes the sucker from his mouth and holds it up—“is because I’m trying to quit smoking, so don’t go getting any ideas about making it a big deal.”
With a devious grin, I get to my feet, thrilled and slightly in awe over the amount of words the walking blasphemy just used to compliment me in a weird way, and decide to ruin the moment we might have just shared over a shredded murder victim. “Well that’s disappointing.”
Pope frowns but doesn’t speak.
“I thought you finally made a decision. About my dick, that is.” He scowls as my grin morphs into a full blown smile. “Mouth, obviously, since I thought you were practicing on the cherry flavored candy to give me a blow job.”
My unholy companion gives me an exasperated huff as he turns to join the patches guarding the scene.
“You’ll need something bigger, though. Which you should know, my boner puts that sucker to shame.” I chuckle as Pope mumbles a string of obscenities under his breath, a strange sense of warmth swirling in my chest.
I won’t put a name to it, not when I know I drive almost everyone I meet crazy, but if I had to, I’d call what I just experienced something comparable to real friendship. Which is fitting that it happened here, in the midst of all this chaos and carnage, with a man I believe has more secrets than I do.
And it has me wondering if Johnhasbeen right about me after all these years.
Maybe I’mnotexactly what everyone has always said I am; what I’ve alwaysthoughtI am.
Fucked up? Totally.
A murderer who thoroughly enjoys what I do? Definitely.
Annoying as hell and hard to be around? Yep, no doubt about that, and I absolutely don’t know how to relate to other people or build relationships, but I might not be quite as fucked as I originally thought.
And for the record, I stuffed Anthony Salinski’s tiny penis into his ear becausetheatricalis something else I most definitely am.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
STEVIE
I smoothmy hand over Mrs. Sanderson’s hair, pushing the damp strands from her forehead in an effort to keep them from sticking to her face.
She’s had a fever for the last two days but no one made anyrealnote of it until I came in this afternoon and started doing rounds with the CNA I’m relieving.
It was a normal shift change rundown, getting the scoop on how Mr. Riggs did another naked Shakespeare performance, and how there was a fight during lunch that included two residents locking walkers then getting stuck together while throwing punches. Nothing felt out of place until Sasha told me that Margie had beenacting weirdthe last few days, and when I asked her to elaborate, she just shrugged and walked away.
So, I took it upon myself to go in and check on her and when I did, I almost lost it.
Apparently Sasha and I have very different definitions ofacting weirdbecause all I had to do was take one look at Margie to know she was sick.
Her skin was ashy, she could barely keep her eyes open, her sweet face was sunken and covered in a cold sweat. Mrs. Sanderson was very lethargic, hardly responding when I asked her about Jolene, and when I checked her for a fever I could tell her temp was through the roof before I used the thermometer. Which is when I went to report it to the nurse, who then proceeded to tell me Margie hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in about eighteen hours and wasmost likely just dehydrated.
And that was the exact moment Ididlose my shit.
I marched my ass right down to the nurse supervisor and reported everyone who’d been on shift since Linnie left here Thursday afternoon, including Sasha and Chris, because Iknowmy friend never would have let this happen to Mrs. Sanderson if it was going on during her shift. And I don’t give a shit about what happens to them, or who gets mad at me over it because this isn’t right, something needs to be done, and I’m tired of sitting back and letting bad things happen.
Unfortunately, I was too late.
By the time Linnie came on shift and gave Margie a proper exam, the bronchitis had already turned into pneumonia—she immediately called the facility doctor to come down and he made the diagnosis—and her frail little body was working overtime to fight the infections.
Between her age and poor health, Mrs. Sanderson doesn’t stand a chance.
She hasmere hoursaccording to the doctor, and that is devastating.
With a sigh, I remove the rag from her forehead and dip it in the cool water then wring it out before patting her chest and neck.
She’s overcome so much: an abusive home growing up, the loss of a child, outliving her husband, Alzheimer's, and forgetting her sister. Margie outlived her too, and while I’m sure she doesn’t know it, it was almost like she sensed it because the day Jolene died—not that I knew it at the time but I found out later—she was inconsolable. Mrs. Sanderson was a mess that day and nothing would calm her down, not even her babydoll, so when Linnie told me she was now a ward of the state, I knew. I knew that the dear old lady justfeltthe break in their bond, and honestly, Margie hasn’t been the same since.
