Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Four ( Chapter 4 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Rosa Montoya
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.26.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.9K | Visits: 668 | Status: Completed
Rosa Montoya
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.26.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.9K | Visits: 668 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Four
Theresa burst through the doors of the rooftop with gasping breath, Hotstreak right on her heels. Both were breathing heavily with the maddeningly long run across town, and the stairway that took them ten flights up. Neither could catch their breath–legs were tight and weak at the same instant, and Theresa had to hang onto the door as she fought to breathe. At one point before they even left the neighborhood of the duplex, Hotstreak had mentioned a car–but she’d ignored him.
With one weak arm, she pointed out Richie’s location, feeling terribly ill as she once again took in the horrid sight just beyond the shadows. Hotstreak stopped short upon seeing him, and stared in silence for only a few moments–then, he was moving forward, his legs moving in seemingly uncoordinated fashion. He stared down at the still form before him, thoughts at a standstill–to see something as horrible as this, and knowing that he actually knew the person–
He fell roughly to his knees, his hands lifting in slow movement as he reached out to touch Richie. Theresa had her hand to her mouth as she focused on Hotstreak, on watching his actions. Depending on the moment, she was ready to run if he felt like turning around to fry her. While immensely guilty that she had participated indirectly to Richie’s rape, she didn’t want to burn.
Then, as if slapped, Hotstreak moved quickly; he shoved Richie’s legs together, and pulled his arms down, giving a faint sound that was a mixture of choking and wheezing. He pulled Richie to him, cradling his unconscious form against his front, trying desperately to warm him and hide his nakedness.
As he looked about, eyes glazed with disbelief and horror, he did not resemble the angry young man that he was known to be. More rather, a frightened, helpless boy that was unable to think on his own. When his eyes fell on Theresa, they quickly focused and sharpened.
“Ebon?” he barked. He knew–he needed that verbal verification. Time to regain his ground.
She nodded–unable to speak. She shakily rose to her feet–her thighs threatened to give out underneath her. Her fingers squeezed the doorknob, keeping her upright.
“His clothes...his clothes! Where are they?”
She started to point, but he wrenched himself into a crouch, pulling Richie tight against him. His limbs were completely limp–lifeless–she thought he was dead. He didn’t look alive–his skin was a blue pallor, and his features were lifeless. For a moment, she wanted to scream; with horror, with guilt, with grief.
“Get them!” Hotstreak screamed at her, his voice loud and furious. It broke in the middle of the command. “Get them!”
She snapped out of her daze and raced about, gathering everything that Ebon had stripped from Richie. Her legs were shaking with the arduous task of keeping herself upright, and her stomach kept lurching into her throat. She gathered the ruined shirts; the pants; the protective gear and the helmet. She kept dropping his gloves. It took her several tries before she finally stuffed one into her jeans pocket, and the other down her shirt when she found that the other pocket was already filled with the remains of his shirt. When she realized that his underwear was missing, she shook her head frantically, to let Hotstreak know this. She didn’t know what to do with his skates. She couldn’t find Backpack. Ebon’s teleportation took the robot to somewhere unknown–she would wonder where, later.
“I need something–! Cover him–! He needs ta be covered–!”
Hotstreak’s voice was gruff, thick–his words were almost incoherent, mindless muttering that escaped his lips as he pulled Richie closer to him, warming cold flesh. He was unable to form longer sentences, more description. Everything was short–basic. He needed to move–but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t think–Richie needed to be covered–basic needs.
He suddenly paused at catching a glimpse of his hand–cold moisture, thicker than snow, lighter than mud–he wiped his hand across his shirt, numbly wiping away the blood. Blood...it was everywhere. Since he’d moved Richie, it was all over his pants, his shirt–it clung to his skin with a determined tenacity. He didn’t know where it came from. His own blood froze as his stomach leapt into his throat.
He kept wanting to deny that this person in his arms was the very same person he’d held over six months ago. He wasn’t the Richie Foley he knew–it was some other guy, some other person with a busted up face and cold nakedness. But he recognized what he could of the swollen features, and the toned limbs.
These cold, limp limbs that had held him in comfort and neediness were stiff and heavy as he struggled to maintain his composure, pulling Richie’s body against his–he was so cold. So utterly cold. His blond shag was stiff against his face, and smelled of dirt and sweat–Hotstreak fought hard to remember what it felt like naturally against his face. He was so still–was he even alive?
Theresa dropped the clothing and equipment she’d picked up–she recalled the throw blanket she’d ripped from the bed. She had dropped it on her way in. She turned, and retrieved it, thrusting it at him–with a hurried shortness associated with his shock, Hotstreak wrapped it around Richie.
His face...his Richie’s face...blood coated the right side of his face, from a bloodied nose and split lip that sullenly oozed color.
Blood coated his teeth, smeared over his pale cheek and neck. There was a grotesque swelling of both color and flesh within the right section of his face. His eye was swollen shut, the lid smooth and colored darkly with blue, the sharp line of his lashes being the only contrast of color within the sudden growth.
It didn’t look like him. It didn’t look like Richie at all. This mangled mess couldn’t be him.
A strange sound forced Theresa to freeze as she re-gathered the ruined clothing– it was a strangled choke that made her gut fill with icy-guilt. Hotstreak struggled to keep himself composed, but he was losing the battle. The frightening mixture of grief, horror, fury and helplessness tore the meta apart as he struggled to rise with the limp figure in his arms. Theresa hurried over, grabbing his jeans, grunting as she helped him rise–his elbow slammed into her face as he turned, but she wouldn’t hold it against him.
He staggered, his knees looking ready to give out as he shifted Richie into a cradle hold against his chest, making sure the throw blanket covered him. Theresa reached over and tucked the draping end of the blanket over Richie’s stomach, and pulled at some material to somehow cover more of his bare legs. As it were, the blanket covered him from neck to knee, his legs stiff and cold and bare to everyone’s curious gaze. Hotstreak was then rushing toward the doors, saying nothing more as his mind, busy with hurrying images of the hospital, tried to refocus.
Theresa blinked at the onslaught of tears that struck her, then. She sank to the rooftop, sobbing hysterically.
She’d never felt this horrible, before.
OooooooooooO
Dakota County General loomed before him, a bold structure of light and faint comfort. There was an ambulance lurching up to the emergency drop-off, and the parking lot was half filled. The hospital air-ambulance, Life Craft, was parked quietly within its halo of emergency lights, the pilots having a smoke near their station. It was quiet, with the only sign of life being that of which were hidden behind the walls.
