Lust & Loyalty

Dante floated back to consciousness gradually, like a boat set adrift that was finally making its way back to shore. He heard beeping and the drone of voices he didn’t recognize. He slowly opened his eyes and squinted reflexively at the bright aura of light around him. He tried to raise his hand to shield his eyes but realized, belatedly, that he couldn’t raise his arm. It was limp with fatigue, as if he had done two hundred curls at the gym. It was also weighed down. He would later realize it was weighed down by electrodes, an IV, and a series of wires. Unable to shield his eyes, he closed them instead.

“The sedative should be wearing off now,” a female voice murmured. “Dr. Basak said to keep a careful eye on Mr. Turner for the next few hours.”

“Like we wouldn’t,” another female voice countered with a snort. This voice was throatier. It sounded older. “That’s our job, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, but I think Dr. Basak is a little more worried about this guy. His recovery took longer than expected on account of . . . well . . . what happened. You know what I mean!”

He didn’t know what they were talking about. Nor did he know who the doctor was or who these women were, for that matter. Why was he here in this bright room, more than likely a hospital room? His last memory was of being in a very dark, quiet place. He struggled now to remember what place that was.

His mind felt sluggish. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, not brain tissue, and was operating accordingly. Maybe it was the effects of the sedative one the woman had mentioned.

He could see the parking garage now and where he had fallen on the second floor. He remembered cold, wet asphalt against his forehead and cheek and the smell of gasoline and car exhaust. He remembered the searing pain spreading across his abdomen and seeing the tread of his back tire only inches from his face after he fallen to the ground.

Before Dante fell, he remembered bringing up his briefcase to shield himself and shutting his eyes when he heard a booming sound.

Even now, Dante recoiled from the reverberation that had bounced around the concrete garage. After the boom, he had opened his eyes.

And then a minute later, he had noticed the red spot bloom on his dress shirt and spread across his torso. He remembered touching the spot and marveling at the bright red blood on his fingertips.

I was shot, Dante thought, letting the full comprehension slam into him like the bullet that had torn into the flesh and muscle of his torso. I was shot! And now I’m in a hospital.

His mind struggled to remember who shot him. He could see a shadowy silhouette under the dim light of the garage. The face . . . that face! He was on the cusp of remembering who it was, but his mind felt so listless. The face was like an inkblot he was trying to form into a recognizable shape.

“Fettuccine alfredo. My boyfriend made it. It’s pretty good,” the other answered. “He even used wheat pasta, which isn’t something I usually go for.”

Shut up! Shut up, you stupid bitches, Dante thought, annoyed by their mundane prattle, which only distracted him. He fought again to remember who the shooter was.

The image began to coalesce into someone he recognized, someone he had known well. When he realized who it was, he tried to clench his hands into fists on the hospital bed but only managed to twitch his fingers.

He wanted vengeance. He wanted to kick some ass! Dante tried to rise out of the bed he was lying on to do just that, but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t follow his command. He opened his eyes again. This time the bright light wasn’t quite as painful. His vision was a bit blurred, but he could now vaguely see the two women standing near his hospital bed. One was adjusting his bedsheets at the foot of his bed, the other was examining his IV bag. His fluttering movements drew their attention simultaneously, and they both turned to look at him.