Angelika
The hospital’s full of cops as we leave. But it isn’t their presence that comforts me. Although the police couldn’t find Roy at the warehouse, I know he didn’t escape. Tolyan wouldn’t have let him.
It’s dark by the time we walk out into the parking lot to his car. We’ve been in the hospital for hours talking to the police. I couldn’t say much because I didn’t know much. But I told them about Roy and how evil he is. The officer I spoke to took notes, but I don’t know if she’s going to be able to do anything with the information I gave her. Local law enforcement agencies haven’t been able to do much over the years, and I don’t know if L.A. is going to be any different.
Tolyan and I don’t talk during the drive. I’m too shaky, and Tolyan’s focused on driving. Just thinking about the bruises on his body makes me want to hurl. I don’t know how he’s moving like he’s okay. He’s being brave for me. He’s aware that if he lets me know just how much pain he’s in, I’m going to break down, sobbing again.
God, I’m such a helpless fool! Tears don’t solve anything and they aren’t going to help anybody. But here I am, unable to stop them. I can’t not think about what happened to him. The knife plunging into his flesh. His shirt going red and wet.
It was far more traumatizing than witnessing any of Roy’s hit-and-runs. I care too much about Tolyan.
Do you think care is enough
to do justice to how you really feel about him?
It’s not. But I’m too scared to dig deeper. Tolyan might not feel anything for me.
He risked his life to protect you.
Because he promised. He’s a man of his word. He doesn’t make many promises, but when he does, he keeps them. No matter what.
When we reach the penthouse, the Dobermans come over. They whine and sniff us, their stubby tails wagging uncertainly. They know we smell different. Do they know we smell like a hospital?
Tchaikovsky lets out a bark. He’s the oldest and the leader of the pack. He must’ve sensed that Tolyan is injured.
“Shh…” Tolyan rubs his head. “It’s all good.” He goes to the pantry and grabs some treats for the animals.
I watch him take care of them, his hands gentle as he pats them. They narrow their eyes in bliss, and lick his face. Their trust in and love for him are absolute.
He lets the dogs out into the pool area and returns. I pat his favorite armchair.
“You should sit down,” I say.
“Not yet, but you can if you want.” He goes over to his liquor cabinet and pours himself a vodka. “Want something to drink?” he asks before reaching for a cigar.
“No, thank you.” I eye the alcohol, then him. I’d feel better if he sat. Or better yet, lay down in bed. He looks a little pale. Understandable, since he’s been bleeding. I’m sure he’s in pain, too. The bruises looked bad at the hospital, and they’re going to get worse in the next day or two. Words bubble up, the things I need to say without sounding like I’m being bossy or overbearing.
He lifts the glass to his lips.
I rush over and put my palm on the rim, covering the drink. “Should you be drinking that? Won’t it make you bleed more?”
“Drinking makes you bleed more?”
“Doesn’t it thin your blood or something? And what about the medication you got? And I don’t know if you should smoke, either.” I can’t help babbling. “Cigars are okay when you’re healthy, but maybe not when you’re not.”
“I don’t—”
“You know what? Why don’t I just get you something else? Like some OJ. And a few carrot sticks.” I start toward the kitchen.
He puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “I can’t smoke a carrot stick,” he says mildly. “The knife missed my lung. And vodka relaxes me. It’s good to be relaxed.”
“But the medicine—”
“I’m not taking any painkillers.”
“What?”
“I don’t like opiates.”