Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5) Read online

  Scott’s appointments were straightforward for the most part. He took Martin from room to room, working with patients who’d undergone surgeries, or had been laid up for too long. Some appeared to know Scott, while for others it was clearly their first appointment with the PT—and some of those had been waiting for up to a year to get in.

  “We’re understaffed,” Scott explained when Martin asked if that was normal.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to hire more PTs then, rather than interns?” Martin wondered.

  Scott laughed. “Yep. By all means, write a letter to our senators. I do once a month. It’s just a form letter. I print it off, sign it, mail it, and someone on Capitol Hill probably tosses it in a really nice wastebasket.”

  It became apparent very quickly that Scott’s optimism was largely manufactured. And poorly, at that.

  “Who’s next?” Martin asked almost eight hours after he’d arrived.

  Scott ignored his eagerness entirely. “Coulson, Taggart. Room 18. Then I’m done. I’ll hand you off to Walters.”

  “Walters?” Martin shook his head. “Sorry, how long am I here for?”

  “Possibly the rest of your life,” Scott sighed.

  Martin blinked and had to jog to catch up with the grumpy PT. “Wait, did you say Taggart Coulson?”

  “I read it from a schedule,” Scott corrected him, and took a turn around a corner.

  “Is he, like, about six something, black hair, gray eyes—”

  “I haven’t met him,” Scott sighed. “He’s getting fitted for a leg, this is just a meet and greet. Lay down the law. Some of these guys, especially the amputees are a little —” he waved a finger at his temple “—squirrelly. Don’t like being told what to do by civvies.”

  Martin bit the inside of his cheek and pushed down the instinct to tell Scott not to be an insensitive dick.

  Taggart Coulson? No. What were the chances? He’d been in JROTC, though. Not that much of a leap to active duty, right?

  He kept some pretty awful memories off in the distance, right up until he followed Scott through the door.

  It was him—Taggart Coulson. He was bigger now. That much was definitely true. Muscled and lean. He looked older than his twenty three years, and Martin could easily see why. Tag, his friends called him. Not Martin. Martin had not been his friend.

  Martin had been Taggart’s victim for all four years of high school.

  Taggart looked up, stared at Martin for a long moment as recognition dawned.

  “Fuck me,” Taggart muttered. “Marty?”

  “Yo! Marty! Marty Weiner!”

  Martin clutched his backpack straps and closed his eyes to steel himself as Taggart Coulson sauntered toward him. He cleared his throat and turned around—it was better to see Tag coming than to let him come up from behind. “Hey . . . Tag.”

  Taggart closed on him. No one around them so much as looked in Martin’s direction. They wouldn’t, of course. What were they going to do?

  Tag stopped in front of Martin, and plucked at his backpack strap. “Jesus, you’ve had the same backpack since you were in, what, sixth grade? Harry Potter is for queers—you know that, right?”

  “Must be,” Martin sighed. “What do you want, Tag?”

  “Careful,” Tag said quietly. “Watch your tone. This is just a friendly chat.”

  It was hard to believe that, so Martin didn’t. But he tried to smile anyway. If he pretended that Taggart wasn’t here to harass him, it was easier. “I’m gonna be late for fourth period. Can’t this wait till after school?”

  “No,” Tag said, “it can’t. I need you to take something to Paul, he’s got Lit with you. Sits a few desks back.”

  Martin tensed, and glanced around them. He knew what Taggart wanted him to take Paul. “I can’t, Tag. I’m sorry—I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  Taggart’s faux-friendly demeanor vanished and he invaded Martin’s space like an avalanche, driving Martin against the wall in just a few steps. “I can make things really, really bad for you, faggot. Right now you’re off limits because I say so. You’re mine, but if you don’t like being my bitch, then I’ll gladly step aside. Hunt and Booz wanted to toss you in the fucking dumpster just a few days ago and your good friend Tag was the one that stepped in and told them they needed to leave his little faggot alone.”

  There was no way to know if any of that was true or not but the fact was, Taggart was the only kid in school that gave Martin any shit and Willow’s End was not a friendly place to gay kids even if Martin wasn’t actually out. He wasn’t a thick skulled meat head, and that was close enough for most people.

