Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Seven ( Chapter 7 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Leaving the hospital; Montoya helps out
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 604 | Status: Completed
Leaving the hospital; Montoya helps out
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 604 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Seven
“This is a man I’ve sent all my male patients to,” Rosa Montoya said, holding out a small index card to Hotstreak, who took it with an uncertain frown. She stepped back, giving him a firm look as he studied it. “He’s well trusted, and he has satisfied clients. Because this is an assault case, your friend will not have to worry about the costs. All sexual assault cases that are handled here in County General are transferred over to the Victims of Crime center downtown...they pay the costs of treatment and aftercare. I’ve gotten what I need from him–make sure he goes to him. Thom Harrison is a very kind person, and he’s also low-key. Counseling is so important after an instance like this...”
He frowned uncomfortably as he slid the card into his back pocket, sneaking a glance over at the closed bathroom door. Montoya glanced over as well, then shifted her eyes away.
She reached out, touching his arm. “Thank you...so much for your help,” she then said.
He pulled his arm away, shrugging. He then turned to face her, finger pointing in her direction. “Not a word to anybody what happened here!”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not one. I abide by my confidentiality beliefs.”
Hotstreak stared at her for a few considering moments, then nodded. It was nearing nine a.m., and it had taken a couple of hours to get Richie calm enough for Montoya to talk to him. She encouraged counseling, advising that it would help him if he did so. After that, he’d begged for a shower, leaving her with Hotstreak.
Now that her patient was up and moving, she would have to move on. While he recovered from the initial checkup, she had made her rounds throughout the emergency room downstairs, all the while making sure the police weren’t ready to burst in on her patient. They were still waiting–they still had the hospital under surveillance, and Hotstreak’s agitation over this was evident. While he paced and muttered, growing more and more anxious to leave, her patient reacted in the same way, further worrying her.
It was obvious these two operated closely with each other–but there were a great deal of things that weren’t being said. She’d caught snatches of conversation that told her that they hadn’t seen each other in a while–that the last time they’d talked was over six months ago. She heard snatches of Hotstreak asking the blond where his partner was–suggesting to Montoya that the blond was with someone; and snatches of the blond asking Hotstreak if he’d heard anything about his attacker. They both knew the attacker–she just wished one of them would come forward with the information so that the proper authorities could put this monster behind bars. But neither would.
It personally frustrated her–that this person would walk free because the blond didn’t want to speak up. But she also understood why he was ashamed to do so. For men, the matter of pride and dignity remained–to know that another man had raped them damaged their psyche and forced them to question their masculinity.
She looked up as the bathroom door opened, Richie walking out stiffly in her son’s clothes. They were baggy enough for his comfort, but he was obviously uncomfortable with the bright orange polo Ralph Lauren shirt, fashionably faded jeans and her son’s oldest pair of sneakers that she kept threatening to throw away.
His skin was colored red–no doubt he scrubbed and scrubbed with that small sliver of soap that had been provided. She wouldn’t be surprised if his nails had raked trails all over certain areas. He studiously avoided looking at either of them, though she noticed that he was a little off with his coordination.
“Here’s the prescription,” she said, ripping off the carbon copy from the form she’d filled out earlier.
She briefly explained each one, and it’s purpose. “That stamp indicates for the pharmacy to bill the Victims of Crime center, so you don’t have to worry about paying for it yourself.”
Hotstreak lifted an eyebrow, glancing over at the blond as he took the copy from her. “Wanna make some easy money?” he asked him.
Montoya gave him a stern frown. “This is HIS prescription. Besides, illegal use of prescribed drugs encourages a long stay in jail.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah...”
“Are you...going to tell my parents?” Richie asked her with obvious trepidation, squinting in her direction. His voice was still hoarse–she’d given him some ice chips earlier, but it was just an unfortunate result from the attack. She didn’t want to think about the horror he’d felt upon knowing that his pleas were ignored.
She shook her head, but kept a firm look at him, noting that the swelling along the right side of his face had gotten slightly worse. She turned away from them, and began rummaging through various drawers beneath the sink, locating an ice pack. She squeezed the packet between her upper thigh and palms, hearing the sharp snap as the chemicals within mixed to form the icy coldness of imitation ice. She handed it over to the blond, who took it and set it against his face with an uncomfortable grimace.
“You’re eighteen, now. Old enough to make most of your own legal decisions,” she said quietly. “I don’t have the right to go beyond your requests, unless you’re unable to make your own decision. I took over medically because you could not consent to treatment–but now that you are aware, that’s your own decision to make.”
“...’K.”
“How do you feel? Physically?” she added.
“...Sore.”
“How about your head?”
“...Fuzzy.”
“There was no indication of a concussion–but you’re probably going to have headaches. If you have anything more, please come back here...or visit the Victims of Crime center...I’ll have this information on hand, and will fax it over once you decide to take that initiative...”
“Fine.”
“You can walk?” Hotstreak asked him, glancing uncomfortably at the door.
Montoya watched as the blond looked up at him with a firm nod. She felt confident that the redhead, who gave the blond a close, scrutinizing look, would continue to do his brand new hero work. She felt that the blond would be well taken care of despite the show produced by the reluctant meta.
“Yeah. Do you need to go?”
“Yeah.”
“...What are you going to do?”
“I need to get out of here. You....you gonna go home?”
“Not yet. Dad–I can’t. Not yet.”
“Where you gonna go?”
“...I don’t know.”
“Ha–your friend around? Where the fuck was he?”
“I told you, he went on vacation! Out of state!”
Hotstreak muttered something that sounded like “African bushmen”, the blond hitting him sharply across the chest. Montoya stepped forward, using a thumb to indicate.
“That exit will take you down to the main elevators within the emergency room. The entrance to the parking lot can be taken through a door just down the hall,” she said, making them both look at her. “But they have taken up all entrances within the hospital on this level, the one above us, and the first floor. You’re surrounded. Perhaps if you go peacefully–”
“I ain’t goin’ to jail!” Hotstreak snapped at her. “I ain’t goin’ with those guys!”
“Where else can you go?”
“...Out the window.”
“You’re three stories up!”
“Ain’t stopped me, before,” he said with a grin. Then he cast a glance over at the blond, who was glaring at his ice pack with his good eye. Hotstreak reached over, and gently poked his side to get his attention. “You be okay wit’ yourself? Can ya get a ride?”
The blond was silent for a few moments, then he cast a sullen look in his direction. “I want to go with you.”
“You can’t–!”
“Here,” Montoya reached into one of her pockets, withdrawing a set of keys. Both males blinked curiously at her as she held them out. “My Mercedes is parked third from the left in the doctors’ parking lot, on level one. It’s silver–and my license plates read 1654GH3.”
Hotstreak stared at her in silence, Richie giving her the same expression.