Hotstreak didn’t even pause to think about his own bad experiences as he bypassed the main entrance to the hospital–his mind was focused on finding a doctor. His trademark fury was shut aside the longer his arms ached with the pressing weight he held. The sidewalk was slippery, and he nearly lost his balance a few times as he lumbered out from the shadows and into the light. The ambulance crew was flushing out the floor of their vehicle with a hose, the warmth of the water sending up vapors as it clashed with the cold. One of them spotted him, knowing him instantly–they both froze as he made his way to the automatic sliding doors, nearly dropping Richie as he stumbled against the thick pathway carpet that was meant to absorb the wetness of the weather outside.
The emergency room was filled with several people, everyone bundled and suffering with their own woes–the nurses’ station was filled with activity, but the only clerk aboard was flipping through a magazine. The only security officer there was flirting with the head nurse, the pair of them sipping coffee and looking over charts.
It was as if someone had pressed the ‘pause’ button when Hotstreak staggered into sight.
He couldn’t breathe–he was breathing too heavily, inwardly cursing cigarettes and lack of any real exercise as he fought to keep Richie upright in his arms. He was slightly worried that the blond was being exposed–he struggled to keep him covered, but he also needed to convey what he needed from the comfort the hospital was supposed to provide.
“Doctor–!” he barked, his voice gruff and thick, looking at the flustered nurses behind the desk. They were all staring at him in wide-eyed fear, neither wanting to move. “DOCTOR!”
The clerk immediately left her chair as he advanced forward. One of Richie’s legs slipped from his arms, and he struggled to fit it back over his aching forearm. He had a minute fear of dropping him. His fists curled inward, every bit of his determination in keeping the blond in his arms causing his physical strength to tremble with the effort. He would not drop him.
“DOCTOR! I need a fuckin’ DOCTOR!” he screamed, realizing that no one was moving.
“What is the problem?” someone asked nearby, a R.N. from the looks of him.
“He–needs–a doctor. He got–”
“There are others that need a doctor as well, sir. You may have to sit down...wait a while. We’ve got a lot of people in here that are sick and---”
Hotstreak’s disbelief in that showed on his face, and the R.N. hurried off with a panicked gasp.
“GET ME A FUCKIN’ DOCTOR!” he then screamed in rage.
One of the nurses took a hesitant step toward him, but she moved too slow–his frustration in their lack of response, combined with the horror he’d felt earlier caused his own fury to explode. He stretched out his arm, the ones that held Richie’s legs aloft, and forced his fist to flame. People screamed, then, running in various directions. He wanted medical attention–no one was trying to help!
The nurse that had moved caught his attention–a single thought had the papers next to her bursting with flame, causing her to scream in surprise as she was trapped behind the station, the others making a hasty getaway. The security officer raised his gun, barking an order–Hotstreak merely had to glance in his direction, and the older man was dancing frantically as the hems of his uniform caught mysterious flame. He ran off, trying to kick the flames out. In this moment, though, the nurse Hotstreak was trying to pin slipped past the flaming piles of paper, and was gone before he could turn back.
In frustration, he whirled, and headed toward the emergency room–a nurse hiding behind a nearby desk was trying to call for more security–once she saw him moving in that direction, the safety of other patients’ prompting a single flair of bravery, she reached over to engage an emergency lock to prevent the panicked male from entering.
The doors locked shut, startling Hotstreak as he heard the audible click. He glanced over, seeing the nurse as she squealed, trying to hide behind a small storage cabinet, phone in hand. He lifted his fist, intending to fry her for her callousness when a man’s voice called him to a halt.
He turned, expecting more guns–but it was a doctor. He was nervous and afraid, but he was looking at Richie.
Relief flooded through Hotstreak as the doctor realized his true intentions. The older man grabbed a nearby stretcher, and forcefully wheeled it in their direction. Hotstreak’s arm muscles were shaking madly with the effort of keeping Richie aloft, and when he was finally able to set the younger male down onto the comforting stretch, he swore he’d heard his muscles sing in relief. It wasn’t that he was physically weak–human bodies, even metas, had their limits.
“What’s wrong?” the doctor demanded, looking down at his newest patient as he signaled for the doors to be unlocked. The nurse hesitated for a brief moment, looking at Hotstreak–but unlocked them. He was then shoving the stretcher through the doors, Hotstreak right behind him.
“I...I don’t know. He...some guy...” Hotstreak knew what happened. But how to tell? How to force that horrible truth from his lips? He kept stumbling as the doctor shoved the stretcher through the hall, drawing attention from other people, more doctors. Once Hotstreak was recognized, many made themselves scarce.
“What happened? Beating? Jumping? Gang bang? What?”
“He–this guy, he–” Hotstreak couldn’t rightly tell him that as Gear, Richie had been brutally attacked by Ebon. His head was racing. He couldn’t let them know that Richie was Gear.
As a result of his hesitation, the doctor glanced at him, noting the reluctance in revealing information. He shoved the stretcher through an open doorway, signaling for a nurse. The movement was unseen, for the hall was empty of available nurses. But he caught the attention of a colleague, and she raced over, arranging a stethoscope around her neck as her face filled with concern and confusion over the sudden emptiness of the usually crowded area.
“What happened?” the doctor demanded once more, impatience filling his tone as he glared up at the meta. “I can’t help if I don’t know what happened!”
“He was raped, all right?” Hotstreak barked, hating those words. They were ugly–he felt helpless. He stared down at Richie, his head shaking slightly. Saying them out loud–they tore him up inside. Rape was a powerful word–to apply it to someone that he knew–to someone like Richie–it made him sick. It made him helpless. His conflicting emotions closed his throat as he stared down at the seemingly lifeless form.
The doctor gave him a disgusted look as the female doctor began yanking over an I.V. stand. “‘Raped’? Men don’t get raped! What the hell happened?”
Hotstreak looked at him, unsure if he’d heard right. His eyes widened with rising fury, and his fists clenched.
The woman doctor looked sharply at her colleague, and shook her head. “Go. I’ll take over.”
“What? Montoya, you–!”
“I’ll take it! Get out of here! GO! Before he fries you! And I have to take care of you, too!” she snapped, shoving him aside.
Flabbergasted, the elder doctor stared at her, then took one look at Hotstreak–he left the room in a hurry.
Rosa Montoya glanced at Hotstreak, and reached out to grip his blood stained shirt as he took a few steps toward the open door. “I need you in here,” she commanded, yanking him back. “I need your help. Shut that door. Get me that box just above your head...to the right.”
Hotstreak hesitated, looking back at her–confused.
She was slipping on a pair of latex gloves, and saw him hesitate. “NOW!” she snapped, snapping open a drawer and retrieving a paper gown. She retrieved another, and commanded that he wear it. He slipped it on over his blood stained clothing, then turned to slam the door shut. He then reached up to pull down a plain box from a stack of many from the shelf nearby. Supplies crashed to the floor with his action, but he ignored it, tentatively stepping up to the stretcher as Montoya untangled the throw blanket from around Richie.
