House Rules

Recovery

My shit busted, Erik frowned frustrated as he sat looking through the rearview mirror in the Wawa parking lot. He hated this part of the job. Though he could take a hit and it wasn't his first, second, or third time getting shot, he didn't like the feeling of being dependent on someone else for help, even with a wound. Getting severely injured was always a risk but he preferred dealing with things on his own. Aside from that, he didn't trust hospitals. He probably needed surgery again but definitely not in Texas. Sighing, he decided to swallow his pride for the umpteenth time to go ahead and call the man he always went to when he got shot, stabbed, or had something bad happen to him that he couldn't completely fix in his own with a needle, some Tylenol, and time.

Dr. Charles. He had the equipment and resources and made private trips. He also knew Erik personally from his military days. On top of that, he was a proud Nigerian and didn't ask for specifics of Erik's dealings, deciding that it was best for him not to know so that he stayed out of it. Erik trusted him more because of it.

"Yellow," Charles answered on the first ring. Erik's eyes rolled. The man was in his sixties and it showed.

"Sup Chief. My leg's busted again. I'm a fly to you-"

"No no," he spoke forcefully. "If you're bleeding you must contain it. You will stay down and rest! Keep your leg elevated. Have you wrap-"

"Yea yea... it's in a tourniquet," Erik sighed. He felt like a child being fussed at by an elder.

"Where are you?! Drive to the nearest hospital and give them my information! I'll take care of it. We will bring you in and I will take a look."

"Or I could just-"

"No!" It was absolute. Erik's mouth set in a straight line. Charles reminded him a lot of his father. No one else could talk to him like that. "You pay me too much to be abandoned! Eh? Let us help," he insists kissing his teeth. Erik had no retort. He stared through the mirrors silently biting his thumbnail.

"Bet."

---

"Alřiiight," you sing listening to Erik's 'Necessary' playlist in the background. Moving around has warmed you up despite the fact that his A/C is pumping. Shake the Room with Pop Smoke and Quavo plays, the vocalizations in the background sounding like a lowkey creepy chant a secretly possessed Tebetian monk would do. You switch to some song called Kalifornia and climb the stairs to toss the cleaning rag into laundry taking your phone from its charger. "Downstairs is officially spotless... and sanitizzzed," you gasp to the walls as you stretch backwards feeling that sweet pull and release of tension in your back and shoulders. When you head back down, the entire bottom level smells like coconut mango, lysol, and tea tree oil mixed. "Mmm," you sigh having inhaled deep to smell the goodness. It was fresh. "That good shit," you chuckle.

Again, it feels so, so good to be in this house in the clear brightness of daytime. It's calm, spacious, and beautiful like a retreat or vacation home. You can go completely nude and feel at ease, alone with no one peeping at you in a private space. You can look outside and not feel as nervous in stepping out to the driveway. So you do just that.. proudly in the nude to feel the heat on your skin. It's still hot and muggy with the sun beating down so you head back into the A/C deciding to hit the hot tub instead.

"Oh my God," you nearly cry with a homemade smoothie in hand as you chill in heated water, the bottom of your fro soaked and hanging on your shoulders as you sit butt naked and slumped. "I'm never leaving this house... this is officially MY house now..."

It's an entire hour later when you dry off, as relaxed as Katt Williams' hair on a good day. You head through the lower level again before going back upstairs. You can't help but to be nosey looking again through his rooms and belongings. Where is the kink? This is ridiculous! It's all too simplistic... minimalistic. It's just weird... For someone who lives as boldly as Erik does to have no evidence of it anywhere. It seems sneaky and bizarre. You wonder why he hasn't accumulated a house of unique knickknacks. Maybe a toy drawer? Even you have a toy drawer. Alas, the craziest things you find are six different bongs, an ugly tie dyed pair of shorts that are way too short, a keyboard piano, and boxers printed with Obama's face. He's really good at hiding his deviance. "I bet it's all in that lil room," you mutter heading to the locked door. You try the knob again thinking of using a credit card to get in. Whether it actually works you're not sure.. and you don't want to mess up your card. You'd bet good money that everything you wonder about is behind that door.