“You’re going to assist him?” he asked incredulously as Hotstreak took the keys with a scowl in his direction.
“I’m assisting you,” Montoya said firmly, looking at him. “Avoid the police on your own. Take my car. Whatever happens...I’m sure it was for a good reason.”
“‘Mercedes’, huh?” Hotstreak asked, looking at her keys. Then he eyed her suspiciously. “This isn’t some trick?”
“No. Take my car. Get to wherever you need to.” Montoya shuffled her thick soled shoes along the floor, then reached up to fiddle with her stethoscope. She looked over at Richie, reaching out to touch his wrist. “See Thom. Please. It will help. I recommend it. If not for yourself, for your partner. Continued avoidance of addressing your new fears and insecurities will drive you away from those you love.”
“I...thank you. Thank you for everything,” Richie then muttered, flushing as he avoided her eyes, embarrassed that this woman had seen what had been done to him.
“You’re welcome. Be careful. Both of you.”
“You’re lettin’ me go?” Hotstreak then asked, frowning at her.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to call them in for you? Want me to hold you for them?”
“...No. I was just askin’...”
Richie suddenly shifted away from them, glancing at some point along one of the walls with an incredulous expression. He looked over at Hotstreak, then at Montoya, suddenly eager to get moving. Montoya blinked curiously at this odd behavior, nodded at them both, then quietly left the room. Hotstreak looked over as Richie left his side, heading over to the air vent just above the bed. There came the surprising sound of screws being unscrewed, and the cover flipping open. He watched that invention of Richie’s emerge from the small space with a click of metallic legs upon plaster, Richie reaching up to pull it from the slot.
“That thing’s like a fuckin’ dog,” Hotstreak muttered, wondering where the hell it had been all this time.
“Ebon, he–he made it disappear. Backpack must have tracked me down,” Richie said, hugging his creation close with a sound of relief. “I thought for sure it was going to be busted up, again.”
“Wasn’t my fault...”
“No.” Richie looked at him from over Backpack, then lifted his eyebrows with an idea. He set Backpack down on the bed, and opened a side panel, eagerly touching a few buttons that were hidden within the walls. Hotstreak startled as a blinding flash hit him, making him see spots, his hands raising with defensiveness. “This will help.”
“What the fuck was that?”
“Basically...I inserted a camera into Backpack. This image that I took of you will help out. Because once I get the program activated...I can...do this!” Richie joyously pointed at a spot just beside Hotstreak, and the redhead gave another start as he stared at his double, a holographic rendition. Richie fiddled with his creation’s inside panel, then snapped the panel shut. The projection turned away from them, Richie hurrying over stiffly to open the door. Hotstreak watched with his mouth falling open as his image marched out the room, and walked down the hall.
He blinked away his amazement and looked down at Richie with intense curiosity. “How’d you–?”
“We need to go,” Richie said hastily, waving at Backpack. The genius creation jumped from the bed and walked over to them, Richie picking it up with a pained wince. Hotstreak then shook his head, hurrying over to snatch the sheet off the bed, and forcing it around the robot, Richie giving him a grateful expression.
There was the sound of men shouting, of running feet–with an urgency brought on with determination to get out of here before he was caught, Hotstreak grabbed Richie’s arm and yanked him along behind him as he left the room. Glancing around, he saw that the police force that had been waiting for him on this level were running after the projection. Which was still amazing–he’d have to ask about that, later.
They hurried through the stairway door, Hotstreak flicking the keys into the air. “Ya remember her license plate?”
“Yeah...”
Seeing the pained grimace on Richie’s face, Hotstreak slowed his descent–but he was more urgent to leave than to stick around to make sure that the blond was okay. They didn’t hear anyone else in the stairway–and he continued on counting on Richie’s idea as they reached the first floor door. Hotstreak opened it cautiously.
The entrance to the parking garage was down the hall–he glanced from side to side, seeing a nurse push a wheel chair with a shouting old man through a nearby open door. He reached back, snatching Richie’s shirt, and tugged him along as they left the stairway.
Pushing through the doorway of the garage, he saw that there were many uniformed officers within the garage, posted at the exit and entrance, some of them on motorcycles.
“Shit.”
Richie saw the same problem, squinting as he saw the blurred shapes. He shuffled through the blanket to find the panel on Backpack, and re-activated the hologram. He had to disable the one that led the others in a chase inside the hospital, but they were close enough to Montoya’s car (he hoped) to shift attention. This projection immediately caught the eyes of those posted nearby, and ran down the length of one lot, heading toward the rise that would take vehicles up to the second level. The men in blue began running after it, shouting as motorcycle engines revved.
Seeing that the projection worked, Hotstreak shot Richie an impressed look, the two hurrying out from the doorway as they searched for the silver Mercedes. Hotstreak held the keys up, rapidly pressing the button that unlocked the doors to the car and disabled the alarm. There was a signaling beep-beep nearby, and he turned in time to see the headlights flash with the activation. They both changed direction and ran over, Richie giving a muttered curse as he hugged Backpack tight.
They got into the car, Hotstreak seeing a man’s baseball cap in the backseat. He reached back to shove that onto his head, flattening his noticeable hair underneath, then started the car.
“I like her,” Richie said suddenly, looking over at him. “She was very nice.”
“Yeah,” Hotstreak muttered, disliking automatics as he shoved the stick into gear.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate getting her car back...”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes in his direction, Richie giving him a pointed look. “Shut up.”
“Considering her generosity, I think she’s due for some kindness. RIGHT?”
Hotstreak looked away from him, his lips pursed as something niggled at the back of his mind. The car lurched out from its parking space, Hotstreak turning the wheel to make the sharp turn toward the exit. There was a security guard that emerged from the hospital, looking sweaty and exerted as he spotted the car. He gave indication in that he was going to stop them, making them both tense.
Unfazed, Hotstreak focused his stare to one of the vehicles parked nearby, willing immense heat onto one of the car’s tires. The rubber expanded suddenly, noticeably as the guard caught sight of it, turning his attention away from the Mercedes and its occupants. He hurried over to investigate it. Easily avoiding the man, Hotstreak maneuvered the car out from the garage, and took the side street through the delivery route, heading for the main road away from the hospital.
Beside him, Richie sighed heavily, shifting in his seat, lowering the back–once he was comfortable, one of his hands snaked out over the middle console, and his fingers curled onto the lip of Hotstreak’s pocket. Firmly gripping his partner’s pants, Richie settled comfortably in his seat, staring blankly at the emergency brake.
The car was silent–apparently, Montoya didn’t like listening to anything as she drove. Hotstreak concentrated on the road, his mind racing as he drove away from County General–he had no idea where he was going, and glanced over at Richie with a questioning expression. It was good to see him awake–good to see him operating. But the expression on his damaged face made him wince. He remembered the prescription, the blond’s grimacing during their getaway. He began taking the route to a nearby Rite-Aid.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, he had the car parked within the parking lot of a White Castle, holding out the container of soda he’d gotten with his meal. Richie took the drink, frowning at the pills he was going to take.