“Open it, get it out, for me,” she said hurriedly, tossing the blanket aside.
Hotstreak froze at the sight of numerous bright red welts that covered Richie’s pale skin. Welts that looked like–
“NOW! GET IT OUT, NOW!” Montoya shouted at him, drawing the paper gown over the grotesque sight–not dressing him, just covering him for the moment.
She then dragged open a drawer, withdrawing a couple of different length needles, an I.V. bag, nasal cannula. Withdrawing antiseptic wipes from another drawer, as well as a rubber strip, she returned her attention to Richie’s left arm. She tied on the rubber strip, then wiped the area within the inside of his elbow; patting it dry, she then inserted a needle within the vein that rose from the pressure. She worked to connect the I.V. bag, setting the stand aside as the process was finished.
“What is his age?” she then asked quietly, glancing over at the silent meta.
Hotstreak heard himself swallow. His mind was momentarily blank---
“Seven–no. Eighteen. O-or...nineteen. No, eighteen...”
“Good. Because if he were a minor, I would have had to call his parents. I would not have been able to perform any medical procedures without their permission. Eighteen is of legal age for making decisions on their own in Dakota.”
From there, she worked on forcing the nasal cannula into place, and set the oxygen level to a comfortable flow, noting Hotstreak’s reactions to all that she’d performed.
He wasn’t leaving–she had thought he would leave once he set down the motionless victim–but he stayed. That told her something, knowing how uncomfortable males were with sexual assaults.
Fingers shaking, Hotstreak forced himself to lower his gaze to the box he held in one hand, and opened it to reveal a several small cups and tubes, a tiny comb no bigger than his hand, some plastic baggies, cotton swabs and a small booklet. He didn’t understand what she meant by ‘it’. There were many ‘its’ in his hand.
Looking at the sticker imprint on the side, he felt numb at the words, ‘Standard Rape Kit’. It only gave him a more firmer reality slap in that this was actually happening.
Montoya pulled the stethoscope from around her neck, and pressed it gingerly to the lightly rising and falling chest. Hotstreak stared, in numb shock, as she listened and counted the seconds using the clock just to his left.
“Tell me what you know,” she said quietly, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck, and taking the box from him. “I need you to tell me what you know, so that I know what I am looking at.”
The other doctor didn’t listen–he didn’t listen, he laughed at the notion–!
“I need you to put these on, all right? Is he a friend of yours?” Montoya continued, tossing a pair of latex gloves at him. He stared at the twin disposable latex with a confused expression, watching as she gently ran her fingers through Richie’s hair. She paused at several intervals, and made mental notations as she began a general assessment of his entire frame.
“...Yeah,” he managed to say, picking up the latex. But he ended up melting it, and he watched numbly as the latex curled and shrunk underneath his touch.
She snatched them away from him, tossing them in the general location of the trash receptacle. She handed him new ones.
“Control yourself. Talk to me,” she commanded, retrieving a small penlight from her coat pocket, and forcing Richie’s eyelids open. At the retraction of both pupils, she then concentrated on the swelling on the right side of his face. She reached over for more anti-septic packets, ripping them open. She wiped away the dried blood that had gathered around his nose, mouth and face, looking for injuries that were hidden underneath.
This time, Hotstreak was able to focus on lowering his body temperature, numbly asking himself if he’d done so for Richie’s safety during the carry. He couldn’t see any burns on that pale skin–which was slowly turning back to normal underneath the warmth of the gown and blanket. With the warming of the blond’s skin, there were suddenly smells. Of blood, of body odors–the strong scent of the antiseptic. He suddenly felt suffocated by the mixture of smells–he felt his stomach twist with a strong wrench that had his throat burning with bile.
He turned away, taking several deep breaths, to clear his mind of his nausea.
He then slipped the gloves over his hands, numbly wondering why.“I don’t know details.”
“Possible fracture, multiple head abrasions–there are patches of hair missing, as well as fingernail indentations, telling me that someone held him in place by his hair–someone used his fists, didn’t they? There isn’t any indication of a weapon used...these neck wounds were given purposely. Sick fuck wanted to leave his calling card,” Montoya was muttering to herself as she gently tilted Richie’s head to one side, then the other. “No broken bones on his upper torso–bruises...bruises will heal. His lip----he’ll need a stitch. Must have cut it on his teeth. No other injuries to his tongue, no visible injury to his palate, no indication that he was forced to perform oral sex–but I’ll need to swab the insides of his cheeks just to be sure. Hand me a couple of swabs from that box.”
Hotstreak stared at Richie’s unconscious face. To be forced to–no. Ebon wasn’t that messy. He wouldn’t do that. But how was she able to tell?
“COTTON SWAB! NOW!”
Hastily, he forced himself to look down at the box he held–he retrieved a swab, and she took it briskly. She indicated for another, holding the previous one carefully.
“See those tubes on the side? Take two of those out–open them.”
He followed through with what she asked, and she performed a brisk sweep with the swabs against each of the inside of Richie’s cheeks. She tucked both swabs into their respective tubes, and set those aside, on the portable metal table.
She moved swiftly, tucking the blanket over Richie’s upper chest and lifting up one limp arm.
“Put that box down there, and hold his arm–like that.”
His skin was still cold–but not as cold as it was on the rooftop. Hotstreak held that limp wrist, watching as Montoya swept the undersides of his fingernails with individual swabs. She then noted the defensive injuries on the palms–there were still bits of gravel imbedded within the skin.
“He may have skin or hair from his attacker underneath his fingernails...we can preserve that evidence. Also, forensics can tell what sort of environment he was in, before, during and after the attack. Also to double check on how many actual attackers were there. Hopefully...hopefully there was only one.”
Those were set aside within a larger tube. She then took over on the limb, running her gloved fingers up and down the forearm, noting the bruises around the wrist.
She performed the same actions with the other arm–Hotstreak could only stare in silent shock at the still figure they worked on, Montoya muttering to herself as she continued with the procedure.
Gingerly, she forced Richie’s body against her, tilting him against her, and running her hand over his back and lower waist, looking at her gloves for any other injuries. Once satisfying herself with finding nothing there, she tilted him back against the mattress, and began dressing him in the gown that she’d laid over him.
She slipped her gloves off, and tossed them near the trash can–then, she manipulated the bed so that Richie’s lower half was raised.
“Stand at his head. If you can, talk to him,” she said, giving him a stern look as she slipped on more gloves. “I need to look down here, and sweep for the perp’s pubic hairs, and to see what damage he did. It’ll make you uncomfortable.”
