Clean Slate (New Mafia Trilogy #2) (29 page)

           
“Good morning,” Lilly said. She stretched out; slow and
languid like a cat in a beam of sunshine, before getting up to use the
bathroom. I looked at the pillowcase, on the pillow Natalie used to use, and
noticed a beige smear from foundation and black streaks of mascara marred the
white cotton. The stains were an unwanted sight, as unwanted as the woman I had
welcomed into my bed. She needed to go and the sheets needed to be washed. What
the fuck was I thinking?

LOS
ANGELES

NATALIE

Feeling guilty over the
way things ended with Jason, I called him as soon as I got back from shooting
practice. I didn’t waste time with small talk.

           
“Hey, I’m sorry. You’re right. I am keeping you at a
distance. I’ll work on it, okay?”

           
“That’s all I ask. I understand you’re still healing. I’m
sorry too.”

We made arrangements to
meet at our favorite taco stand to grab a quick dinner before work. When I hung
up, I listened to the voicemail from Dominic again. The strain in his voice was
obvious when he asked if it was true that I was in a relationship with Jason. I
wasn’t ready to respond so I turned off my phone and went to get ready for
work. It wasn’t until two nights later when I called him back. He answered
immediately and I closed my eyes at the sound of his voice.

           
“I was wondering if you were ever going to call me back,”
he said without any hostility, just wariness.

           
“I don’t know what to say.”

           
“Grant told me about you and Jason. Is it true?”

           
“Yes,” I answered, my voice breathless because admitting
it out loud to Dominic physically ached, like having the wind knocked out of
me.

           
“Are you in love with him?”

           
“No.”

This response was met
with silence. When Dominic spoke next, his tone was lighter, laced with a hint
of hopefulness. “Do you still love me?”

I broke at that point,
tears pooling in the corners of my eyes before spilling down my cheeks in a hot
river. “I never stopped, Dom. We’ll always be connected, but I’m doing better
out here. It’s safe.”

           
“Yeah, well I’m working on making it safe here too. Don’t
give up on us, Nat. I’m not.” I couldn’t say any more after that, my throat
choked with tears. “I love you,” Dom said before he hung up. I just stood in
the kitchen and stared at my phone, realizing that while I had made zero
progress at severing ties with Dominic, I was establishing ties in California
and those needed fortifying in order to move forward.

Weeks went by and
things smoothed over with Jason. I started to open up to him about my mom and
tumultuous upbringing, just little nuggets of information to help satisfy his
curiosity. I was adjusting to being in a relationship again. Since I picked up
an extra night at Dirty to pay for my flight back home, my personal time was
limited. We both had Mondays off.

It was on a Monday
and
I
was in the bedroom, getting ready for a date with Jason, when there was a knock
on the front door. Jason wasn’t supposed to arrive for at least an hour and I
wasn’t expecting anyone else, so I warily approached, looking through the
peephole first only to see a distorted view of the deserted walkway outside. My
hand rested on the doorknob as I debated whether to open the door. A knock,
this time down by my knees, made me jump back.

Using the door as a
barrier, I cautiously opened it and yelped when Victor tumbled into the
entryway, landing on his back by my feet.
 
Streaks of blood were smeared across his cheeks, his skin as white as
plain yogurt. He groaned and writhed on the tile, holding onto his thigh. His
hands were covered in fresh blood and his jeans were stained black, with the
stain continuing to grow underneath his hands.

           
“Jesus, Victor, what happened?”

           
“I got shot. You're the closest. Need to call Gio.” He
fumbled for his phone that was in the pocket above his wound, but when he
relieved the pressure, this caused the blood flow to increase.

           
“Hold on,” I knelt next to him and pressed my hands over
the gunshot, putting all of my weight on it for maximum pressure. His blood was
warm and gushed between my fingers and despite a major bout of queasiness; I
held on while he fished his phone out and speed dialed Gio. After he told Gio
what happened and gave him my address, Victor dropped his phone and lay back on
the floor, panting from the pain. His feet were sticking out of the doorway and
he needed to move before we started to attract attention.

           
“Is Gio coming here?” I asked, still keeping pressure on
his wound.

           
“Yeah and he’s sending a doctor.”

           
“Can you move? I want to bring you to the futon – get you
off the floor.”

He swallowed and licked
his lips, sweat dotted his brow and he closed his eyes before attempting to
stand. It’s when he started doing this that I realized neither one of us could
keep pressure on his leg.

           
“Hold on, don’t move,” I said and jumped up.

Grabbing a floral silk
scarf out of my dresser, I ran back from the living room and crouching down
next to Victor, tied the scarf like a tourniquet right above the bullet wound,
slowing the blood flow to a trickle.

Now we both had our
hands free to move him into the living room. Victor was able to get to his
feet, but he leaned heavily against me, his right leg unable to support any
weight. He hissed with each step we took and by the time we hobbled the short
distance to the futon, Victor’s black t-shirt was soaked with sweat from the
exertion. I got him positioned so he was lying with his injured leg facing the
outside. I propped a pillow underneath his head and wrapped his thigh in a towel.
Victor’s breathing slowed and he drifted into a light slumber. Realizing the
front door was still wide open, I went to close it and noticed Victor’s helmet
was on the walkway. I picked it up and quickly shut the door, avoiding smears
of blood on the tile. Grabbing another towel, I set that in the entry way and
used my feet to swirl it around, mopping up some of the mess. Just as I was
bending over to scoop it up, there was a light knock on the door. I opened it
to find an older man wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He had on wire-framed
glasses and carried a leather satchel like an old school doctor who made house
calls.

           
“I’m Dr. Brannigan, Gio sent me.”

           
“Of course, come in. Oh, and watch your step.” I pointed
to the drying smears on the tile and he sidestepped them to follow me into the
living room.

