Chapter Three
“Come on, tough guy,” Lacy muttered beneath the weight of one damned big man. Mostly slack muscle at the moment, Jamaal woke up just enough to help her transition him from the gurney at the backdoor of the clinic into the passenger seat of her very economical, but not very big, four-door sedan. But getting him to shuffle those extra-wide feet of his up the two flights of stairs to her third floor apartment proved the more daunting challenge.
With each step, she and Jamaal had become more intimately acquainted. It didn’t help that he was only dressed in a couple of skimpy hospital gowns, one turned backwards to keep the winter chill off the big guy’s butt. She’d topped that scant outfit with a thin robe from the clinic’s small stash of luxury items, but it was too small for a man with the girth of Jamaal. He belonged on Saturday morning television in the wrestling ring, not tucked into hospital duds.
His big hairy arm angled around her neck, his open palm slapping against her breasts like a loose sweatshirt sleeve in the wind. More than once, she’d used his butt cheek as a rudder. Mostly unconscious, he still seemed to grasp that one good five-fingered clench on his rear meant move your ass, Marine.
Finally at her door, she was sweaty from the load she’d half-carried, half-dragged, and afraid of being caught. Her neighbors didn’t need to know her business, but Mrs. Brown just two doors down, did have a nose on her. Ha. Mrs. Brown should’ve been named Mrs. Buttinsky. That nose of hers could pick up the slightest hint of anything happening in the third floor hall. The woman had radar ears, too, and she’d have no trouble minding Lacy’s business either.
Lacy could almost hear the inquisition now. “What you doin’ child? Why you taking a man into your place? You sleeping around? Is he sick? What’s he got? He drunk? Lordy me, you don’t want to be hauling no drunk man home to be taking care of him. Next thing you know...”
Lacy allowed a tight grin as her imagination provided a very realistic scenario of all Mrs. Brown would say if she just happened to step into the hall right now. But that would be the day Lacy had a man in her apartment, a cold day in hell. Jamaal didn’t count. He might be a man, but he was more of a soldier in need, and not that kind of need, either. The only reason he was here was because she couldn’t stomach the thought of him being restrained over at Country General. Heck, they’d dope him up, send him to the state mental health facility, or worse, maybe shock him.
Nope. Not going to happen. Not to Jamaal.
Fumbling to pull her keys out of the rear pocket of her too tight jeans where she shouldn’t have put them in the first place, Lacy heard the squeak of the front door to the apartment complex. Like always, it banged when it slammed shut.
Damn it. Someone’s coming. Get your butt inside and out of sight.
Jamaal blew out a big nasty breath into her face. Propped up against her like he was, only made pulling her keys out of her rear pocket more difficult, but then he started leaning. If she didn’t hurry, he was going down, and she was going down with him. Mrs. Brown would have plenty to talk about then.
At last! The keys were clear of her fat ass and in her fingers. Trembling more from panic at the neighborhood gossip than over-exertion, she rammed the key into the door lock and inside the apartment she and Jamaal went. Kicking the door closed behind her, Lacy blew out a puff of satisfaction for a job well done. Nobody, but nobody, knew she had Jamaal in her place, and she intended to keep it that way.
“Over here,” she said as she directed the semi-conscious Bradley tank at her side over to her sofa. It creaked when she tried unsuccessfully to ease him down, but no matter. He’d landed with a thump in the corner of it, but at least he was mostly sitting up. His head tilted limply to the side. Good enough. He was down and she could straighten him up. Maybe.
Lacy stepped back, stretched the muscle strain out of her back, and sucked in a deep breath. This might just be the craziest thing she’d ever done, but damn. Jamaal was a helluva big guy to move all by herself. Every muscle in her back declared that loudly and clearly, but regret never entered her mind. He needed a unique brand of help that only another Marine would understand. Maybe she couldn’t provide all the technical side of medical care, but what she had to give was his for the taking. What he needed most was a warm place to hide out, lick his wounds, and do it without being judged, poked, and prodded. Or restrained.