‘Sweep for pubic hairs’? Numbly, Hotstreak moved up to where Richie’s upper half lay, and looked down at that still face. Montoya was forcefully spreading his legs apart, forcing them to bend and prop against the railing of the bed. Hotstreak cast a wary, accusing glance in her direction for the forceful manipulation, but slowly lost the heat when she grabbed that box and withdrew the comb. He watched her face as she worked, noting the grimaces and the determination that flitted across her Hispanic features.
“He could probably hear you if you talked to him,” she said at one point, grabbing a cup from the box, holding the comb gingerly.
She glanced at Hotstreak, who was very out of place within the room–the entire place. She’d treated him a year ago–when he’d come to the hospital, beaten to within an inch of his life. She knew his kind–she treated the ones he sent to the hospital with his powers and fists. He wasn’t a stranger to her–she knew him through news clippings and various other run-ins. But the person standing at this young man’s side...she didn’t know him. He was uncommonly quiet–his face pale and drawn–out of place. He didn’t know what to do or say, and he was in obvious shock. He knew this boy well–he was not the enemy.
But her professionalism in her duties kept her focused on her task. There wasn’t any time to marvel at this stranger.
“Give me those tweezers from that table. I have a few hairs.”
Hotstreak found the tweezers, wrapped in plastic–he unwrapped it and passed it over. Carefully, she tweezed small hairs from the comb and slipped them within the cup.
He felt bile touch his throat at the thought of Ebon being where he had over a year ago. The thought made his skin crawl. For his anger to jump. For guilt and self-remorse to force his innards into tight knots.
“I’ll need to stitch him here, too. I’ll need your help. Those other guys–I’ll have them fired for failing their duties!” Montoya threatened, shaking her head. “Everyone should be treated equal in the emergency room! No matter their position! No matter their financial situation! Cowards, dirty senseless cowards–all of them! Give me that penlight–thanks.”
Hotstreak stared at her as she ducked once more, and he gave a slight start as Richie made a sort of whine in his throat. He glanced over as Montoya straightened, looking at him expectantly. But the blond merely relaxed once more, his facial features slacking–she lowered herself again, apologizing aloud.
“I am examining the damage, and I used too much force to open his cavity. It has been torn. He’ll need stitches here, as well. It doesn’t look as if he has been bleeding too much–being out in the cold, his blood flow had enough time to stop on its own. If it had been warmer, it would have been a different situation. The bastard used a condom–but there’s some lubrication from the latex that can be used as evidence. It may contain remnants of his semen–it’s a long shot, but it’s something we can look at. It doesn’t look like the damage has extended into his rectal area–just stitches for the outside muscle. He also has some small abrasions from the forceful entry. He’ll be very uncomfortable for a few weeks atop of other things. The stitches that I’ll be using will be re-absorbed into his body–we normally use this type of thread on women, when their perineal area tears during giving birth...”
Hotstreak, meanwhile, continued to stare at Richie, yearning for him to awaken. And, at the same time–he hoped he’d continue to stay unconscious. So he wouldn’t know that someone was poking and prodding at him–Hotstreak wanted him to be comfortable and relaxed–but his emotions were a myriad of conflict–he just wanted Richie to stay out of it.
Montoya finally straightened, shaking her head. She put away all the gathered tubes during her search, and set them all within the box that she’d used. Then, she turned away, rummaging through the drawers. She withdrew a Kotex pad and unwrapped it, pulling at the ties. The thing was uncomfortably bulky–embarrassing, at most. But she explained her reasoning as she tucked the monstrosity between his legs.
“This will catch leaking fluids, and soak up blood. He isn’t bleeding very much, but this will staunch it. I need to perform an x-ray on the swelling on his face–the zygomatic bone may have been fractured by impact. If left untreated, the wound could possibly blind him, and or cause infection. I’ll have to make sure that it isn’t any of that.” She looked at Hotstreak, her face masked with duty. “After this is all done, he’ll need clothes. I doubt he’d want to leave the hospital in a paper gown.”
Her words registered, but he was puzzled by her assumption. “He ain’t staying...?”
“I’ve treated male victims, before, Mr. Stone. Nine times out of ten, they leave the hospital as soon as they are done with the repair. The one man that didn’t leave died from other wounds. This one, he’s capable of leaving as soon as I’m done with the stitches, and with the x-rays. I can also perform STD tests, and an AIDS test, for comfort. Though, it may have to be repeated in a few weeks, just to be sure. I’ll also need to talk to him when he wakes–I need to discuss other options with him.”
Hotstreak stared at her in silence for a few moments, then looked back at Richie.
Richie had been a virgin, with him. As far as he knew, the blond had considered him, Hotstreak, his only partner. How devastating it would be for the blond to receive a sexually transmitted disease along with the rape. Condoms did provide a majority of protection–but some things were able to slip past. Richie would be devastated–what cruelty–
She reached out, her touch startling him. He reacted with a sharp jerk backward, and she lowered her hand. “I’ll take over from here.”
Hotstreak, now that a majority of the crisis had been averted, could think–Richie was Gear before the attack. Now that Ebon knew who he was–but he’d have to think about that later. Richie was now Richie Foley–but Hotstreak knew that Richie wasn’t willing to give up his secret to the doctor. And Hotstreak wasn’t going to give it up, either.
Then his mind shifted to other things–with the chaos he’d caused earlier with trying to get a doctor, no doubt the police had an idea of what was going on here. Self-preservation in keeping out of the authorities’ hands made him anxious–Richie should be fine right here in this doctor’s capable hands. He could handle it from there----
But it was those very same thoughts that had him thinking that Richie would be able to handle Ebon’s attack. And look how well that happened.
He stared down at the visible welt on Richie’s neck–a grotesque reminder left by Ebon. There were others, he’d seen–on his chest, his stomach, his inner thighs–
He shook his head. “No. Because by th’ time I get back, you’ll have the cops all over th’ place.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you thinking of yourself?”
Hotstreak paused as he considered her words. Then he shook his head again. “I ain’t leavin’ him. Not wit’ you. When he wakes up, he’ll make his own decision. But I ain’t leavin’ him. Cuz...you might... accuse me of something.”
She wanted to pursue the subject. But keen sense told her that it wasn’t a selfish need that disagreed with her–he wasn’t thinking of himself.
She didn’t want to waste any more time arguing. “I’ll need to take him to X-Ray. Follow me.”
She applied force to unlock the brakes, and wheeled the stretcher out of the room, Hotstreak following her. The hall was slightly busy–but everyone was looking cautiously in their direction, watching him. Assessing him and Montoya–the woman reached out and nudged him with her elbow to keep his focus on the here and now.