  Martin shook his head quickly, almost more of a spasm than a gesture. “No, I . . . look, I just can’t get caught with anything, Tag. I could get expelled.”

  “Would I let that happen?” Taggart asked. “Don’t you trust me, Marty?”

  “I —”

  “Say that you trust me,” Tag growled. He put a hand on Martin’s chest and pressed. He leaned in until Martin could smell his breath.

  It was enough to make it hard for Martin to inhale.

  “Say that you trust me, Marty,” Tag repeated, quieter, closer, his nose close to Martin’s.

  “I — trust you,” Martin managed.

  The pressure on his chest lessened but didn’t go away.

  “Just for good measure,” Taggart muttered, “tell me how much you like being my own personal bitch.”

  “Tag, I’ll do it okay? Just —”

  “Say. It.” Tag growled.

  If they were here long enough, a teacher or one of the administration would walk by. They’d finally take Martin seriously if they saw this for themselves.

  That was a gamble that Martin didn’t care to make. Taggart had never actually hit him before — but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t. The last thing Martin wanted was to find out.

  “I like it,” Martin whispered.

  “No, no,” Tag said, wagging a finger. “All of it.”

  Martin swallowed, and struggled for a moment to get out from under Tag’s hand, but the pressure returned — pinning him against the wall like a bug.

  Tag stared him down, nostrils flaring, his jaw bulging. Tense muscles in his arm vibrated into Martin’s chest.

  “I —fine, Tag,” Martin wheezed. “Okay. I — like being your —own personal bitch.”

  Taggart snorted, and shoved something into Martin’s pocket. “Good. Make sure Paul gets this. And don’t get caught.”

  Martin nodded and waited until Tag was out of sight to finally take a full breath. He reached down to feel the outline of a small baggie, probably pot. His knees felt weak, and a cold lump of ice congealed around his stomach. His heart wouldn’t slow down.

  He hated Taggart. And he hated that he couldn’t bring himself to at least show the bigger boy more . . . spine, or attitude, or something that didn’t make him feel like such a wimp.

  Worst of all, though, Martin hated the fact that he had to take his backpack off and carry it in front of his pants to fourth period, to hide what Taggart did to him, and that it took almost all of fourth period before the evidence went away.

  4

  Marty Warner, Taggart thought, his stomach twisting around the recognition. He flinched away from the nurse trying to fit his leg, and she gave an irritated sigh. Of all the sons of bitches they could have saddled me with, it had to be him?

  “Hi, Tag,” Marty sighed. He dropped his eyes to the floor. “It’s, ah . . . Martin.”

  Huh. And he grew at least half a spine in four years. Good for him. Taggart bobbed his head once. “Sure. The hell you doing here?”

  “You two know each other?” The PT asked. Which begged the question—why all these fucking people were in the room for one stupid peg leg.

  “It’s fine, Scott,” Martin said. “We went to school together.”

  “You my PT?” Taggart asked, drawing attention back to the man with one goddamned leg for just a second. “They said they were go
nna set me up, but I can figure this thing out at home.”

  “I’m Scott Klein, Mister Coulson,” Scott said, extending a hand but with a face that said he didn’t give a shit if Taggart shook it or not.

  Taggart didn’t. “Okay, Mister Klein. I don’t need physical therapy. I managed the last leg on my own. So, you two can go find some other sob story and do whatever it is you do.”

  “Physical therapy is a mandatory part of the prosthesis program,” Scott said.

  “The VA can’t secure funding for the prosthetic leg unless you go through with it,” Martin said.

  Taggart glared at him. “Yeah, Martin, I know what the fuck ‘mandatory’ means.”

  “Great,” Scott said. “Then it’s settled. Martin’s an intern here, working on his practicals for a PT license. He’ll handle most of your day to day therapy, and me or one of the other licensed PTs will drop in once a week to see how you’re going.”

  “Hang on,” Taggart said. He swatted the hands of the nurse trying to get his leg secured away. “Can you just lay off me for a fucking minute, lady?”

