Dead as a Doornail

get beaten up. Note to self: I should have included “shot.”
    I was released the next morning. When I went to the business office, the clerk, whose name tag read MS . BEESON , said, “It’s already been taken care of.”
    “By who?” I asked.
    “The person wishes to remain anonymous,” the clerk said, her round brown face set in a way that implied I shouldn’t look gift horses in the mouth.
    This made me uneasy, very uneasy. I actually had the money in the bank to pay the whole bill, instead of sending a check each month. And nothing comes without a price. There were some people to whom I just didn’t want to bebeholden. When I absorbed the total at the bottom of the bill, I was shocked to find how very beholden I’d be.
    Maybe I should have stayed in the office longer and argued with Ms. Beeson more forcefully, but I just didn’t feel up to it. I wanted to shower, or at least bathe—something more thorough than the high-spots scrub I’d given myself (very slowly and carefully) that morning. I wanted to eat my own food. I wanted some solitude and peace. So I got back in the wheelchair and let the aide wheel me out of the main entrance. I felt like the biggest idiot when it occurred to me that I didn’t have a way home. My car was still in the library parking lot in Bon Temps—not that I was supposed to drive it for a couple of days.
    Just as I was about to ask the aide to wheel me back inside so I could ride up to Calvin’s room (maybe Dawson could give me a lift), a sleek red Impala came to a halt in front of me. Claudine’s brother, Claude, leaned over to push open the passenger door. I sat gaping at him. He said irritably, “Well, are you going to get in?”
    “Wow,” muttered the aide. “Wow.” I thought her blouse buttons were going to pop open, she was breathing so hard.
    I’d met Claudine’s brother Claude only once before. I’d forgotten what an impact he made. Claude was absolutely breathtaking, so lovely that his proximity made me tense as a high wire. Relaxing around Claude was like trying to be nonchalant with Brad Pitt.
    Claude had been a stripper on ladies’ night at Hooligans, a club in Monroe, but lately he’d not only moved into managing the club, he’d also branched into print and runway modeling. The opportunities for such work were few and far between in northern Louisiana, so Claude (according to Claudine) had decided to compete for Mr. Romance at a romance readers’ convention. He’d even had his ears surgically altered so they weren’t pointed anymore. The big payoff wasthe chance to appear on a romance cover. I didn’t know too much about the contest, but I knew what I saw when I looked at Claude. I felt pretty confident Claude would win by acclamation.
    Claudine had mentioned that Claude had just broken up with his boyfriend, too, so he was unattached: all six feet of him, accessorized with rippling black hair and rippling muscles and a six-pack that could have been featured in Abs Weekly . Mentally add to that a pair of brown velour-soft eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a sensuous mouth with a pouty bottom lip, and you’ve got Claude. Not that I was noticing.
    Without the help of the aide, who was still saying, “Wow, wow, wow,” very quietly, I got out of the wheelchair and eased myself into the car. “Thanks,” I said to Claude, trying not to sound as astonished as I felt.
    “Claudine couldn’t get off work, so she called me and woke me up so I’d be here to chauffeur you,” Claude said, sounding totally put out.
    “I’m grateful for the ride,” I said, after considering several possible responses.
    I noticed that Claude didn’t have to ask me for directions to Bon Temps, though I’d never seen him in the area—and I think I’ve made the point that he was hard to miss.
    “How is your shoulder?” he said abruptly, as if he’d remembered that was the polite question to ask.
    “On the mend,” I said. “And I have a prescription for some painkillers to fill.”
    “So I guess you need to do that, too?”
    “Um, well, that would be nice, since I’m not supposed to drive for another day or two.”
    When we reached Bon Temps, I directed Claude to the pharmacy, where he found a parking slot right in front. I managed to get out of the car and take in the prescription, since Claude didn’t offer. The pharmacist, of course, hadheard what had happened already and wanted to know what this world was coming to. I couldn’t tell him.
    I passed the time