“You ain’t goin’ home?” Hotstreak asked him as he swallowed the pills, and took a long drink of the soda. It was awkward, with his bottom lip being as it was.
Richie shook his head, reaching up to rub the puffiness at his lip. “No. Not yet.”
“You can’t stay wit’ me–”
“Why not? Why can’t I?”
Hotstreak couldn’t think of any good reason. He shrugged as Richie looked over at him with a heavy frown. Silence descended between them both, and Hotstreak looked away from him, staring out the window as he fiddled with the keys. Though the sun was shining bright, it was just barely over twenty five degrees, and the sharp chill was felt even within the warmth of the car. He looked over at Richie again, noting the curious stare in his direction.
“What?” he asked, growing uncomfortable with the weight of the blond’s stare.
“Nothing. Just I...don’t...understand how you’re here,” Richie managed to eke out, fiddling with the straw. Backpack was settled comfortably across his lap; still covered with the hospital sheet.
Hotstreak thought about Theresa. He didn’t think Richie knew about how close the two were. Along that note...he felt anger rise up within him, and he shifted uncomfortably. She knew where he was, what happened; had she been there that entire time?
But he couldn’t hold it against her–she was a single woman against a powerful man. She didn’t have the power to stop Ebon from doing what he wanted. That logic settled firmly within his thoughts–he couldn’t be mad at her. She at least led him to Richie afterward. In the balance of power and control, Theresa knew her place, and knew what she could and couldn’t do; and Hotstreak understood that.
But Richie, in his current state–he wouldn’t understand.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Richie stared at him in silence, then shifted his eyes away from him, still fiddling with the straw. The high pitched noise grew on Hotstreak’s nerves, and he reached out to snatch the cup back from him. Now that things were calming down, he was starting to feel tired. The exhaustion of having been unable to sleep the past couple of days was catching up to him. He rubbed his eyes as he looked over at Richie once more.
“You got a place to go, to?”
Richie thought of the Gas Station–but he didn’t want to go there. He looked at Hotstreak and shook his head.
“I want to go with you,” he insisted. The pills were starting to kick in. His stomach was growing nauseated with the potency, and his head was feeling fuzzy. The effects were small–but he had no doubt that they were going to grow stronger with more time.
“You can’t stay with me–”
“Why?” Richie suddenly cried. “Why not?”
Hotstreak shrugged again.
“I just...I don’t have anyone to go to, right now. I...I just need....I need someone...I don’t feel good by myself–” Richie’s voice was starting to break as his emotional instability began to show, his breath hitching as he struggled to keep himself composed at Hotstreak’s continued reluctance to stay with him.
“Hey, hey, hey, knock it off!” Hotstreak commanded, reaching over to grab his shoulder. Little did he know how much Richie appreciated his contact–how much Hotstreak himself needed it. “Don’t do that. Man up. You don’t need to do that. The only reason why I’m sayin’ you can’t stay wit’ me is cuz people might find out what I’m doin’.”
“Are you...living with someone?”
“Nah. By myself. At this motel.” Hotstreak let go of him as Richie reached up to rub at his good eye. “It ain’t much. I’m hardly there. But...I’ve got people comin’ over. We’re supposed to do somethin’, tomorrow.”
“I promise to stay out of sight...”
“...Why you wanna do this? Are you scared?”
“...Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
“Huh? You are?”
“YES!” Richie shouted. “I am! That, and because I don’t have anybody, right now! I don’t want to go home, I don’t have Virgil, and you’re the only one that I can rely on, right now–”
“Gee, thanks...”
“No, you ‘gee thanks’! I need you, damn it, an’ you’re pushing me away!”
Hotstreak was growing uncomfortable with Richie’s current emotional state. It made his insides curl as he saw that the blond was struggling to keep himself composed. He exhaled heavily as Richie wiped at his eyes again, his hands shaking. He sat back in his seat, fiddling with the keys once more. The waft of the meal he’d gotten was irritating–but his stomach growled persistently at the scent. He started the car up, and maneuvered his way out from the parking lot.
Richie looked up from covered Backpack, and glanced over at him, embarrassed by his rioting show of emotion. He lowered his head, staring down at the bundle he held once more. The pills were actively wearing him down. Combined with his own exhaustion, he leaned his head back against the seat, feeling the pain ebb away as the drugs swept through his system.
He remembered closing his good eye for a moment–but that moment stretched into nearly fifty minutes of Hotstreak driving. When he lifted his head, which felt uncommonly heavy, he saw that they were parked within the lot of a crowded and active Salvation Army store...glancing around, he saw that the car would have been out of place anywhere else in this section of the city.
His eyelids were too heavy to keep open, but he vaguely registered Hotstreak saying something to him as he left his seat. Richie closed his eye again, and was jerked awake seemingly moments later. The air was cold, and made him inhale sharply as it hit him. Hotstreak was telling him to do something, but his words were a blur of sound. Richie tried blinking away the heavy fuzziness that kept him from feeling his various states of pain, and felt himself being jerked out of his seat. He almost tumbled to the pavement as his knees threatened to give out–but he assisted the older male as his arms were guided through the heavy, warm feel of a jacket, his head being roughly covered by a hat with ear flaps.
“Kyle, you Jew bastard!” he said with a cackle.
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, giving him an odd expression. “Somethin’ wrong with you?”
“Never seen ‘South Park’, eh? Oi...my toenails ache...”
“I told you, you can make some easy money with those drugs of yours,” Hotstreak said, gripping one of his heavy sleeves as he reached inside for his meal.
He grabbed Backpack in an awkward movement, and shoved the unexpectedly heavy weight into Richie’s arms. The robot was smart enough to realize that its owner wasn’t coherent enough to register what was going on–it burrowed between the open section of Richie’s jacket, and clung to his front. Hotstreak straightened away from the car, slamming the door shut, then jerking Richie to him to zip up his jacket, effectively covering Backpack.
“We’ve got a few blocks to walk,” Hotstreak then said, wincing at the cold. His breath was visible as he spoke, reaching out to catch Richie’s arm as the blond stumbled on a patch of ice. “I ain’t takin’ that car to my new neighborhood...it would draw too much attention.”
“My ass hurts.”
Hotstreak winced again. “Okay, okay...just don’t say that out loud again...”
He staggered as Richie stumbled into him, and he realized that he would have to guide the blond along with him. Glancing around, hoping that no one was paying too much attention to them, he gripped the younger male’s arm, tossing it around his neck, and assisting him that way. The walk took longer that it should have–the drugs had effectively messed with Richie’s sense of coordination and consciousness. Hotstreak was relieved when they finally reached the single level motel that had been his home for the past few months.
