Whitewashed

One of Us

Chapter 9: One of Us

"Ozzie?" a tortured moan floats down the hall.

"She's in here!" POGs calls out almost giddily.

I would have responded, but my teeth are clenched, keeping back the scream, some of which had leaked out as soon as the sharp pinching feelings began.

"Is she alright?" Haz continues to press for information, his voice getting nearer as he likely staggers down the hall.

"She's just getting' a tattoo," POGs rolls his eyes, waving off his friend's concern as Haz swings the door open. At first, I am set on trying to ignore him and instead concentrate on the excruciating pain near my rib cage, but it is impossible NOT to look at the guy.

Even in the haze of pain, I can still see he is pretty beat up.

In fact, if I have to put a description to it, Haz looks like he had been in a bar fight- the hangover part of the package included. His skin is more bruised than skin color and one of his eyes looks puffier than the last time I saw him. Maybe it's also the lighting. After all, I have only been able to assess him in darkness up until now.

His eyes warily scan over the scene, clearly taking in my partially undressed figure.

Instead of making a joke, which is what POGs probably expects, Haz simply gives a grunt of displeasure. His face twitches, muscles around his shoulders and upper arms bunching, and he pushes himself away from the doorframe he had been leaning on, going back to the Irishman's room.

The pinching in my side stops momentarily and the room gets relatively quiet.

POGs lets out a low whistle, "Wow. Dat was a bit..."

"Heavy," Little Man finishes for him.

"Yeah, what's goin' on 'tween you and Haz?" the blond looks at me, my eyes still narrowed because of the pain.

But the sting is lessened as something occurs to me. Haz heard me scream and pretty much came running- or whatever the injured man's equivalent is to that is. He thought I was in danger and he still... I take my bottom lip between my teeth and bite hard, dispelling the thought.

"I'll tell you later," I reply through my teeth as Tats continues his work of art.

Speaking of work, it does occur to me that my shift starts in a matter of hours and this will probably hurt terribly. I try and push this to the back of my mind. Like I usually do, I decide that I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

Approximately an hour later, I exit the room with a (hopefully sterile) bandage on my side. While Little Man stays behind, POGs follows me, playfully resting his elbow on my shoulder, but thankfully and probably purposefully avoiding any sore part of my body, "You really don't want to see the tattoo?"

"No," my face twitches in displeasure.

"C'mon. It's jus' like right THERE-" he picks at the hem of my shirt, but I am able to smack him away.

After he's done cackling like a crow, during which time I simply cross my arms and wait, he asks, "So Ozzie, up for a little adventure?"

That's never a good sign.

I glare at him, "Depends. I have work today, remember?"

"Yeah, but I have t' go check the power an' I don't like goin' alone," he says this in a small, comically whiny voice.

"You don't like going alone," I repeat matter-of-factly, though it's also a question.

"Nope," he pops the 'p.' "Haz usually goes with me but..."