Gluttony, page 5
I stand and crack my neck. The woman from before is still manning the front desk. I make my way over to her.
“What’s the status?” I demand, my voice raspy from sleep.
“She’s in ICU room three. Visiting hours aren’t until eight.” She glances up at the clock. “Perhaps you should go grab a nap at home. Maybe some breakfast and coffee.”
“I need in there.”
“I can’t do that right now,” she says sadly.
Irritated, I leave the waiting room and head to the cafeteria. After a shitty breakfast of rubbery pancakes and tasteless eggs, I fill a Styrofoam cup with black, tarry coffee and head back toward my perch. On the way, I call Thurston—my dad’s assistant—and bark out some orders. He assures me all will be done.
Once back in the waiting room, I see only an hour has passed. I have one more to go. I’m dying with the need to know how she’s doing. I take to pacing, only stopping to sip my black coffee, until I get a whiff of marijuana.
“God,” a familiar voice rumbles from behind me.
I whirl around to see Rush Dempsey looking all too fucking chipper for seven in the morning. His usual blunt is missing from the top of his ear, but his smirk is in place.
“Sloth,” I greet, knowing full well what his name is now.
He chuckles, unaffected by my attempt to stab at him. If he’d have the balls to call me Gluttony, I’d level his ass with my fist. Luckily, he’s not like that Mason fucker and doesn’t seem to enjoy pushing my buttons.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, deflated.
“Isn’t that what friends are for?” he throws back at me with a lifted brow. “They show up when you need them?”
The churning in my gut from my breakfast has bile rising in my throat. Rhett sure as fuck isn’t here.
“You’re not my friend,” I bite out.
He winks at a nurse walking by before turning his attention on me, patting his chest over his heart. “You wound me, man. Here I thought we were friends. Brotherhood and all that fucking shit.”
I roll my eyes. “You and I both know neither of us gives a goddamn about that.”
His brown eyes burn with intensity. “We’re friends, God. Get over it.”
“Fine, friend. I thought sloth meant lazy as hell. What drew you out of bed at the butt crack of dawn? Don’t give me we’re-brothers-and-now-besties bullshit.”
His laugh echoes in the lobby. “Who says I ever went to bed in the first place?”
I sober up and my shoulders hunch. “I hit a girl.” I can’t look him in the eyes. My chest aches with self-loathing and regret.
“I know.”
My gaze flicks to his. “All over the news now?”
“Actually,” he says, shaking his head, “no. It’s nowhere. This society takes care of their own.” Bitterness bleeds into his words.
“You mean my dad buys his way out of everything,” I amend.
He shrugs, and I glower at him. Cryptic asshole.
“Mr. Bax?” the desk attendant calls out, stealing my attention as she waves me over to her.
I storm over to the desk and shoot one last look at Rush, but he’s gone. Like a fucking ghost. “Can I see her?”
“Come on,” she tells me. “If we hurry, I can let you in while the nurses change shifts.”
I follow her down the corridor, keeping my head low to avoid any recognition. She nods to room three, and I quickly slip inside. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my eyes on my feet. They are still damp inside my shoes from last night’s rain.
The beeps from the machine are a reminder I didn’t kill her. Relief rushes through me. But why can’t I lift my gaze and face what I’ve done?
Look at her.
Own what you did, God.
It’s painful, but I manage to lift my head. There, looking so goddamn small, is the girl I hit. Zemira Coleman. Her head is wrapped in a white bandage, and her hair can’t be seen. I suck in a sharp breath seeing all the black bruising on her caramel-brown skin.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
Guilt claws at my insides. I want to go to her, but I’m a coward. My feet remain firmly planted on the linoleum floor.
Her left eye is swollen and black. Tubes are attached to her everywhere. She seems fragile—so tiny—in the bed. I quickly look around the small ICU room and am disappointed it’s so drab and boring. She deserves color and life. I pull out my phone and text my order for some flowers to Thurston before tucking it back away. Slowly, I approach her bed.
“Zemira,” I croak out, her name unfamiliar on my tongue.
No response. Nothing.
In a sense, it’s a relief. I don’t have to see the accusing look in her eyes. A look that says, You did this to me.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter as I take her small hand scabbed over with cuts. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
God
A week later…
At first, no one questions my presence. The ICU nurses and doctors come and go, checking on her progress, keeping her fiancé up to date. One nurse named Neveah has taken a liking to me. She brings me sodas from the vending machine and the occasional Jell-O. I stay out of their way and they don’t mess with me.
Medically induced coma.
That’s what Zemira’s in. To help with the swelling on her brain. Dr. Cooke says we’re lucky she lived. That the asshole who hit her ought to rot in jail. Rumor has it the kid was high on meth.
Fuck that kid.
I hate him every bit as much as they do for what he did. In a way, I feel dissociated from him. Like he’s another entity—the bad one—and I’m his counterpart—the one here to make things right.
My pretend world lasts all of a week.
One week until my identity is revealed.
“You’re him,” Neveah hisses as she storms into the room. “You’re not her fiancé, you’re the kid who hit this poor girl.”
I tense at her words and rise from my seat, never letting go of Zemira’s hand. “I can explain.”