It was entirely nondescript–broken down and as inviting as a roach’s nest. There were common drug and solicitation busts performed here, but no one had bothered him. No one knew he was there, except for a few select people. He was usually bundled up against the winter weather, so no one recognized him. He glanced around suspiciously as they made their way up the sidewalk and toward the closed door on the end. He fumbled through his pockets for his keys, and opened the battered door, revealing the darkened, cold room. It was big enough for a king-sized bed, a small table with a couple of chairs, a dresser with a tv on top, and a small bathroom that held a comfortable sized tub, sink and toilet. The color scheme was that of dark greens, blues and black–very depressing when he thought about it.
He hadn’t very much–his clothes were stacked away within the dresser, and the table top was littered with some basic foodstuffs. There was a picnic cooler nearby, constantly filled with ice for some soda, beer, and sandwich meats. He’d stolen a man’s wallet earlier that month, and it came equipped with a FoodStamp card that he’d used to buy a couple of week’s worth of groceries. The code was learned from a friend’s pin decoder, a common device that was used often in the streets. This was how he’d gotten his things with people’s stolen cards. After he used them, he melted them.
He guided Richie to the bed, and helped him take off the hat, jacket and Backpack. He watched the invention extend its legs, and automatically search out a place to hide, effectively taking position underneath the dresser, clinging to the very bottom.
He watched as Richie stretched out onto the bed with a tired sigh, and tossed the extra jacket and hat aside, atop of his own garments that were hanging from one of the chairs nearby.
He let Richie sleep. The painkillers, combined with his own exhaustion, had laid the blond out. Hotstreak stared down at him for a few moments, wincing at the horribly bright and distended wound on the right side of Richie’s face. His eyelid was puffy and smooth, lashes barely visible within the swelling. It extended just below the dip of his eyebrow and colored the top of his right cheekbone. The mid-afternoon light told him that they had spent considerable time getting away from the hospital; he wondered if Richie’s parents knew where he was. If Sean Foley was going to pitch a fit about his son’s disappearance. He sat at the edge of the mattress, reaching up to scratch at his jaw. Pulling out Maria’s cell phone, he activated it, seeing that he had missed several calls from various people.
He looked over at Richie, and gently shook his shoulder. The blond gave a grunt as he noticeably forced himself out from his sleep, pushing away from the pillow to roll his head in Hotstreak’s direction. He was ready to move if the need was necessary–but the sway of his head and body told Hotstreak that the drugs were working as they should. He held the phone out.
“Call your parents,” he ordered. “Let them know you’re with some friends.”
Mechanically, Richie took the cell phone from him, and focused on dialing the number. Hotstreak rested his chin onto his palm, elbow on knee as he watched Richie struggle with the simple task. When he at least managed to complete the number, he shifted back against the pillows, and cleared his throat.
“Yer stayin’ with Chuck,” Hotstreak muttered. “Yer goin’ to Gotham for a...fuckin’...whatever you geeks do.”
“Mom...it’s me. I’m at Chuck’s...no, I spent the night at Virgil’s...no, they were delayed. No, I’m... actually on my way to Gotham for...uh...convention. Yeah. Sci-Fi. Anime. Y’know. Things. I won’t be back for...”
“A week.”
“Three days...yeah, three days. I should be back by Wednesday....what? No...no...I don’t care. Just call the cops, mom. Gotta go. Bye.” Richie tossed the cellphone away from him and resumed his earlier position.
Hotstreak smirked at the insolent tone he’d used with his mother, and picked up the cell. Maggie Foley was still talking, pleading in a frightened voice for him to come home before his father grew angry. He disconnected the call, and slipped the phone into his back pocket. Richie was already snoring faintly, his hands pillowed beneath his head.
It was a good idea, actually. Sleep. He turned to kick off his shoes, then stretched out onto the bed. Staring up at the ceiling for a few minutes, Hotstreak allowed himself to finally relax, feeling sore and achy throughout every limb from the long hospital stay. He turned his head, looking at the back of Richie’s head. He could see the slight patches of missing hair–it made him wonder how Montoya was able to deduce all that she had when she’d examined him.
She must see a lot of those, he thought as he rolled onto his belly, turning away from Richie. She impressed him. She was confident, cool, and she took charge without the air of superiority that drove him up the wall. In a way, he felt he respected her–he had to. He was thinking about how he was going to return her car when his eyelids drifted close.
He slept all that night, catching up on the Z’s, and there were times, when he woke up, when he found himself surprised by Richie’s appearance. The blond slept as well, the pair of them waking up only to attend to personal matters. Sometime during the next day, Richie took more of the pills and slept some more.
It was only toward the middle of the afternoon when Hotstreak forced himself to get up, and get ready for the ‘thing’ he had planned out, tonight. He let Richie sleep–there was no need to get him up.
Hotstreak reached out, his palm and fingers settling on Richie’s jean clad thigh. He then pulled his hand back, muttering a ‘sorry’ as he rose from the bed. Glancing around, he debated the pros and cons of leaving Richie alone for awhile. Ebon had no idea where this place was–and Hotstreak doubted that he’d look for Richie so soon. He glanced back at Richie, then walked over to his side of the bed, crouching so that he was face level with him.
He reached out, gently running his fingers through the matted blond hair. He wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. It was just automatic...to touch him. To know that he was okay. “Richie...I’ma go out, now. Just sleep, okay? Just get some sleep...”
“Where ya going?” Richie asked, a tinge of apprehension in his drugged voice.
“Just...out. We’re no one can find us.”
“I...I don’t think that...” The blond forced a heavy lid open, looking at Hotstreak with his good eye. It was glazed and sluggish–but there was definite traces of fear, there. “When it’s dark....I think I’m going to have problems when it’s dark...”
Hotstreak lifted an eyebrow, but tightened his lips. He withdrew his hand, rising. “I’ll be back around nine, then. I’ll lock the door–”
“What if I need to get you?” Richie asked, on a definite whine as he sluggishly followed the other male’s drifting across the room.
Hotstreak hesitated for a few moments–then withdrew the cell phone. He tossed it onto the bed. “I’ll be in one place. That’s Maria’s cell–if ya need to, speed-dial Esposito. Don’t answer any other numbers but that one. Got it?”
“‘Maria’?” Richie asked, lifting an eyebrow, but resettling against his pillow.
Hotstreak felt the minute flush of color on his cheeks, and he looked away as he changed out of the over sized tee and khaki’s. He pulled on his hooded sweater, and a coat over that. Firmly fitting a baseball cap over his head, and pulling the hood over that, he looked back over at Richie. He saw that the blond was already sleeping once more, and he looked away, gathering his wallet and keys.
Looking at the large ring of keys, he stared at the Mercedes key chain. Then dropped them into his other hand, figuring he could leave Montoya’s car where he could let her find it.