Chapter Four
Theresa burst through the doors of the rooftop with gasping breath, Hotstreak right on her heels. Both were breathing heavily with the maddeningly long run across town, and the stairway that took them ten flights up. Neither could catch their breath–legs were tight and weak at the same instant, and Theresa had to hang onto the door as she fought to breathe. At one point before they even left the neighborhood of the duplex, Hotstreak had mentioned a car–but she’d ignored him.
With one weak arm, she pointed out Richie’s location, feeling terribly ill as she once again took in the horrid sight just beyond the shadows. Hotstreak stopped short upon seeing him, and stared in silence for only a few moments–then, he was moving forward, his legs moving in seemingly uncoordinated fashion. He stared down at the still form before him, thoughts at a standstill–to see something as horrible as this, and knowing that he actually knew the person–
He fell roughly to his knees, his hands lifting in slow movement as he reached out to touch Richie. Theresa had her hand to her mouth as she focused on Hotstreak, on watching his actions. Depending on the moment, she was ready to run if he felt like turning around to fry her. While immensely guilty that she had participated indirectly to Richie’s rape, she didn’t want to burn.
Then, as if slapped, Hotstreak moved quickly; he shoved Richie’s legs together, and pulled his arms down, giving a faint sound that was a mixture of choking and wheezing. He pulled Richie to him, cradling his unconscious form against his front, trying desperately to warm him and hide his nakedness.
As he looked about, eyes glazed with disbelief and horror, he did not resemble the angry young man that he was known to be. More rather, a frightened, helpless boy that was unable to think on his own. When his eyes fell on Theresa, they quickly focused and sharpened.
“Ebon?” he barked. He knew–he needed that verbal verification. Time to regain his ground.
She nodded–unable to speak. She shakily rose to her feet–her thighs threatened to give out underneath her. Her fingers squeezed the doorknob, keeping her upright.
“His clothes...his clothes! Where are they?”
She started to point, but he wrenched himself into a crouch, pulling Richie tight against him. His limbs were completely limp–lifeless–she thought he was dead. He didn’t look alive–his skin was a blue pallor, and his features were lifeless. For a moment, she wanted to scream; with horror, with guilt, with grief.
“Get them!” Hotstreak screamed at her, his voice loud and furious. It broke in the middle of the command. “Get them!”
She snapped out of her daze and raced about, gathering everything that Ebon had stripped from Richie. Her legs were shaking with the arduous task of keeping herself upright, and her stomach kept lurching into her throat. She gathered the ruined shirts; the pants; the protective gear and the helmet. She kept dropping his gloves. It took her several tries before she finally stuffed one into her jeans pocket, and the other down her shirt when she found that the other pocket was already filled with the remains of his shirt. When she realized that his underwear was missing, she shook her head frantically, to let Hotstreak know this. She didn’t know what to do with his skates. She couldn’t find Backpack. Ebon’s teleportation took the robot to somewhere unknown–she would wonder where, later.
“I need something–! Cover him–! He needs ta be covered–!”
Hotstreak’s voice was gruff, thick–his words were almost incoherent, mindless muttering that escaped his lips as he pulled Richie closer to him, warming cold flesh. He was unable to form longer sentences, more description. Everything was short–basic. He needed to move–but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t think–Richie needed to be covered–basic needs.
He suddenly paused at catching a glimpse of his hand–cold moisture, thicker than snow, lighter than mud–he wiped his hand across his shirt, numbly wiping away the blood. Blood...it was everywhere. Since he’d moved Richie, it was all over his pants, his shirt–it clung to his skin with a determined tenacity. He didn’t know where it came from. His own blood froze as his stomach leapt into his throat.
He kept wanting to deny that this person in his arms was the very same person he’d held over six months ago. He wasn’t the Richie Foley he knew–it was some other guy, some other person with a busted up face and cold nakedness. But he recognized what he could of the swollen features, and the toned limbs.
These cold, limp limbs that had held him in comfort and neediness were stiff and heavy as he struggled to maintain his composure, pulling Richie’s body against his–he was so cold. So utterly cold. His blond shag was stiff against his face, and smelled of dirt and sweat–Hotstreak fought hard to remember what it felt like naturally against his face. He was so still–was he even alive?
Theresa dropped the clothing and equipment she’d picked up–she recalled the throw blanket she’d ripped from the bed. She had dropped it on her way in. She turned, and retrieved it, thrusting it at him–with a hurried shortness associated with his shock, Hotstreak wrapped it around Richie.
His face...his Richie’s face...blood coated the right side of his face, from a bloodied nose and split lip that sullenly oozed color.
Blood coated his teeth, smeared over his pale cheek and neck. There was a grotesque swelling of both color and flesh within the right section of his face. His eye was swollen shut, the lid smooth and colored darkly with blue, the sharp line of his lashes being the only contrast of color within the sudden growth.
It didn’t look like him. It didn’t look like Richie at all. This mangled mess couldn’t be him.
A strange sound forced Theresa to freeze as she re-gathered the ruined clothing– it was a strangled choke that made her gut fill with icy-guilt. Hotstreak struggled to keep himself composed, but he was losing the battle. The frightening mixture of grief, horror, fury and helplessness tore the meta apart as he struggled to rise with the limp figure in his arms. Theresa hurried over, grabbing his jeans, grunting as she helped him rise–his elbow slammed into her face as he turned, but she wouldn’t hold it against him.
He staggered, his knees looking ready to give out as he shifted Richie into a cradle hold against his chest, making sure the throw blanket covered him. Theresa reached over and tucked the draping end of the blanket over Richie’s stomach, and pulled at some material to somehow cover more of his bare legs. As it were, the blanket covered him from neck to knee, his legs stiff and cold and bare to everyone’s curious gaze. Hotstreak was then rushing toward the doors, saying nothing more as his mind, busy with hurrying images of the hospital, tried to refocus.
Theresa blinked at the onslaught of tears that struck her, then. She sank to the rooftop, sobbing hysterically.
She’d never felt this horrible, before.
OooooooooooO
Dakota County General loomed before him, a bold structure of light and faint comfort. There was an ambulance lurching up to the emergency drop-off, and the parking lot was half filled. The hospital air-ambulance, Life Craft, was parked quietly within its halo of emergency lights, the pilots having a smoke near their station. It was quiet, with the only sign of life being that of which were hidden behind the walls.