But I can’t.
There is no explanation.
“I’m calling security,” she informs me as she rushes over to the phone.
“Please—” I start, but am interrupted when the door flings open.
Dr. Cooke glowers at me. “I thought you looked familiar.” He shakes his head. “Get out.”
How do they know? Did it somehow get on the news?
“Please, Dr. Cooke,” I plead. “I’m sorry.”
“Your father is waiting to speak to you,” he replies coolly. “And don’t come back.”
Reluctantly, I release Zemira’s hand, gently settling it on her stomach over the blanket. I give her one last look before leaving the room. My mind flits back to my poor attempt at absolving my wrecked soul. I didn’t necessarily want the real God to forgive me for what I’d done, but I wanted Him to heal her. I fucking prayed hard for it.
St. Augustine Cathedral. Upon my obsessive research, I learned Zemira attended the church often while living in the orphanage. Coming here feels right. Being the middle of the day on a weekday, the cathedral is empty when I enter. A sense of foreboding settles over me.
Sinners don’t belong in church.
At any moment, I expect the place to ignite in flames with me in it. Instead, I’m met with lonely silence. My shoes squeak along the marble floors as I walk down the center aisle straight for the ominous altar. The ceilings are high, and the smallest of sounds echo loudly. A statue of a woman praying, a beaded necklace in her grip, sits behind the altar—massive and made of stone. Her eyes are closed, but it’s like she’s watching me—someone is watching.
I cast a glance over my shoulder, my eyes sweeping the empty pews on a hunt for the shadowed voyeur.
Nothing.
Suppressing a shiver, I plop down in the front pew.
What now?
I’m not saying this shit out loud, that’s for damn sure. It’s already fucking weird enough I’m here to begin with. But I’m doing it for the girl without a voice. An insignificant girl I can’t seem to shove from my mind no matter how hard I try.
Dear Real God, I think to myself, if you’re listening, I have to confess I fucked up.
Shit.
I mean, I didn’t mean to hurt her. She’s innocent. She’s one of yours. Can’t you, like, fix her or something and we can all go back to normal? I can shed the guilt and move on with my life. Thanks, Fucked-Up God.
God doesn’t answer. Not that I expect him to. I’m probably doing all this wrong. I’d gone to church with Rhett before, but they’re southern Baptist. They don’t do rosaries or candles or confessionals. Hell, I may be praying to the wrong person for all I know.
My eyes dart back to the statue. Am I supposed to pray to her? I scour my brain for anything I can remember from when Rhett and I were ten year old terrors at his church on Sundays.
The Virgin Mary?
That sounds about right.
I’m about to make an internal fool of myself when I hear squeaky footsteps. I track the sound to two people coming up the outer aisle. One is a solidly built man wearing a black robe. He looks like a fucking linebacker—sorry Real God—wearing a dress. But it’s the girl he’s all but manhandling that piques my interest. His grip on her elbow is firm. Maybe even harsh. He practically drags her to the altar. His whispered words get lost in the echoes layered on top of echoes in this spooky place. When he bows his head, she must sense me because she turns her head my way. She’s cute enough. A little on the skinny side. Super innocent and pure looking. In a way that makes you kind of want to dirty her up.
Sorry, Real God. I told you I have fucking issues.
Ignoring illicit Catholic schoolgirl fantasies that flip through my mind, I rise from the pew and get ready to bail. She bows her head, mimicking the man. When I start to leave, his head turns, and he scowls at me.
I guess Real God gave him the message. I don’t fucking belong here.
Giving him a clipped nod, I bolt before I cause any more damage to the innocents around me. And for that, Real God must think I’m a fucking saint.
As soon as I hear my dad’s voice in the hallway, I cringe, shaking away my thoughts.
“Son,” he greets, his voice hard.
Thurston, the tattling bastard, stands stoically beside my father. When I start past them, Thurston hands me the envelope full of money I’d requested. I stuff it into my pocket and stalk back toward the waiting room so the nurses and doctors don’t listen in on whatever it is my dad is going to say to me.
Before I can reach the waiting room, Dad barks out my name and motions down a hallway. I follow him down the corridor into a room. It’s empty save for a couch, coffee table, a few chairs, and a vending machine.
“Sit,” he instructs.
I throw myself down on the sofa and glare at him. “Why are you here?”
His nostrils flare. “I could ask the same, boy.”
“I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
Dad waddles over to the vending machine and feeds it some bills. A couple packages of powdered donuts fall out. It reminds me it’s past dinner time and I’ve yet to put a single thing in my stomach. Once he has them in his grip, he tosses one at me. My stomach sours, but I open the package anyway. Dad rips through his and has three devoured before I can even pluck one from the package.
“This is reckless,” he snarls, crumbs tumbling from his mouth onto the lapels of his black suit jacket. The white powdered snow is a contrast on the dark.
“I just ache for her,” I admit, my chest tightening. “I hurt her.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re weak, boy, pining over some girl you hit.”
“I’m not pining,” I growl. “I’m fucking worried she’ll die and her blood will be on my hands until the day I die.”