Chapter Seven
“This is a man I’ve sent all my male patients to,” Rosa Montoya said, holding out a small index card to Hotstreak, who took it with an uncertain frown. She stepped back, giving him a firm look as he studied it. “He’s well trusted, and he has satisfied clients. Because this is an assault case, your friend will not have to worry about the costs. All sexual assault cases that are handled here in County General are transferred over to the Victims of Crime center downtown...they pay the costs of treatment and aftercare. I’ve gotten what I need from him–make sure he goes to him. Thom Harrison is a very kind person, and he’s also low-key. Counseling is so important after an instance like this...”
He frowned uncomfortably as he slid the card into his back pocket, sneaking a glance over at the closed bathroom door. Montoya glanced over as well, then shifted her eyes away.
She reached out, touching his arm. “Thank you...so much for your help,” she then said.
He pulled his arm away, shrugging. He then turned to face her, finger pointing in her direction. “Not a word to anybody what happened here!”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not one. I abide by my confidentiality beliefs.”
Hotstreak stared at her for a few considering moments, then nodded. It was nearing nine a.m., and it had taken a couple of hours to get Richie calm enough for Montoya to talk to him. She encouraged counseling, advising that it would help him if he did so. After that, he’d begged for a shower, leaving her with Hotstreak.
Now that her patient was up and moving, she would have to move on. While he recovered from the initial checkup, she had made her rounds throughout the emergency room downstairs, all the while making sure the police weren’t ready to burst in on her patient. They were still waiting–they still had the hospital under surveillance, and Hotstreak’s agitation over this was evident. While he paced and muttered, growing more and more anxious to leave, her patient reacted in the same way, further worrying her.
It was obvious these two operated closely with each other–but there were a great deal of things that weren’t being said. She’d caught snatches of conversation that told her that they hadn’t seen each other in a while–that the last time they’d talked was over six months ago. She heard snatches of Hotstreak asking the blond where his partner was–suggesting to Montoya that the blond was with someone; and snatches of the blond asking Hotstreak if he’d heard anything about his attacker. They both knew the attacker–she just wished one of them would come forward with the information so that the proper authorities could put this monster behind bars. But neither would.
It personally frustrated her–that this person would walk free because the blond didn’t want to speak up. But she also understood why he was ashamed to do so. For men, the matter of pride and dignity remained–to know that another man had raped them damaged their psyche and forced them to question their masculinity.
She looked up as the bathroom door opened, Richie walking out stiffly in her son’s clothes. They were baggy enough for his comfort, but he was obviously uncomfortable with the bright orange polo Ralph Lauren shirt, fashionably faded jeans and her son’s oldest pair of sneakers that she kept threatening to throw away.
His skin was colored red–no doubt he scrubbed and scrubbed with that small sliver of soap that had been provided. She wouldn’t be surprised if his nails had raked trails all over certain areas. He studiously avoided looking at either of them, though she noticed that he was a little off with his coordination.
“Here’s the prescription,” she said, ripping off the carbon copy from the form she’d filled out earlier.
She briefly explained each one, and it’s purpose. “That stamp indicates for the pharmacy to bill the Victims of Crime center, so you don’t have to worry about paying for it yourself.”
Hotstreak lifted an eyebrow, glancing over at the blond as he took the copy from her. “Wanna make some easy money?” he asked him.
Montoya gave him a stern frown. “This is HIS prescription. Besides, illegal use of prescribed drugs encourages a long stay in jail.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah...”
“Are you...going to tell my parents?” Richie asked her with obvious trepidation, squinting in her direction. His voice was still hoarse–she’d given him some ice chips earlier, but it was just an unfortunate result from the attack. She didn’t want to think about the horror he’d felt upon knowing that his pleas were ignored.
She shook her head, but kept a firm look at him, noting that the swelling along the right side of his face had gotten slightly worse. She turned away from them, and began rummaging through various drawers beneath the sink, locating an ice pack. She squeezed the packet between her upper thigh and palms, hearing the sharp snap as the chemicals within mixed to form the icy coldness of imitation ice. She handed it over to the blond, who took it and set it against his face with an uncomfortable grimace.
“You’re eighteen, now. Old enough to make most of your own legal decisions,” she said quietly. “I don’t have the right to go beyond your requests, unless you’re unable to make your own decision. I took over medically because you could not consent to treatment–but now that you are aware, that’s your own decision to make.”
“...’K.”
“How do you feel? Physically?” she added.
“...Sore.”
“How about your head?”
“...Fuzzy.”
“There was no indication of a concussion–but you’re probably going to have headaches. If you have anything more, please come back here...or visit the Victims of Crime center...I’ll have this information on hand, and will fax it over once you decide to take that initiative...”
“Fine.”
“You can walk?” Hotstreak asked him, glancing uncomfortably at the door.
Montoya watched as the blond looked up at him with a firm nod. She felt confident that the redhead, who gave the blond a close, scrutinizing look, would continue to do his brand new hero work. She felt that the blond would be well taken care of despite the show produced by the reluctant meta.
“Yeah. Do you need to go?”
“Yeah.”
“...What are you going to do?”
“I need to get out of here. You....you gonna go home?”
“Not yet. Dad–I can’t. Not yet.”
“Where you gonna go?”
“...I don’t know.”
“Ha–your friend around? Where the fuck was he?”
“I told you, he went on vacation! Out of state!”
Hotstreak muttered something that sounded like “African bushmen”, the blond hitting him sharply across the chest. Montoya stepped forward, using a thumb to indicate.
“That exit will take you down to the main elevators within the emergency room. The entrance to the parking lot can be taken through a door just down the hall,” she said, making them both look at her. “But they have taken up all entrances within the hospital on this level, the one above us, and the first floor. You’re surrounded. Perhaps if you go peacefully–”
“I ain’t goin’ to jail!” Hotstreak snapped at her. “I ain’t goin’ with those guys!”
“Where else can you go?”
“...Out the window.”
“You’re three stories up!”
“Ain’t stopped me, before,” he said with a grin. Then he cast a glance over at the blond, who was glaring at his ice pack with his good eye. Hotstreak reached over, and gently poked his side to get his attention. “You be okay wit’ yourself? Can ya get a ride?”
The blond was silent for a few moments, then he cast a sullen look in his direction. “I want to go with you.”
“You can’t–!”
“Here,” Montoya reached into one of her pockets, withdrawing a set of keys. Both males blinked curiously at her as she held them out. “My Mercedes is parked third from the left in the doctors’ parking lot, on level one. It’s silver–and my license plates read 1654GH3.”
Hotstreak stared at her in silence, Richie giving her the same expression.
“You’re going to assist him?” he asked incredulously as Hotstreak took the keys with a scowl in his direction.
