Savage Code by R. A. McGee

Author:R. A. McGee [McGee, R. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Darewood Press
Published: 2019-05-11T04:00:00+00:00

Thirty-One

The late-morning sun knifed through a slit in the blackout shade, stabbing Porter in the eyes. He rolled over to escape it, only to find a new place on his face that hurt. He’d been up and down most of the night.

In reality, he hated rum. The taste and the texture. With every sip last night, he’d known he was condemning himself to a morning hangover. He much preferred vodka, as the clear liquor never left him a wreck in the morning.

The problem was, his face was killing him. He was puffy and swollen from the beating Harsh had given him, and he’d known it would be a tough night of sleep as soon as he’d left the warehouse.

So he’d drunk the rum.

Sitting up in bed, he first saw his pillow, stained pink from blood. Then he saw Rivera, tucked underneath the comforter.

Once she’d finished chiding him for looking up her dress, the pair had polished off the rum and the food. Porter had announced he was going to bed. Rivera said it was hers and he couldn't have it. He reminded her that once he fell asleep, there was no chance she could move him, and started toward the bed.

In the end, they’d shared. Rivera changed into a more modest outfit for sleeping and climbed into the bed. Porter had debated retrieving his spray can of Lysol and drowning the entire room, as he usually did, but he couldn’t muster the energy. He peeled his bloody shirt off and slept on top of the comforter.

There was no reason to slide beneath it.

Now, the morning hangover was too real, and the pressure in his bladder couldn’t wait any longer. He walked into the bathroom and relieved himself, washed his hands, and filled up the ice bucket with water.

Then he dropped it on the still-sleeping Rivera.

She shot out of bed, panting and gasping, her thick curls matted alongside her face. “What the… what the hell!”

“Payback,” Porter said with a smile.

They squabbled with each other until she disappeared for a shower, and Porter ordered down for room-service breakfast.

He sat on the couch, face throbbing, broken hand pounding.

Porter put his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back. Sleep hadn’t helped his situation much. He still had no idea where Royce Michelson was. He still had no plan to force Osito to tell him.

Shooting the casino boss had been a two-edged sword. On the one hand, it had made Porter feel better. Much better. On the other, there was no chance that the man hadn’t circled his wagons, to keep himself safe while he was recuperating.

Which was the problem. There was no telling where Osito was, if he was even out of the hospital. At some point, Porter figured, there would be some sort of surgery on the man’s leg. He could be in a hospital in surgery, or at his house with a cast on, doped up on painkillers and waiting for the swelling to go down. Maybe the doctors were stalling for time while they decided on a course of treatment.

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