Hotstreak didn’t even pause to think about his own bad experiences as he bypassed the main entrance to the hospital–his mind was focused on finding a doctor. His trademark fury was shut aside the longer his arms ached with the pressing weight he held. The sidewalk was slippery, and he nearly lost his balance a few times as he lumbered out from the shadows and into the light. The ambulance crew was flushing out the floor of their vehicle with a hose, the warmth of the water sending up vapors as it clashed with the cold. One of them spotted him, knowing him instantly–they both froze as he made his way to the automatic sliding doors, nearly dropping Richie as he stumbled against the thick pathway carpet that was meant to absorb the wetness of the weather outside.
The emergency room was filled with several people, everyone bundled and suffering with their own woes–the nurses’ station was filled with activity, but the only clerk aboard was flipping through a magazine. The only security officer there was flirting with the head nurse, the pair of them sipping coffee and looking over charts.
It was as if someone had pressed the ‘pause’ button when Hotstreak staggered into sight.
He couldn’t breathe–he was breathing too heavily, inwardly cursing cigarettes and lack of any real exercise as he fought to keep Richie upright in his arms. He was slightly worried that the blond was being exposed–he struggled to keep him covered, but he also needed to convey what he needed from the comfort the hospital was supposed to provide.
“Doctor–!” he barked, his voice gruff and thick, looking at the flustered nurses behind the desk. They were all staring at him in wide-eyed fear, neither wanting to move. “DOCTOR!”
The clerk immediately left her chair as he advanced forward. One of Richie’s legs slipped from his arms, and he struggled to fit it back over his aching forearm. He had a minute fear of dropping him. His fists curled inward, every bit of his determination in keeping the blond in his arms causing his physical strength to tremble with the effort. He would not drop him.
“DOCTOR! I need a fuckin’ DOCTOR!” he screamed, realizing that no one was moving.
“What is the problem?” someone asked nearby, a R.N. from the looks of him.
“He–needs–a doctor. He got–”
“There are others that need a doctor as well, sir. You may have to sit down...wait a while. We’ve got a lot of people in here that are sick and---”
Hotstreak’s disbelief in that showed on his face, and the R.N. hurried off with a panicked gasp.
“GET ME A FUCKIN’ DOCTOR!” he then screamed in rage.
One of the nurses took a hesitant step toward him, but she moved too slow–his frustration in their lack of response, combined with the horror he’d felt earlier caused his own fury to explode. He stretched out his arm, the ones that held Richie’s legs aloft, and forced his fist to flame. People screamed, then, running in various directions. He wanted medical attention–no one was trying to help!
The nurse that had moved caught his attention–a single thought had the papers next to her bursting with flame, causing her to scream in surprise as she was trapped behind the station, the others making a hasty getaway. The security officer raised his gun, barking an order–Hotstreak merely had to glance in his direction, and the older man was dancing frantically as the hems of his uniform caught mysterious flame. He ran off, trying to kick the flames out. In this moment, though, the nurse Hotstreak was trying to pin slipped past the flaming piles of paper, and was gone before he could turn back.
In frustration, he whirled, and headed toward the emergency room–a nurse hiding behind a nearby desk was trying to call for more security–once she saw him moving in that direction, the safety of other patients’ prompting a single flair of bravery, she reached over to engage an emergency lock to prevent the panicked male from entering.
The doors locked shut, startling Hotstreak as he heard the audible click. He glanced over, seeing the nurse as she squealed, trying to hide behind a small storage cabinet, phone in hand. He lifted his fist, intending to fry her for her callousness when a man’s voice called him to a halt.
He turned, expecting more guns–but it was a doctor. He was nervous and afraid, but he was looking at Richie.
Relief flooded through Hotstreak as the doctor realized his true intentions. The older man grabbed a nearby stretcher, and forcefully wheeled it in their direction. Hotstreak’s arm muscles were shaking madly with the effort of keeping Richie aloft, and when he was finally able to set the younger male down onto the comforting stretch, he swore he’d heard his muscles sing in relief. It wasn’t that he was physically weak–human bodies, even metas, had their limits.
“What’s wrong?” the doctor demanded, looking down at his newest patient as he signaled for the doors to be unlocked. The nurse hesitated for a brief moment, looking at Hotstreak–but unlocked them. He was then shoving the stretcher through the doors, Hotstreak right behind him.
“I...I don’t know. He...some guy...” Hotstreak knew what happened. But how to tell? How to force that horrible truth from his lips? He kept stumbling as the doctor shoved the stretcher through the hall, drawing attention from other people, more doctors. Once Hotstreak was recognized, many made themselves scarce.
“What happened? Beating? Jumping? Gang bang? What?”
“He–this guy, he–” Hotstreak couldn’t rightly tell him that as Gear, Richie had been brutally attacked by Ebon. His head was racing. He couldn’t let them know that Richie was Gear.
As a result of his hesitation, the doctor glanced at him, noting the reluctance in revealing information. He shoved the stretcher through an open doorway, signaling for a nurse. The movement was unseen, for the hall was empty of available nurses. But he caught the attention of a colleague, and she raced over, arranging a stethoscope around her neck as her face filled with concern and confusion over the sudden emptiness of the usually crowded area.
“What happened?” the doctor demanded once more, impatience filling his tone as he glared up at the meta. “I can’t help if I don’t know what happened!”
“He was raped, all right?” Hotstreak barked, hating those words. They were ugly–he felt helpless. He stared down at Richie, his head shaking slightly. Saying them out loud–they tore him up inside. Rape was a powerful word–to apply it to someone that he knew–to someone like Richie–it made him sick. It made him helpless. His conflicting emotions closed his throat as he stared down at the seemingly lifeless form.
The doctor gave him a disgusted look as the female doctor began yanking over an I.V. stand. “‘Raped’? Men don’t get raped! What the hell happened?”
Hotstreak looked at him, unsure if he’d heard right. His eyes widened with rising fury, and his fists clenched.
The woman doctor looked sharply at her colleague, and shook her head. “Go. I’ll take over.”
“What? Montoya, you–!”
“I’ll take it! Get out of here! GO! Before he fries you! And I have to take care of you, too!” she snapped, shoving him aside.
Flabbergasted, the elder doctor stared at her, then took one look at Hotstreak–he left the room in a hurry.
Rosa Montoya glanced at Hotstreak, and reached out to grip his blood stained shirt as he took a few steps toward the open door. “I need you in here,” she commanded, yanking him back. “I need your help. Shut that door. Get me that box just above your head...to the right.”
Hotstreak hesitated, looking back at her–confused.
She was slipping on a pair of latex gloves, and saw him hesitate. “NOW!” she snapped, snapping open a drawer and retrieving a paper gown. She retrieved another, and commanded that he wear it. He slipped it on over his blood stained clothing, then turned to slam the door shut. He then reached up to pull down a plain box from a stack of many from the shelf nearby. Supplies crashed to the floor with his action, but he ignored it, tentatively stepping up to the stretcher as Montoya untangled the throw blanket from around Richie.