“I’m assisting you,” Montoya said firmly, looking at him. “Avoid the police on your own. Take my car. Whatever happens...I’m sure it was for a good reason.”
“‘Mercedes’, huh?” Hotstreak asked, looking at her keys. Then he eyed her suspiciously. “This isn’t some trick?”
“No. Take my car. Get to wherever you need to.” Montoya shuffled her thick soled shoes along the floor, then reached up to fiddle with her stethoscope. She looked over at Richie, reaching out to touch his wrist. “See Thom. Please. It will help. I recommend it. If not for yourself, for your partner. Continued avoidance of addressing your new fears and insecurities will drive you away from those you love.”
“I...thank you. Thank you for everything,” Richie then muttered, flushing as he avoided her eyes, embarrassed that this woman had seen what had been done to him.
“You’re welcome. Be careful. Both of you.”
“You’re lettin’ me go?” Hotstreak then asked, frowning at her.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to call them in for you? Want me to hold you for them?”
“...No. I was just askin’...”
Richie suddenly shifted away from them, glancing at some point along one of the walls with an incredulous expression. He looked over at Hotstreak, then at Montoya, suddenly eager to get moving. Montoya blinked curiously at this odd behavior, nodded at them both, then quietly left the room. Hotstreak looked over as Richie left his side, heading over to the air vent just above the bed. There came the surprising sound of screws being unscrewed, and the cover flipping open. He watched that invention of Richie’s emerge from the small space with a click of metallic legs upon plaster, Richie reaching up to pull it from the slot.
“That thing’s like a fuckin’ dog,” Hotstreak muttered, wondering where the hell it had been all this time.
“Ebon, he–he made it disappear. Backpack must have tracked me down,” Richie said, hugging his creation close with a sound of relief. “I thought for sure it was going to be busted up, again.”
“Wasn’t my fault...”
“No.” Richie looked at him from over Backpack, then lifted his eyebrows with an idea. He set Backpack down on the bed, and opened a side panel, eagerly touching a few buttons that were hidden within the walls. Hotstreak startled as a blinding flash hit him, making him see spots, his hands raising with defensiveness. “This will help.”
“What the fuck was that?”
“Basically...I inserted a camera into Backpack. This image that I took of you will help out. Because once I get the program activated...I can...do this!” Richie joyously pointed at a spot just beside Hotstreak, and the redhead gave another start as he stared at his double, a holographic rendition. Richie fiddled with his creation’s inside panel, then snapped the panel shut. The projection turned away from them, Richie hurrying over stiffly to open the door. Hotstreak watched with his mouth falling open as his image marched out the room, and walked down the hall.
He blinked away his amazement and looked down at Richie with intense curiosity. “How’d you–?”
“We need to go,” Richie said hastily, waving at Backpack. The genius creation jumped from the bed and walked over to them, Richie picking it up with a pained wince. Hotstreak then shook his head, hurrying over to snatch the sheet off the bed, and forcing it around the robot, Richie giving him a grateful expression.
There was the sound of men shouting, of running feet–with an urgency brought on with determination to get out of here before he was caught, Hotstreak grabbed Richie’s arm and yanked him along behind him as he left the room. Glancing around, he saw that the police force that had been waiting for him on this level were running after the projection. Which was still amazing–he’d have to ask about that, later.
They hurried through the stairway door, Hotstreak flicking the keys into the air. “Ya remember her license plate?”
“Yeah...”
Seeing the pained grimace on Richie’s face, Hotstreak slowed his descent–but he was more urgent to leave than to stick around to make sure that the blond was okay. They didn’t hear anyone else in the stairway–and he continued on counting on Richie’s idea as they reached the first floor door. Hotstreak opened it cautiously.
The entrance to the parking garage was down the hall–he glanced from side to side, seeing a nurse push a wheel chair with a shouting old man through a nearby open door. He reached back, snatching Richie’s shirt, and tugged him along as they left the stairway.
Pushing through the doorway of the garage, he saw that there were many uniformed officers within the garage, posted at the exit and entrance, some of them on motorcycles.
“Shit.”
Richie saw the same problem, squinting as he saw the blurred shapes. He shuffled through the blanket to find the panel on Backpack, and re-activated the hologram. He had to disable the one that led the others in a chase inside the hospital, but they were close enough to Montoya’s car (he hoped) to shift attention. This projection immediately caught the eyes of those posted nearby, and ran down the length of one lot, heading toward the rise that would take vehicles up to the second level. The men in blue began running after it, shouting as motorcycle engines revved.
Seeing that the projection worked, Hotstreak shot Richie an impressed look, the two hurrying out from the doorway as they searched for the silver Mercedes. Hotstreak held the keys up, rapidly pressing the button that unlocked the doors to the car and disabled the alarm. There was a signaling beep-beep nearby, and he turned in time to see the headlights flash with the activation. They both changed direction and ran over, Richie giving a muttered curse as he hugged Backpack tight.
They got into the car, Hotstreak seeing a man’s baseball cap in the backseat. He reached back to shove that onto his head, flattening his noticeable hair underneath, then started the car.
“I like her,” Richie said suddenly, looking over at him. “She was very nice.”
“Yeah,” Hotstreak muttered, disliking automatics as he shoved the stick into gear.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate getting her car back...”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes in his direction, Richie giving him a pointed look. “Shut up.”
“Considering her generosity, I think she’s due for some kindness. RIGHT?”
Hotstreak looked away from him, his lips pursed as something niggled at the back of his mind. The car lurched out from its parking space, Hotstreak turning the wheel to make the sharp turn toward the exit. There was a security guard that emerged from the hospital, looking sweaty and exerted as he spotted the car. He gave indication in that he was going to stop them, making them both tense.
Unfazed, Hotstreak focused his stare to one of the vehicles parked nearby, willing immense heat onto one of the car’s tires. The rubber expanded suddenly, noticeably as the guard caught sight of it, turning his attention away from the Mercedes and its occupants. He hurried over to investigate it. Easily avoiding the man, Hotstreak maneuvered the car out from the garage, and took the side street through the delivery route, heading for the main road away from the hospital.
Beside him, Richie sighed heavily, shifting in his seat, lowering the back–once he was comfortable, one of his hands snaked out over the middle console, and his fingers curled onto the lip of Hotstreak’s pocket. Firmly gripping his partner’s pants, Richie settled comfortably in his seat, staring blankly at the emergency brake.
The car was silent–apparently, Montoya didn’t like listening to anything as she drove. Hotstreak concentrated on the road, his mind racing as he drove away from County General–he had no idea where he was going, and glanced over at Richie with a questioning expression. It was good to see him awake–good to see him operating. But the expression on his damaged face made him wince. He remembered the prescription, the blond’s grimacing during their getaway. He began taking the route to a nearby Rite-Aid.