           
“He’s been out for about ten minutes, but his breathing
and heart rate seem steady as far as I can tell.”

           
“Good.” Dr. Brannigan set his bag down on the coffee
table, pulling out a stethoscope and thermometer. He stuck that underneath
Victor’s tongue and started checking his vitals while it registered. When he
was done with his assessment, he said, “His temp is normal and he seems stable
enough for me to extract the bullet. Did you do the tourniquet?”

           
“Yes, did I do it right?”

           
“It’s perfect, that was good thinking because it slowed
his bleeding.” He turned back to his satchel and pulled out a vacuum sealed bag
of stainless steel surgical tools. I recognized a scalpel and an instrument
that resembled pliers. He next pulled out another bag that contained several
syringes and little glass vials followed by a sleeve of gauze.

           
“I’m going to need your help,” the doctor said to me and
I raised my eyebrows.

           
“What can I do?”

           
“Go wash your hands and scrub them thoroughly with this
towel.” He handed me a blue cotton towel from his bag.

Oh God, he wanted me to
be his surgical assistant? My stomach flipped at the thought, but the sight of
Victor bleeding on my futon was enough for me to swallow the bile down and
focus on him. When I came back from the kitchen where I had used a handful of
antibacterial dishwashing soap to scrub my hands, Dr. Brannigan had cut up the
leg of Victor’s jeans. The denim draped open, dragging on the floor and
Victor’s injury was in full view. His thigh was muscular and covered in dark
hair that was matted with blood. A dark hole about the size of a nickel belched
out a trickle of blood every few seconds and it rolled down the side of his
leg. The skin around the bullet wound was red and inflamed.

Victor moaned and
opened his eyes, coming to briefly. “Doc, you made it.”

           
“Of course, I’m going to patch you up, but first I need
to give you a local anesthetic. Do I have your permission?”

           
“Yeah, do what you need to do.”

           
“Okay,” Dr. Brannigan looked up at me from where he was sitting
on the edge of the coffee table. “I need to inject around the entry point and
it’s going to hurt. Do what you can to keep him still.”

I hesitantly approached
and braced my hands, one on Victor’s chest and the other right above the
tourniquet. Then I leaned forward, letting all my weight fall on Victor’s
torso. “Will this work?” I asked.

I got my answer when
Victor hissed and almost bucked me off. Dr. Brannigan quickly pulled back with
a syringe in his hand. “Good, one down and one more to go. You’re doing great,”
he reassured me.

Victor’s reaction to
the second injection wasn’t as extreme and I think he expended all of his
energy the first time because he fell back asleep, his black hair plastered to
his head with sweat. The doctor readied another syringe, sticking the needle in
one of the small glass vials of medicine.

           
“Is that more anesthetic?”

           
“No, it’s an antibiotic. Since the bullet passed through
his jeans, chances are there are small bits of fabric that got dragged into his
leg. These are seen as foreign objects to the body and increase the risk for
infection.”

I watched as he stuck
the needle into Victor’s thigh. Next he shaved the area around the entry point.
He was just getting ready to delve in with the plier-looking thing to remove the
bullet when someone pounded on the door, causing Dr. Brannigan to jump and
swear under his breath. I quickly answered the door. Gio and Jimmy pushed past
me as soon as I opened it.

I followed them into
the living room and Dr. Brannigan took off the latex surgical gloves to shake
Gio’s hand.

           
“How is he?” Gio asked.

           
“It’s not a through and through so I have to fish the
bullet out, but I don’t think there will be significant muscle damage. He’s
lost a lot of blood though.”

           
“Yeah, the crazy son of a bitch rode his Harley here and
you probably saw the trail of blood on the stairs. Speaking of which, Natalie,
you might want to go clean that up.”

My spine stiffened at
his direction, but he was right, a trail of blood leading right to my front
door wouldn’t make me friends with the property management company. As I went
to the linen closet to grab the rattiest looking towels, I thought about
Victor; I had been so busy taking care of him that I hadn’t considered the
flight of stairs he had to climb in order to reach my apartment. No wonder he
was in so much agony.

There wasn’t much blood
on the stairs, just a series of drops, but the railing was covered in bloody
handprints. The fact that it was dark outside and I had limited lighting made
the clean up a little bit more difficult. I was about halfway up the steps,
armed with a bottle of Clorox bathroom cleaner and a couple of towels when
Jason arrived.

           
“Jesus Christ, Nat. Are you hurt?” He came rushing up out
of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me. I shrieked and dropped the cleaner as I
whirled to face him. “You’re covered in blood,” he said.

I had completely
forgotten about our date by this point and wasn’t paying attention to my
appearance. Jason gripped me by my shoulders and I looked down at the front of
my clothes. I had unfortunately worn a white long sleeved sweater, which was
now more reddish brown that white. My jeans were stained as well, but not as
glaringly obvious as my sweater.

           
“I’m fine Jason. It’s not my blood.”

           
“Oh thank God!” He pulled me against his chest, wrapping
his arms around me. “Whose blood is it and what are you doing out here?”

I sighed and stepped
out of his embrace. Some blood had transferred to his light blue dress shirt.
“Shit, I got it on you. I’m sorry.” Something about seeing Jason’s clean shirt
soiled from touching me made me think that it was analogous to my life tainting
his. He was going to be a lawyer and here my apartment had become a clinic for
injured mobsters.

           
“It’s just a shirt, Nat. Tell me what’s going on.”

Gathering up the
cleaner and pile of dirty towels, I led Jason to my apartment and opened the
door.

           
“Victor was shot,” I told him in a low voice as soon as
we were inside. “He showed up here and now there’s a doctor in the living room
doing minor surgery.”