“Open it, get it out, for me,” she said hurriedly, tossing the blanket aside.
Hotstreak froze at the sight of numerous bright red welts that covered Richie’s pale skin. Welts that looked like–
“NOW! GET IT OUT, NOW!” Montoya shouted at him, drawing the paper gown over the grotesque sight–not dressing him, just covering him for the moment.
She then dragged open a drawer, withdrawing a couple of different length needles, an I.V. bag, nasal cannula. Withdrawing antiseptic wipes from another drawer, as well as a rubber strip, she returned her attention to Richie’s left arm. She tied on the rubber strip, then wiped the area within the inside of his elbow; patting it dry, she then inserted a needle within the vein that rose from the pressure. She worked to connect the I.V. bag, setting the stand aside as the process was finished.
“What is his age?” she then asked quietly, glancing over at the silent meta.
Hotstreak heard himself swallow. His mind was momentarily blank---
“Seven–no. Eighteen. O-or...nineteen. No, eighteen...”
“Good. Because if he were a minor, I would have had to call his parents. I would not have been able to perform any medical procedures without their permission. Eighteen is of legal age for making decisions on their own in Dakota.”
From there, she worked on forcing the nasal cannula into place, and set the oxygen level to a comfortable flow, noting Hotstreak’s reactions to all that she’d performed.
He wasn’t leaving–she had thought he would leave once he set down the motionless victim–but he stayed. That told her something, knowing how uncomfortable males were with sexual assaults.
Fingers shaking, Hotstreak forced himself to lower his gaze to the box he held in one hand, and opened it to reveal a several small cups and tubes, a tiny comb no bigger than his hand, some plastic baggies, cotton swabs and a small booklet. He didn’t understand what she meant by ‘it’. There were many ‘its’ in his hand.
Looking at the sticker imprint on the side, he felt numb at the words, ‘Standard Rape Kit’. It only gave him a more firmer reality slap in that this was actually happening.
Montoya pulled the stethoscope from around her neck, and pressed it gingerly to the lightly rising and falling chest. Hotstreak stared, in numb shock, as she listened and counted the seconds using the clock just to his left.
“Tell me what you know,” she said quietly, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck, and taking the box from him. “I need you to tell me what you know, so that I know what I am looking at.”
The other doctor didn’t listen–he didn’t listen, he laughed at the notion–!
“I need you to put these on, all right? Is he a friend of yours?” Montoya continued, tossing a pair of latex gloves at him. He stared at the twin disposable latex with a confused expression, watching as she gently ran her fingers through Richie’s hair. She paused at several intervals, and made mental notations as she began a general assessment of his entire frame.
“...Yeah,” he managed to say, picking up the latex. But he ended up melting it, and he watched numbly as the latex curled and shrunk underneath his touch.
She snatched them away from him, tossing them in the general location of the trash receptacle. She handed him new ones.
“Control yourself. Talk to me,” she commanded, retrieving a small penlight from her coat pocket, and forcing Richie’s eyelids open. At the retraction of both pupils, she then concentrated on the swelling on the right side of his face. She reached over for more anti-septic packets, ripping them open. She wiped away the dried blood that had gathered around his nose, mouth and face, looking for injuries that were hidden underneath.
This time, Hotstreak was able to focus on lowering his body temperature, numbly asking himself if he’d done so for Richie’s safety during the carry. He couldn’t see any burns on that pale skin–which was slowly turning back to normal underneath the warmth of the gown and blanket. With the warming of the blond’s skin, there were suddenly smells. Of blood, of body odors–the strong scent of the antiseptic. He suddenly felt suffocated by the mixture of smells–he felt his stomach twist with a strong wrench that had his throat burning with bile.
He turned away, taking several deep breaths, to clear his mind of his nausea.
He then slipped the gloves over his hands, numbly wondering why.“I don’t know details.”
“Possible fracture, multiple head abrasions–there are patches of hair missing, as well as fingernail indentations, telling me that someone held him in place by his hair–someone used his fists, didn’t they? There isn’t any indication of a weapon used...these neck wounds were given purposely. Sick fuck wanted to leave his calling card,” Montoya was muttering to herself as she gently tilted Richie’s head to one side, then the other. “No broken bones on his upper torso–bruises...bruises will heal. His lip----he’ll need a stitch. Must have cut it on his teeth. No other injuries to his tongue, no visible injury to his palate, no indication that he was forced to perform oral sex–but I’ll need to swab the insides of his cheeks just to be sure. Hand me a couple of swabs from that box.”
Hotstreak stared at Richie’s unconscious face. To be forced to–no. Ebon wasn’t that messy. He wouldn’t do that. But how was she able to tell?
“COTTON SWAB! NOW!”
Hastily, he forced himself to look down at the box he held–he retrieved a swab, and she took it briskly. She indicated for another, holding the previous one carefully.
“See those tubes on the side? Take two of those out–open them.”
He followed through with what she asked, and she performed a brisk sweep with the swabs against each of the inside of Richie’s cheeks. She tucked both swabs into their respective tubes, and set those aside, on the portable metal table.
She moved swiftly, tucking the blanket over Richie’s upper chest and lifting up one limp arm.
“Put that box down there, and hold his arm–like that.”
His skin was still cold–but not as cold as it was on the rooftop. Hotstreak held that limp wrist, watching as Montoya swept the undersides of his fingernails with individual swabs. She then noted the defensive injuries on the palms–there were still bits of gravel imbedded within the skin.
“He may have skin or hair from his attacker underneath his fingernails...we can preserve that evidence. Also, forensics can tell what sort of environment he was in, before, during and after the attack. Also to double check on how many actual attackers were there. Hopefully...hopefully there was only one.”
Those were set aside within a larger tube. She then took over on the limb, running her gloved fingers up and down the forearm, noting the bruises around the wrist.
She performed the same actions with the other arm–Hotstreak could only stare in silent shock at the still figure they worked on, Montoya muttering to herself as she continued with the procedure.
Gingerly, she forced Richie’s body against her, tilting him against her, and running her hand over his back and lower waist, looking at her gloves for any other injuries. Once satisfying herself with finding nothing there, she tilted him back against the mattress, and began dressing him in the gown that she’d laid over him.
She slipped her gloves off, and tossed them near the trash can–then, she manipulated the bed so that Richie’s lower half was raised.
“Stand at his head. If you can, talk to him,” she said, giving him a stern look as she slipped on more gloves. “I need to look down here, and sweep for the perp’s pubic hairs, and to see what damage he did. It’ll make you uncomfortable.”