Nearly forty-five minutes later, he had the car parked within the parking lot of a White Castle, holding out the container of soda he’d gotten with his meal. Richie took the drink, frowning at the pills he was going to take.
“You ain’t goin’ home?” Hotstreak asked him as he swallowed the pills, and took a long drink of the soda. It was awkward, with his bottom lip being as it was.
Richie shook his head, reaching up to rub the puffiness at his lip. “No. Not yet.”
“You can’t stay wit’ me–”
“Why not? Why can’t I?”
Hotstreak couldn’t think of any good reason. He shrugged as Richie looked over at him with a heavy frown. Silence descended between them both, and Hotstreak looked away from him, staring out the window as he fiddled with the keys. Though the sun was shining bright, it was just barely over twenty five degrees, and the sharp chill was felt even within the warmth of the car. He looked over at Richie again, noting the curious stare in his direction.
“What?” he asked, growing uncomfortable with the weight of the blond’s stare.
“Nothing. Just I...don’t...understand how you’re here,” Richie managed to eke out, fiddling with the straw. Backpack was settled comfortably across his lap; still covered with the hospital sheet.
Hotstreak thought about Theresa. He didn’t think Richie knew about how close the two were. Along that note...he felt anger rise up within him, and he shifted uncomfortably. She knew where he was, what happened; had she been there that entire time?
But he couldn’t hold it against her–she was a single woman against a powerful man. She didn’t have the power to stop Ebon from doing what he wanted. That logic settled firmly within his thoughts–he couldn’t be mad at her. She at least led him to Richie afterward. In the balance of power and control, Theresa knew her place, and knew what she could and couldn’t do; and Hotstreak understood that.
But Richie, in his current state–he wouldn’t understand.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Richie stared at him in silence, then shifted his eyes away from him, still fiddling with the straw. The high pitched noise grew on Hotstreak’s nerves, and he reached out to snatch the cup back from him. Now that things were calming down, he was starting to feel tired. The exhaustion of having been unable to sleep the past couple of days was catching up to him. He rubbed his eyes as he looked over at Richie once more.
“You got a place to go, to?”
Richie thought of the Gas Station–but he didn’t want to go there. He looked at Hotstreak and shook his head.
“I want to go with you,” he insisted. The pills were starting to kick in. His stomach was growing nauseated with the potency, and his head was feeling fuzzy. The effects were small–but he had no doubt that they were going to grow stronger with more time.
“You can’t stay with me–”
“Why?” Richie suddenly cried. “Why not?”
Hotstreak shrugged again.
“I just...I don’t have anyone to go to, right now. I...I just need....I need someone...I don’t feel good by myself–” Richie’s voice was starting to break as his emotional instability began to show, his breath hitching as he struggled to keep himself composed at Hotstreak’s continued reluctance to stay with him.
“Hey, hey, hey, knock it off!” Hotstreak commanded, reaching over to grab his shoulder. Little did he know how much Richie appreciated his contact–how much Hotstreak himself needed it. “Don’t do that. Man up. You don’t need to do that. The only reason why I’m sayin’ you can’t stay wit’ me is cuz people might find out what I’m doin’.”
“Are you...living with someone?”
“Nah. By myself. At this motel.” Hotstreak let go of him as Richie reached up to rub at his good eye. “It ain’t much. I’m hardly there. But...I’ve got people comin’ over. We’re supposed to do somethin’, tomorrow.”
“I promise to stay out of sight...”
“...Why you wanna do this? Are you scared?”
“...Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
“Huh? You are?”
“YES!” Richie shouted. “I am! That, and because I don’t have anybody, right now! I don’t want to go home, I don’t have Virgil, and you’re the only one that I can rely on, right now–”
“Gee, thanks...”
“No, you ‘gee thanks’! I need you, damn it, an’ you’re pushing me away!”
Hotstreak was growing uncomfortable with Richie’s current emotional state. It made his insides curl as he saw that the blond was struggling to keep himself composed. He exhaled heavily as Richie wiped at his eyes again, his hands shaking. He sat back in his seat, fiddling with the keys once more. The waft of the meal he’d gotten was irritating–but his stomach growled persistently at the scent. He started the car up, and maneuvered his way out from the parking lot.
Richie looked up from covered Backpack, and glanced over at him, embarrassed by his rioting show of emotion. He lowered his head, staring down at the bundle he held once more. The pills were actively wearing him down. Combined with his own exhaustion, he leaned his head back against the seat, feeling the pain ebb away as the drugs swept through his system.
He remembered closing his good eye for a moment–but that moment stretched into nearly fifty minutes of Hotstreak driving. When he lifted his head, which felt uncommonly heavy, he saw that they were parked within the lot of a crowded and active Salvation Army store...glancing around, he saw that the car would have been out of place anywhere else in this section of the city.
His eyelids were too heavy to keep open, but he vaguely registered Hotstreak saying something to him as he left his seat. Richie closed his eye again, and was jerked awake seemingly moments later. The air was cold, and made him inhale sharply as it hit him. Hotstreak was telling him to do something, but his words were a blur of sound. Richie tried blinking away the heavy fuzziness that kept him from feeling his various states of pain, and felt himself being jerked out of his seat. He almost tumbled to the pavement as his knees threatened to give out–but he assisted the older male as his arms were guided through the heavy, warm feel of a jacket, his head being roughly covered by a hat with ear flaps.
“Kyle, you Jew bastard!” he said with a cackle.
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, giving him an odd expression. “Somethin’ wrong with you?”
“Never seen ‘South Park’, eh? Oi...my toenails ache...”
“I told you, you can make some easy money with those drugs of yours,” Hotstreak said, gripping one of his heavy sleeves as he reached inside for his meal.
He grabbed Backpack in an awkward movement, and shoved the unexpectedly heavy weight into Richie’s arms. The robot was smart enough to realize that its owner wasn’t coherent enough to register what was going on–it burrowed between the open section of Richie’s jacket, and clung to his front. Hotstreak straightened away from the car, slamming the door shut, then jerking Richie to him to zip up his jacket, effectively covering Backpack.
“We’ve got a few blocks to walk,” Hotstreak then said, wincing at the cold. His breath was visible as he spoke, reaching out to catch Richie’s arm as the blond stumbled on a patch of ice. “I ain’t takin’ that car to my new neighborhood...it would draw too much attention.”
“My ass hurts.”
Hotstreak winced again. “Okay, okay...just don’t say that out loud again...”
He staggered as Richie stumbled into him, and he realized that he would have to guide the blond along with him. Glancing around, hoping that no one was paying too much attention to them, he gripped the younger male’s arm, tossing it around his neck, and assisting him that way. The walk took longer that it should have–the drugs had effectively messed with Richie’s sense of coordination and consciousness. Hotstreak was relieved when they finally reached the single level motel that had been his home for the past few months.