  The nurse didn’t look all that worried but she took her hands off and busied herself with a chart. Taggart shifted on the edge of the bed so that his ass wasn’t so numb. He waved at Martin. “So I don’t even get a real PT? You just saddle me with whoever’s handy?”

  Scott flipped through pages in a file distractedly. “Warner’s been through school,” he said. “And he passed his prelims. I’ll give him the set of exercises; he’s just here to make sure you meet compliance and don’t injure yourself.”

  The PT closed the file and looked up. “You want to walk on two legs or not?”

  “Let me take this to the tech,” the nurse broke in as she bent to remove the ill-fitted leg from Taggart’s thigh. “It’s not fitted right. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Taggart swallowed when she removed the prosthetic leg—which looked damn close to the real thing, except it was all plastic and aluminum. Even the lower portion of the leg had some kind of covering on it to make it look like a calf muscle, almost. The only part that stuck out was the knee joint. Better than the cheap ass leg they’d given him before at least.

  Martin’s eyes went to Taggart’s stump, and Taggart wanted to cover it up.

  “Fine,” Taggart said as the nurse left, and settled on Scott to ignore Martin’s scrutiny. “Whatever. How long?”

  “Six weeks minimum,” Scott said. “I’ll send in Doc Shelton to get your signature on the PT order.”

  Scott turned to leave, and Martin moved to follow until Scott stopped him. “Just hang here and get an initial subjective assessment for the chart.”

  “Oh,” Martin said. “Sure, of course.”

  Scott left Martin and Taggart alone.

  Martin’s jaw tensed as he looked over his clipboard.

  “You can say it if you want,” Taggart grunted.

  “I don’t have anything to say,” Martin said quietly. “I need to get this filled out. Where do you currently experience pain?”

  “Where do you think?” Taggart asked, and lifted the remnant of his leg a little.

  “Phantom limb pain,” Martin said. “That’s natural. It’ll go away.”

  Taggart snorted and watched Martin scribble on the form he was looking at. “Yeah. That’s what they said. Hasn’t gotten much better, though.”

  “The prosthetic will help,” Martin said, a little more confident but not much. He was staring too hard at his clipboard. “Where else do you have pain?”

  “I was a dick to you in high school,” Taggart said. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I got what was coming to me?”

  Martin’s eyes snapped up under a wrinkled forehead, frowning. “What? Jesus —no, of course I don’t think that, Taggart. Look, I just have a job to do, okay? So just tell me where it hurts. It’s important, we need this stuff so Scott can figure out what—”

  “Everything fucking hurts,” Taggart growled. When Martin gave him another pity-filled look, he sighed. “The . . . front of my thigh—my quads—hurt. Goes up into the hip, on the side, here.” He pointed.

  Martin nodded slowly, looked back at his chart and started drawing on it.

  “My back, too,” Taggart went on. “Pretty much from top to tail.”

  “More on the left or right?” Martin asked.

  “My right,” Taggart said.

  Martin pursed his lips as he made more notations. After a second he looked up. “Anything else?”

  “My . . . the good leg hurts,” Taggart said. He looked away from Martin. He hadn’t been joking—everything seemed to hurt, now. Pain was just a daily condition of life as far as he could tell.

  “The new prosthesis is Otto Bock,” Martin said. “It should be — you know, more comfortable. Better balanced.”

  “For the money they put into defense you’d think they could whip me up a cyborg leg,” Taggart muttered.

  “Look,” Martin said gently, like Taggart was some fucking little kid about to be told he had cancer. “This will be hard, and it will probably hurt worse before it feels better. But a lot of people get through physical therapy and it changes their lives. We’ll work on making the leg an extension of you—”

  “Don’t call it a fucking leg,” Taggart snapped. “And don’t talk down to me like some make-a-wish kid. I’m a god damned Marine. You think I give a shit about some aches and pains? Boo-fucking-hoo. Life’s not all comfort and rainbows and birthday cake. Don’t patronize me, Marty. And don’t you fucking give me your sorry ass pity. Makes me fucking sick.”

  Martin was quiet.