‘Sweep for pubic hairs’? Numbly, Hotstreak moved up to where Richie’s upper half lay, and looked down at that still face. Montoya was forcefully spreading his legs apart, forcing them to bend and prop against the railing of the bed. Hotstreak cast a wary, accusing glance in her direction for the forceful manipulation, but slowly lost the heat when she grabbed that box and withdrew the comb. He watched her face as she worked, noting the grimaces and the determination that flitted across her Hispanic features.
“He could probably hear you if you talked to him,” she said at one point, grabbing a cup from the box, holding the comb gingerly.
She glanced at Hotstreak, who was very out of place within the room–the entire place. She’d treated him a year ago–when he’d come to the hospital, beaten to within an inch of his life. She knew his kind–she treated the ones he sent to the hospital with his powers and fists. He wasn’t a stranger to her–she knew him through news clippings and various other run-ins. But the person standing at this young man’s side...she didn’t know him. He was uncommonly quiet–his face pale and drawn–out of place. He didn’t know what to do or say, and he was in obvious shock. He knew this boy well–he was not the enemy.
But her professionalism in her duties kept her focused on her task. There wasn’t any time to marvel at this stranger.
“Give me those tweezers from that table. I have a few hairs.”
Hotstreak found the tweezers, wrapped in plastic–he unwrapped it and passed it over. Carefully, she tweezed small hairs from the comb and slipped them within the cup.
He felt bile touch his throat at the thought of Ebon being where he had over a year ago. The thought made his skin crawl. For his anger to jump. For guilt and self-remorse to force his innards into tight knots.
“I’ll need to stitch him here, too. I’ll need your help. Those other guys–I’ll have them fired for failing their duties!” Montoya threatened, shaking her head. “Everyone should be treated equal in the emergency room! No matter their position! No matter their financial situation! Cowards, dirty senseless cowards–all of them! Give me that penlight–thanks.”
Hotstreak stared at her as she ducked once more, and he gave a slight start as Richie made a sort of whine in his throat. He glanced over as Montoya straightened, looking at him expectantly. But the blond merely relaxed once more, his facial features slacking–she lowered herself again, apologizing aloud.
“I am examining the damage, and I used too much force to open his cavity. It has been torn. He’ll need stitches here, as well. It doesn’t look as if he has been bleeding too much–being out in the cold, his blood flow had enough time to stop on its own. If it had been warmer, it would have been a different situation. The bastard used a condom–but there’s some lubrication from the latex that can be used as evidence. It may contain remnants of his semen–it’s a long shot, but it’s something we can look at. It doesn’t look like the damage has extended into his rectal area–just stitches for the outside muscle. He also has some small abrasions from the forceful entry. He’ll be very uncomfortable for a few weeks atop of other things. The stitches that I’ll be using will be re-absorbed into his body–we normally use this type of thread on women, when their perineal area tears during giving birth...”
Hotstreak, meanwhile, continued to stare at Richie, yearning for him to awaken. And, at the same time–he hoped he’d continue to stay unconscious. So he wouldn’t know that someone was poking and prodding at him–Hotstreak wanted him to be comfortable and relaxed–but his emotions were a myriad of conflict–he just wanted Richie to stay out of it.
Montoya finally straightened, shaking her head. She put away all the gathered tubes during her search, and set them all within the box that she’d used. Then, she turned away, rummaging through the drawers. She withdrew a Kotex pad and unwrapped it, pulling at the ties. The thing was uncomfortably bulky–embarrassing, at most. But she explained her reasoning as she tucked the monstrosity between his legs.
“This will catch leaking fluids, and soak up blood. He isn’t bleeding very much, but this will staunch it. I need to perform an x-ray on the swelling on his face–the zygomatic bone may have been fractured by impact. If left untreated, the wound could possibly blind him, and or cause infection. I’ll have to make sure that it isn’t any of that.” She looked at Hotstreak, her face masked with duty. “After this is all done, he’ll need clothes. I doubt he’d want to leave the hospital in a paper gown.”
Her words registered, but he was puzzled by her assumption. “He ain’t staying...?”
“I’ve treated male victims, before, Mr. Stone. Nine times out of ten, they leave the hospital as soon as they are done with the repair. The one man that didn’t leave died from other wounds. This one, he’s capable of leaving as soon as I’m done with the stitches, and with the x-rays. I can also perform STD tests, and an AIDS test, for comfort. Though, it may have to be repeated in a few weeks, just to be sure. I’ll also need to talk to him when he wakes–I need to discuss other options with him.”
Hotstreak stared at her in silence for a few moments, then looked back at Richie.
Richie had been a virgin, with him. As far as he knew, the blond had considered him, Hotstreak, his only partner. How devastating it would be for the blond to receive a sexually transmitted disease along with the rape. Condoms did provide a majority of protection–but some things were able to slip past. Richie would be devastated–what cruelty–
She reached out, her touch startling him. He reacted with a sharp jerk backward, and she lowered her hand. “I’ll take over from here.”
Hotstreak, now that a majority of the crisis had been averted, could think–Richie was Gear before the attack. Now that Ebon knew who he was–but he’d have to think about that later. Richie was now Richie Foley–but Hotstreak knew that Richie wasn’t willing to give up his secret to the doctor. And Hotstreak wasn’t going to give it up, either.
Then his mind shifted to other things–with the chaos he’d caused earlier with trying to get a doctor, no doubt the police had an idea of what was going on here. Self-preservation in keeping out of the authorities’ hands made him anxious–Richie should be fine right here in this doctor’s capable hands. He could handle it from there----
But it was those very same thoughts that had him thinking that Richie would be able to handle Ebon’s attack. And look how well that happened.
He stared down at the visible welt on Richie’s neck–a grotesque reminder left by Ebon. There were others, he’d seen–on his chest, his stomach, his inner thighs–
He shook his head. “No. Because by th’ time I get back, you’ll have the cops all over th’ place.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you thinking of yourself?”
Hotstreak paused as he considered her words. Then he shook his head again. “I ain’t leavin’ him. Not wit’ you. When he wakes up, he’ll make his own decision. But I ain’t leavin’ him. Cuz...you might... accuse me of something.”
She wanted to pursue the subject. But keen sense told her that it wasn’t a selfish need that disagreed with her–he wasn’t thinking of himself.
She didn’t want to waste any more time arguing. “I’ll need to take him to X-Ray. Follow me.”
She applied force to unlock the brakes, and wheeled the stretcher out of the room, Hotstreak following her. The hall was slightly busy–but everyone was looking cautiously in their direction, watching him. Assessing him and Montoya–the woman reached out and nudged him with her elbow to keep his focus on the here and now.