It was entirely nondescript–broken down and as inviting as a roach’s nest. There were common drug and solicitation busts performed here, but no one had bothered him. No one knew he was there, except for a few select people. He was usually bundled up against the winter weather, so no one recognized him. He glanced around suspiciously as they made their way up the sidewalk and toward the closed door on the end. He fumbled through his pockets for his keys, and opened the battered door, revealing the darkened, cold room. It was big enough for a king-sized bed, a small table with a couple of chairs, a dresser with a tv on top, and a small bathroom that held a comfortable sized tub, sink and toilet. The color scheme was that of dark greens, blues and black–very depressing when he thought about it.
He hadn’t very much–his clothes were stacked away within the dresser, and the table top was littered with some basic foodstuffs. There was a picnic cooler nearby, constantly filled with ice for some soda, beer, and sandwich meats. He’d stolen a man’s wallet earlier that month, and it came equipped with a FoodStamp card that he’d used to buy a couple of week’s worth of groceries. The code was learned from a friend’s pin decoder, a common device that was used often in the streets. This was how he’d gotten his things with people’s stolen cards. After he used them, he melted them.
He guided Richie to the bed, and helped him take off the hat, jacket and Backpack. He watched the invention extend its legs, and automatically search out a place to hide, effectively taking position underneath the dresser, clinging to the very bottom.
He watched as Richie stretched out onto the bed with a tired sigh, and tossed the extra jacket and hat aside, atop of his own garments that were hanging from one of the chairs nearby.
He let Richie sleep. The painkillers, combined with his own exhaustion, had laid the blond out. Hotstreak stared down at him for a few moments, wincing at the horribly bright and distended wound on the right side of Richie’s face. His eyelid was puffy and smooth, lashes barely visible within the swelling. It extended just below the dip of his eyebrow and colored the top of his right cheekbone. The mid-afternoon light told him that they had spent considerable time getting away from the hospital; he wondered if Richie’s parents knew where he was. If Sean Foley was going to pitch a fit about his son’s disappearance. He sat at the edge of the mattress, reaching up to scratch at his jaw. Pulling out Maria’s cell phone, he activated it, seeing that he had missed several calls from various people.
He looked over at Richie, and gently shook his shoulder. The blond gave a grunt as he noticeably forced himself out from his sleep, pushing away from the pillow to roll his head in Hotstreak’s direction. He was ready to move if the need was necessary–but the sway of his head and body told Hotstreak that the drugs were working as they should. He held the phone out.
“Call your parents,” he ordered. “Let them know you’re with some friends.”
Mechanically, Richie took the cell phone from him, and focused on dialing the number. Hotstreak rested his chin onto his palm, elbow on knee as he watched Richie struggle with the simple task. When he at least managed to complete the number, he shifted back against the pillows, and cleared his throat.
“Yer stayin’ with Chuck,” Hotstreak muttered. “Yer goin’ to Gotham for a...fuckin’...whatever you geeks do.”
“Mom...it’s me. I’m at Chuck’s...no, I spent the night at Virgil’s...no, they were delayed. No, I’m... actually on my way to Gotham for...uh...convention. Yeah. Sci-Fi. Anime. Y’know. Things. I won’t be back for...”
“A week.”
“Three days...yeah, three days. I should be back by Wednesday....what? No...no...I don’t care. Just call the cops, mom. Gotta go. Bye.” Richie tossed the cellphone away from him and resumed his earlier position.
Hotstreak smirked at the insolent tone he’d used with his mother, and picked up the cell. Maggie Foley was still talking, pleading in a frightened voice for him to come home before his father grew angry. He disconnected the call, and slipped the phone into his back pocket. Richie was already snoring faintly, his hands pillowed beneath his head.
It was a good idea, actually. Sleep. He turned to kick off his shoes, then stretched out onto the bed. Staring up at the ceiling for a few minutes, Hotstreak allowed himself to finally relax, feeling sore and achy throughout every limb from the long hospital stay. He turned his head, looking at the back of Richie’s head. He could see the slight patches of missing hair–it made him wonder how Montoya was able to deduce all that she had when she’d examined him.
She must see a lot of those, he thought as he rolled onto his belly, turning away from Richie. She impressed him. She was confident, cool, and she took charge without the air of superiority that drove him up the wall. In a way, he felt he respected her–he had to. He was thinking about how he was going to return her car when his eyelids drifted close.
He slept all that night, catching up on the Z’s, and there were times, when he woke up, when he found himself surprised by Richie’s appearance. The blond slept as well, the pair of them waking up only to attend to personal matters. Sometime during the next day, Richie took more of the pills and slept some more.
It was only toward the middle of the afternoon when Hotstreak forced himself to get up, and get ready for the ‘thing’ he had planned out, tonight. He let Richie sleep–there was no need to get him up.
Hotstreak reached out, his palm and fingers settling on Richie’s jean clad thigh. He then pulled his hand back, muttering a ‘sorry’ as he rose from the bed. Glancing around, he debated the pros and cons of leaving Richie alone for awhile. Ebon had no idea where this place was–and Hotstreak doubted that he’d look for Richie so soon. He glanced back at Richie, then walked over to his side of the bed, crouching so that he was face level with him.
He reached out, gently running his fingers through the matted blond hair. He wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. It was just automatic...to touch him. To know that he was okay. “Richie...I’ma go out, now. Just sleep, okay? Just get some sleep...”
“Where ya going?” Richie asked, a tinge of apprehension in his drugged voice.
“Just...out. We’re no one can find us.”
“I...I don’t think that...” The blond forced a heavy lid open, looking at Hotstreak with his good eye. It was glazed and sluggish–but there was definite traces of fear, there. “When it’s dark....I think I’m going to have problems when it’s dark...”
Hotstreak lifted an eyebrow, but tightened his lips. He withdrew his hand, rising. “I’ll be back around nine, then. I’ll lock the door–”
“What if I need to get you?” Richie asked, on a definite whine as he sluggishly followed the other male’s drifting across the room.
Hotstreak hesitated for a few moments–then withdrew the cell phone. He tossed it onto the bed. “I’ll be in one place. That’s Maria’s cell–if ya need to, speed-dial Esposito. Don’t answer any other numbers but that one. Got it?”
“‘Maria’?” Richie asked, lifting an eyebrow, but resettling against his pillow.
Hotstreak felt the minute flush of color on his cheeks, and he looked away as he changed out of the over sized tee and khaki’s. He pulled on his hooded sweater, and a coat over that. Firmly fitting a baseball cap over his head, and pulling the hood over that, he looked back over at Richie. He saw that the blond was already sleeping once more, and he looked away, gathering his wallet and keys.
Looking at the large ring of keys, he stared at the Mercedes key chain. Then dropped them into his other hand, figuring he could leave Montoya’s car where he could let her find it.