Never Been Kissed(10)

By: C.M Kars

Better make the drive under ten minutes.

I make it in eight and a half.

I slam the brakes, haul up the emergency brake in case someone decides to tow us before I get Hunter’s ass fully in and registered in Emergency. Turning, I see Matty trying to undo his million and two straps surrounding his little body. I turn off the car, grab my purse, and haul ass to his side of the car.

My hands shake as I try to get the snaps undone, helping him as much as I can. When he’s free, he keeps a hold of the back of my shirt as I get Hunter’s passenger door open. I heave Hunt’s legs out, pulling my back, and have to smack his face a few times to get him awake and lucid. I don’t think he sees me, but I’m hoping his body is on automatic enough to listen.

“Ma’am you can’t park here-” A security guard has Hunter’s door in hand ready to close it on his feet.

“Does he look okay to YOU?” I yell, pulling on Hunter’s arms to get him out of the way. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him! Do something useful and get him a wheelchair! Get him inside!”I screech, sounding like a lunatic. I don’t care. Now’s not the time for stupid questions and dumb rules.

The guard gets high up on his authority horse, puffing out his chest.

“Look, there’s something wrong with him. Get me a wheelchair. We need to get him inside. NOW.”

Tweedle-Dee stares at me long and hard. Long enough to make a point. Long enough to waste time and for Matty to lose it.

“My Daddy is SICK! HELP HIM!” Matty howls, winding his fists into the back of my shirt. The hideous sound that comes out his mouth makes me want to cover my ears, and hide in a corner.

“Help me get him out. Hurry!” I yell.

It takes three orderlies to get Hunter out of the car. Three of them to bark questions at me that I don’t have the answers to.

Matty trembles beside me, tears leaving shining tracks down his cheeks. I don’t know what to tell him; I don’t know what I can say. When my blank face doesn’t give the nurses any answers, Matty pipes up: “Insulin-dependent diabetic.”

These words work like magic. Nurses start yelling at one another, orderlies rearrange Hunter’s limbs quicker on the chair. There’s a fire underneath their asses, that fire is knowledge. They know how to help him. Why didn’t I think of that? I could’ve just checked his sugar, and given him what he needed. It’s not like I didn’t know what to do, my Mom’s a diabetic.

My knees threaten to buckle as the could-have-beens crash over me. Adrenaline has left my body and I have the shakes. I see the security guard that reamed me out before come stomping my way. I shake my head at him, teeth chattering, body quivering.

God. Hunter could have died. What about Matty? What would have happened to him? And I wanted to run away, hide in my apartment. Fuck. What a coward. I disgust myself. And all the shit that my family’s ever said about me – about being useless, a coward, fat and disgusting. I nearly proved them right today.

I look down at Matty. His dark hair and bright blue eyes stare deep into mine like he understands all the crazy thoughts in my brain. Hell, maybe he does. Is that why he asked if Hunter was tired? Is that a code word for a sugar-low or -high?

He looks up at me, grabs a hold of my hand. “My Daddy’s gonna be okay. He always says so.” For his sake, I hope Hunter wasn’t lying. He has to be okay, if only for me to kick his giant sexy ass and kill him.

I nod at Matty, sniff back a wad of snot. I wipe my cheeks hard enough to make them smart, and get him in the car. I do as the security guard told me to do. I get out of the emergency drive-up reserved for ambulances and get a space, stuffing the slip in my purse.

Matty slips his hand in mine, giving my fingers a squeeze when I should be the one doing the comforting. With some sort of sick conviction, I end up believing the kid. Hunter’s going to be okay; he’s going to be okay.


“YOU!” I jump in my seat in the waiting room, dislodging Matty from my chest. The little guy wakes up with a sleepy snuffle, and a jaw-cracking yawn. A lady gets up in my face, invading my personal bubble with a stench of Burberry perfume, those huge Chanel glasses that make girls look like bugs, and a Louis Vuitton bag tucked in the corner of her elbow. She’s a walking advertisement for the size of her wallet.

“You little harlot! What have you done to my boy?” If the glasses weren’t covering half her face, I could probably tell that Hunter’s her son.

“And why are you holding my grandson? Give him to me!” Her she-claws are painted in papaya or some wacky color name like that, extended out like talons when her hands try to snake around Matty’s ribcage.

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