  Before either of them could speak again, old Doc Shelton came in, towing the nurse with Taggart’s prosthetic. “Alright, Private,” the doctor rumbled. “I got your forms. Put your John Hancock down here.”

  “I, ah, got what I needed,” Martin said. “I’ll take the notes to the desk to get them filed, so . . .”

  “Sure,” Doc Shelton said dismissively, not looking up.

  Taggart watched Martin slink out of the room like a beaten thing. He was still angry, but somewhere underneath it, some part of him threw stinging judgement up from the depths.

  Well. Whatever. Better to make sure no one got too invested in him anyway.

  5

  That was only the start to Martin’s day. By the time it was over, he’d been on call for over twelve hours and desperately needed to decompress.

  “God, you look like shit,” Colton said when Martin finally met him at a nearby dive bar for a drink. Colton was a former one-night-stand who’d turned into a friend when they’d both decided that, absent the alcohol which had brought them together, they weren’t quite one another's’ types.

  Martin narrowed his eyes at Colton and chuckled quietly. “This is why we’re friends,” he said. “Self-esteem.”

  Colton grinned. “I’m always here to help. So, how was it? As bad as it looks?”

  “That depends,” Martin said. “Does it look like I’ve been put through a meat grinder?”

  “Sort of,” Colton agreed.

  Martin rolled his eyes. “Then, yes — it was as bad as it looks.”

  Colton pushed a pint toward Martin, and then raised his own. “Well, then — to exciting new careers and unmet expectations. Tell me all about it.”

  Their glasses clinked heavily and they drank before Martin let all his frustrations out.

  “For the most part, it was the staff that got under my skin,” Martin said after he got some of it out. “The patients weren’t too bad. I think Scott’s just jaded from having done it so long, and Walter I think would rather be working in the private sector, but honestly? I think he’s just not that good at his job.”

  “What, you mean the VA isn’t attracting top talent with its incredible pay and benefits?” Colton asked.

  Martin sniffed, and shook his head. “Go figure, right? I mean — I get it, kind of. I wouldn’t have even applied if it wasn’t for Keith.”

  “Y
eah,” Colton said quietly. “How’re you doing on that front? Being around all these vets?”

  Martin shrugged. “I mean . . . most of the people I worked with are a lot older than he was when . . . when he died.” It was still hard to say. Maybe it always would be. “But — oh, I did see someone I knew. That was . . . stressful.”

  “Who?” Colton asked.

  Martin waved down the bartender for a second round, which he promised silently would be his last. “Did I ever tell you about Taggart Coulson?”

  Colton shook his head.

  “Right,” Martin sighed. “So when I was a freshman in high school, I sat down at lunch with my friend Lydia, and I guess it was where Taggart and his buddies liked to sit. He told us to move and I, at first, didn’t want to and, well, if you knew Lydia — she’s a firecracker. And I guess it just put me on the guy’s radar. But the thing is, he was like — painfully hot. So we moved because I didn’t want to get into it, but later during the same lunch he saw me staring at him and I guess he thought I was, like, challenging him or something.”

  “Discovery Channel style,” Colton said sagely. “The asshole in his natural habitat. So did you like, fuck him or something?”

  “Hah!” Martin gave a dramatic shudder. “No. He found me in the hallway later and pushed me up against a locker—”

  “And put his tongue in your mouth,” Colton said.

  “—and called me a faggot and told me to keep my eyes to myself,” Martin finished. “There was no sexy side to any of it.”

  “Eesh,” Colton breathed. “Is that it, though?”

  “No,” Martin said, “not at all. I guess he took a shine to me, because for the rest of my high school days he was just on me, constantly. A couple of times I thought he might really hurt me. He’d ambush me in the bathrooms, or flip my tray at lunch, and all sorts of awesome douche-baggery. And he almost got me expelled once, nearly ruined my whole life.”

  Colton’s face darkened but he held his tongue until the bartender brought their drinks. When she’d gone, they cheered more somberly a second time. “So,” he said afterward, “are you working with him? Is he like some crazy successful doctor or something? That always happens to people like that. There’s no justice.”