Page 14 of First Surrender
“He wants me to stay overnight to be monitored and do a breathing treatment. If my lungs look okay tomorrow morning then they’ll discharge me.” I look at Dec as I say it so he knows that I won’t be here forever.
“You got lucky,” Sheriff Small Dick mumbles to me, not drawing attention to himself as Dec plays with his toy on the window sill.
“Really? I feel unlucky as hell, but thanks.” I fold my arms over my chest like a child.
“You’re welcome,” he responds with fake niceness. Ugh, he is infuriating.
“You can leave.”
“What about Dec?”
“What about him?”
“He can’t stay here.” He ambles around the small open space in my room, not caring to look me in the eyes as he speaks.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a kid. It’s a hospital.”
“Obviously, but what do you suggest that I do? I’m stuck here and he has nowhere else to go,” I whisper-shout.
“He can stay with me tonight.” He shrugs as if it’s a no-brainer.
“You’re insane.”
He blows out a deep breath of frustration and crosses his arms over his chest, mirroring me. “This, again. Really?”
“Why would he go with you?” We’re completely mimicking each others’ stances, behaving too stubbornly for our ages.
“So, he doesn’t have to stay here. I have the room. I live in a clean house. I’m not a fu-” He cuts himself off before he drops an f-bomb like he did earlier.
I was shocked when he yelled at me at the scene of the fire. I didn’t expect it. He’s been a brick wall every other time I’ve been around him.
“I’m not some pervert, criminal, or bandit that’s going to hurt your brother.”
I got under his skin with the pedophile comment earlier. Unfortunately, I am not feeling the satisfaction I thought I would for finally getting to him. I’m too exhausted and worried about Dec. He’s right. Dec shouldn’t stay here and I hate that he’s right.
“How can I trust you?” I ask genuinely. My chest hurts, my throat’s unquenchable, and I’m too tired to fight, mostly.
He pulls a slim wallet from his front left pocket and tosses two cards onto my bed, on top of my legs. I pick up his driver’s license first, and then his Sheriff’s ID, examining them closely.
Jackson Malec. His first name is Jackson. I didn’t know that, nor care.
His hair is of course, perfect, in both photos. Cleanly shaven on the sides and longer on top. Barely long enough to keep pushed back. He probably rolls out of bed, slides his fingers over his scalp, and is good to go. Even without smiling in his photos, you can tell how authentically good-looking he is and it’s nauseating. He’s probably had everything just like that handed to him his entire life.
“Take a picture of both. It has my address. My height, and weight. My law enforcement credentials. Do you want my social? It’s 232-”
“I get it, chill. I don’t have a pen, anyway.”
“Here is my phone number,” he grabs a pen out of his vest pocket and writes his number on the back of his business card. He throws it on the bed with the other cards. I notice that he added his social security number, too.
“What if I want to talk to Dec?”
“Anytime you want.”
I study him and the cards, snapping a picture of all of them with my phone. He stares up at the ceiling like he’s praying for patience but doesn’t say anything. “He has school in the morning.”
“I’ll take him.”