Ex-Treme Measures by Mickey J. Corrigan

Author:Mickey J. Corrigan [Corrigan, Mickey J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary, Suspense, Action-Adventure
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press Inc.
Published: 2015-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

A few hours later, I got ready to go to the gig at Mrs. Viscoti Premini’s. But my plans were spoiled when I couldn’t dress in my camo gear. The spot where I now had nineteen very sore stitches rubbed against the nylon mask, so I took it off. There was no way I’d be able to wear something over my face, not now. And my tight black turtleneck was out of the question, I couldn’t even get the shirt over my head without endangering my fat and tender lip.

When I talked, it sounded like I had a mouth full of grapes.

I wasn’t one for pain meds. I preferred my numbness from a bottle or a frosted mug. But the throb in my lip was incessant. And distracting, which could be dangerous while I was on the job. So, after I carefully dressed in my darkest but loosest long-sleeved T-shirt and sweats, I took a few teeny sips of the liquid pain medication I planned to use for the job. Then I popped two of the antibiotic capsules the doctor had prescribed.

The on-duty doc-in-the-box turned out to be a bespectacled girl who didn’t seem old enough to drive, never mind sew up my face. Between stitches, she advised me to watch out for infection. She also warned me not to get too close to the mating birds. Like I didn’t get that already.

I’d been badly humiliated, wounded, and stitched together by a teenager. Still, I refused to let a little pet-related injury dampen my spirits. Now I was ready to ex-terminate a bad husband for a good client. One hundred percent ready.

On my way out the front door, I gave the two love birds a wide berth. Their cooing happiness really pissed me off. When I mumbled, “Fuck you, bitch. And you, too, traitor,” neither one looked up from their mutual grooming. Was he fondling her feathers?

“Maybe you two should take this to a hotel,” I suggested, but they didn’t respond. Maybe because everything I said came out sounding like thoot, thoot. Like pebbles shot through a straw.

I left the top down on my car and started her up. Even though a slapping wind was probably not the best thing for my wound, the cool air would feel good on my face. Plus, I felt a tiny bit sleepy, the way you do after a doctor’s appointment. After a traumatic injury. After your own beloved attacks you and draws blood. Anyway, I needed the fresh air. And I wasn’t bleeding anymore. The weensie sips of pain med had made all my muscles relax. The thrumming on my face had receded. My sunburn still stung, though. And a glance in the rearview mirror confirmed it. I looked like hell.

The evening was overcast and a bit chilly, and the traffic was subdued in response. This cheered me. In fact, I felt better than I had all day. I eased the car through town and, under all the ruined skin, the lip gash, the stitches, I felt pretty damn good.

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