Dad relaxes and gives me a softer look. “Dr. Cooke said she’s in a coma.”
I nod, bitter bile creeping up my throat. “Temporarily.”
He snorts with derisive laughter. “When you lied and told him you were her fiancé, he was giving you hope. The girl is no better than a vegetable.”
My nostrils flare in fury. “Watch it, Dad.”
He crams another donut into his mouth, chewing over his words. “I can make it so she doesn’t ever wake up.”
I rise to my feet, dumping the donut package to the floor as I fist my hands. “The fuck you will.”
His eyes narrow at me. “Money is the only miracle worker here, son. Money reminds people that girls who have no promise of waking up, no means to pay their medical bills, and no family to come home to are better off dead. Money reminds a doctor to write down that she’ll never wake from her injuries. Money has a nurse pulling the plug. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. The end. You move along with your life, boy, and we sweep this problem under the rug where it belongs.”
“You’re disgusting,” I bite out.
“I’m a realist. You, on the other hand, live in a dream world like your mother. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, unfortunately. Your mother thinks she can, but she is mistaken.”
I glower at him. “What are you talking about?”
He shuffles my way, stuffing another donut in his mouth. “There’s a reason you’re the heir and not your mother. Women are deceptive and turn on you at the first sign of trouble. Do you think I don’t know she fucks men from my company in an apartment I pay for in a city I’ve built?”
I had a feeling she cheats on my dad, but I never would have guessed he knew.
“So, why don’t you divorce her? Or do you care too much about your precious money to let any of it go?” I rake my fingers through my messy hair. “Seems like a weak move, Daddy-O.”
He laughs, softly at first, until it becomes boisterous and obnoxious. His laughter gives way to choking, then he turns bright red as he gasps for air.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Thurston and I watch on, waiting for him to keel over.
He recovers, just like every other time.
“When I married your mother, I promised her a million dollars for every year she makes it with me. If she makes it to twenty in another year, I’ll double it. Do you think for one second she’s going to let me divorce her?” he asks, shoving in his last donut.
“Why do you stay with her then?” I demand. “Isn’t that humiliating? Knowing your wife is cheating on you?”
He sneers at me. “This is where you’re so blind boy. It doesn’t humiliate me. It gives me power. For every dumb fuck she opens her legs for, I own him. I have my people tear apart their lives and find me anything worth exposing. Their biggest and fattest vein belongs to me. To keep from delivering a fatal blow that will leave them penniless and without a job, they yield to me. Do whatever the hell I need them to.”
“So, it’s all just a big fucking game to you?” I shake my head and glance at the clock, eager to get the hell out of here.
“A game I always win. And my next move involves unplugging that little girl from our world because she doesn’t fucking belong here with us. I want my boy focused and on track to take over my company. Your mother sure as hell isn’t getting it. Everything attached to the Goddard name is yours. Simply waiting for you, son. I’ll be damned if I let one little accident stop you from getting what’s owed to you.”
“You can’t kill her,” I growl. “It’s barely been a week. You’re not a doctor. She’ll come out of this. I’ll help her.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he snarls. “Nothing you can say or do can stop me. I have the money and means to do what needs to be done.”
I shove my hand into my pocket and yank out my coin. His eyes widen when I toss it at his giant stomach. It bounces off and rolls over to Thurston’s feet. Thurston picks it up and frowns at it. Dad’s glare becomes murderous.
“You can’t use that now,” he hisses. “You save it, boy. You save it until you need it.”
I flash him a vindictive grin. “I’m calling in my favor, brother. You and all these other motherfuckers have to make it happen. I want her left alone for me to deal with. That is my request.”
He shakes his head, all four of his chins wobbling. “I can’t let you do this.”
“It’s done, Dad. Take me off your will for all I care,” I bluff. I fucking care, but I won’t back down from this.
His face turns purple with rage. “You’re making a huge mistake.”
“It’s my mistake to make,” I challenge back. “I’ll text Mason Motherfucking Pride to let him know I’ve cashed in on my prize. She’s mine, and I don’t want anyone to fuck with her. Got it?”
“You know that cashing in that coin means you’re never allowed to leave The Elite, right?” Dad’s voice is low and threatening.
“You’re still in it.” I raise a brow and smirk. “I’ll be fine.”
Dad’s eyes flash and he nods. “So be it.” He waves a meaty hand in the air at me. “That right there is why you’ll lead my company well one day. No one but a Goddard will sit on that throne. You know this.”
I knew he wasn’t taking me off the will.
“What now?” I ask, cracking my neck.
“We let you deal with the problem you gave everything up for.” He brushes some white crumbs off his jacket. “Just remember if you need help again, it won’t be The Elite swooping in to save you. At the end of the day, a Goddard is your get-out-of-jail-free card. It’d do you some good to realize that.”
I give him a nod, hating that he’s right. The only consolation is knowing she’ll live. Maybe for the rest of her life breathing from a tube, I don’t know. I don’t fucking care. As long as she lives.
My phone buzzes in my pocket moments after Dad leaves. I pull it out to see a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown Number: That was quick—M.
I reply back quickly.
Me: Your mom said the same thing last night—G.
Then I block Mason’s number.