“You want a drink?” she offered in one out of breath sigh, just in case he was more awake than he looked. No such luck. Jamaal was out for the count, and she was lucky he’d made it this far. “Never mind,” she told him. “If you don’t, I sure do.”
Turning one quick about-face landed her smack dab in her kitchen and at her old-fashioned refrigerator. Ewww. Whoever thought yellow was any kind of a color for kitchen appliances had to have been on drugs, and the idiot who’d tried to re-paint it that same color? Dumb and dumber.
Her apartment was small, and small meant simple and mostly furnished with second-hand furniture, but good enough for now. The open kitchen faced the back of the couch, which itself faced the only window in the place, where Lacy could contemplate the brick wall of the neighboring building. She considered herself lucky for that much of a view. She could’ve been facing another set of peeping tom windows and some perv with a zoom lens and a camcorder. No, thank you very much. Some apartment complexes were built with just that much lack of foresight and privacy. Hers was one of the good ones. She faced a wall.
Off to the right of her couch was the typical closet style bathroom where a person could brush their teeth and spit in the sink while they sat on the toilet and finished their business. A desk lined the wall outside the bathroom. An easy chair took up the opposite corner. Her window to nowhere stretched between.
To the left of her couch was her bedroom, a lonely place with a closet full of dreams long forgotten. Or nightmares. It depended on the day as to how she thought of them. Bad days made them all living nightmares. Good days made them—useful.
Throughout the entire cozy place was what once had been beige carpet, but now looked just plain ugly. The day she became rich and famous, all that stained beige would change to mellow sapphire blue. A white couch. Maybe one of those tiny little apricot-colored teacup poodles with a glitzy red collar. A maid would be nice. It might not come true for a few years, but hey. She could dream.
Pulling the refrigerator door open, she snagged a can of Coke instead of the Bud-Lite she would’ve preferred. Her lunch break was long over, and instead of a cuddly dog on her couch, she had Jamaal. He snored like a water buffalo, his lips flapping with the vibrations coming up from his throat, and his big feet taking up most of the living room floor. Damn, he was a mighty big man.
Lacy took a deep breath, slugged back half the soda, and contemplated her next move. Even sprawled half-on and half-off the couch like he was, Jamaal should be okay until she returned. Heck, it beat lying in the gutter or wherever he called home. He needed more than just the one hypo of antibiotics that Dr. Presley had administered during the course of his examination, so Lacy had also filched antibiotics before she left the clinic. The 5-day wonder drug ought to do the trick for whatever infection roamed at the back of his throat.
“You need mouthwash,” she said firmly as she returned to his side with the drugs, a bottle of water, and a kitchen towel. She tucked the towel beneath his chin. Popping one tiny pill out of its foil bubble, she held his nose. Right on cue, his mouth opened. The pill went in, and before he knew it, he’d swallowed a gulp of water and the pill with it. He never even coughed or sputtered, but then swallowing was one thing he was good at.
“Good job. That was easy,” she told him confidentially. “Let’s see how much you’ll take.” Following the same drill, she got half of the water down, some on his chest and some on her couch before he stiffened his back and pulled away.
“You’re going to live, Jamaal,” she murmured, wiping his mouth first, then the couch. “I’ll be back at six,” she told the now snoring black man as she covered him with her best and only knitted afghan. It was red, her favorite color of deep, burgundy red. “Do me a favor, big guy. Don’t tear my place apart when you come to. Just take it easy, okay?”
He didn’t even grunt.
“I’ll leave the kitchen light on. It’ll be dark by the time I get back, but don’t go all crazy on me when you hear someone at the door. It’ll just be me.” She kept chatting and he kept snoring. “You like Chinese?”
Lacy stalled leaving. Safe and clean or not, when Jamaal woke up, he wouldn’t know where he was. He might panic. Did she dare take the risk? Do I have a choice?