Pusher

thirty-three

Dozens of gruesome thoughts flashed behind my eyes as my knuckles wrapped against the front door. The inside of my skull was painted with Maverick's blood, soaking my mind with anxiety. My fingernails clicked along the plastic case of the first aid kit. I tucked it tightly against my side.

The door swung open. Maverick's lip was busted, painting the skin an even deeper red, and a small cut dashed above his right eye. Splotches of black and blue dotted down his arm, and that was only the skin that I could see. I imagined the darker marks that might lay beneath his t-shirt. Its sleeve was torn, revealing a slice of Maverick's left shoulder.

I released the breath I'd been holding, most of my anxiety slipping out along with it. He was in pretty rough shape, but it wasn't nearly as bad as what I had conjured up in my mind.

He tugged the first aid kit from my grip, skipping any form of greeting. Adrenaline still buzzed through him, cloaking his mind in a frenzy. He stalked back into the house, dropping the kit on the table. He pushed through it impatiently. His hands were shaking.

It wasn't until I caught sight of Ducky and Solomon's figures in the fluorescent glow of the kitchen light that I realized that the kit wasn't for Maverick.

Solomon sat with white knuckles gripping the chair back, his teeth grinding together. His bloodied shirt was discarded somewhere along the floor, revealing the gash that cut deep into his arm. Ducky was doing everything he could to slow the bleeding, ruining his mother's dish towels in the process.

"Where's the stuff for stitches?" Maverick asked, his voice sharp. His words broke me from my trance. I stopped gawking at Sol's wound and met his eyes.

"I don't have anything for stitches."

"Of course, you're friggin' useless." He threw the supplies to the side and stalked back into the kitchen, muttering to himself, "What a surprise."

"Mav, he needs to go to a hospital," I said, but it was as if I hadn't even spoken at all. He was still scrambling around the kitchen, throwing open cupboard doors in his search. I latched onto his arm and forced him to face me. "Maverick, he could—"

"Either leave or stay out of my goddamn way." His voice was acidic, striking me right down to my bones. I stood there frozen while he turned back to the boys.

Maverick pushed a half-empty bottle of vodka into Sol's hand, who took it without question. He tilted his head back and gulped a large mouthful, cringing as it burned all the way down his throat.

They looked like three boys who were about to do something incredibly stupid.

"Ducky, go get some thread."

The larger boy snapped up his head, irritation thick in his voice. "Do I look like I fricken sew to you? We don't have any thread. You're lucky I found that needle."

"Then how the hell are we supposed to close this up?" Maverick shot back. For a moment I thought the two of them were going to start duking it out right there in the kitchen next to their bleeding friend.

"Fishing line," I blurted. The three of them looked back at me all at once, matching looks of surprise written into their faces. My mind was already reeling in a million directions, hardly even present enough to register their shock.

I took the liquor bottle from Sticks and lathered some of it onto my hands, rubbing them together before they slid into place to put pressure over Solomon's wound. My sudden confidence must have elicited something in Ducky because he let me without question.

"I told you to leave," Maverick said. The muscles on his arm were taut and his back was rigid, but I didn't let that discourage me.

"Hey, have you done this before?" I looked up at him, stone faced. Whether he liked it or not, he needed me right now.