I forced myself to unglue my eyes from his full, moist lips.
“Well, I saw you naked,” I stated. “And I looked.”
“And what did you see?”
He looked at me as if he wanted to say:I do this for a living, by the way. Interrogation. Playing games. Just another Monday for me, kiddo.
Well, I wasn’t giving in.
“I saw your big dick,” I replied, blushing. Damn it. Why did that man make me so flustered? I haven’t felt shame since I was three years old.
Bazooka chuckled. “I don’t have a big dick.”
Which was the biggest lie in the world, because I saw the bulge in his pants, and it said otherwise.
“You’re lying, Bazooka.”
“So are you, Luz.”
Before I could reply, he stood up, which told me this visit was over. I glared at him, torn between telling him to fuck off and begging him to stay because I hated being left alone.
“Why didn’t you want to go to the hospital?” Bazooka asked me, and the abrupt change of subject threw me off. It angered me.
“None of your business,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Don’t sulk and answer the question,” he said, sounding as if he were talking to a petulant child.
“Fuck off!” I exclaimed. “I’m not telling you shit.”
He rubbed his forehead as if I were a migraine, not a person. “We have to talk about what happened, Luz. I can’t investigate a crime without a statement from a victim.”
“I’m not a fucking victim!” I growled. “Those assholes attacked me and beat me up because I didn’t let them bully my friend. End of story. What more do you want from me?”
“First, stop cursing. Second, where do you live?”
Shit.
“I’m homeless,” I mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
“Luz,” Bazooka warned me.
“Fiiine. I live in a rented apartment on the other side of town,” I replied, sniffling. “Why?”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
He gazed into the distance, mulling it over, as I cursed my damn temper. I didn’t want to argue with him. I didn’t want to be Bazooka-less again. I just wanted to… cuddle.
When he looked at me, his expression softened.
“Do you have a fever?” he said, feeling my forehead. “Your cheeks are flushed.”
“I don’t know,” I replied, refusing to look at him.
His hand on my forehead made me want to cry for some reason. Maybe because it was an act of kindness that I didn’t expect from him. Maybe because I was hurting inside and out. The food that I ate felt like a pile of bricks in my stomach. The pain returned too, because my real painkiller stopped killing it.
“You don’t have a fever,” Bazooka concluded, sounding relieved. “Look…”
