Chapter 4
493words
Oh yeah.
I never got my fried chicken.
That place downstairs smelled amazing. Crispy, juicy… what did it actually taste like?
I'd never had fried chicken in my whole life!
All because of Kyle, this walking jinx. Marrying him is so unlucky I can't even get fried chicken, and now I have to pay his hospital bills.
Kyle's throat moved. He watched me with intense scrutiny.
I shifted my weight against the doorframe and looked him over. Broad shoulders, long legs, solid build, sharply defined features.
Maybe I could sell him to a club? He could probably earn back the medical bills in one night.
If that doesn't work, he could pretend to be a disabled beggar on the street. Someone would take pity.
Kyle looked disgusted.
He tried to speak but broke into harsh coughing.
The doctor came in then.
She said Kyle could be discharged after a few hours' observation.
His wrist would be fine, but his stomach issues were bad. He'd vomited blood during the resuscitation.
He needed to take his meds and schedule a follow-up exam soon. She placed a bag of pill packets on the table.
Kyle gave it a weary glance, didn't even lift a hand.
Damn.
It pissed me off.
Refusing meds? Planning to keep throwing a tantrum?
Who's he performing for? Does he think the female lead will ditch her true love and rush over to comfort him?
Is he insane?
She loves the male lead. What are you to her!
Why can't you let go?
Maybe I should just stab him.
Stop all this whining.
Kyle's head snapped up. His knuckles turned white where his hands were clenched.
A moment later.
He scooted away slightly and silently swallowed the pills.
A little later, he picked up his phone, used facial recognition for a loan, and paid our hospital bills.
"If you need money urgently, there are more legitimate ways."
...
What's that supposed to mean?
Okay, okay, Mr. Ivy League Big Shot knows best, alright?
I'm just a high-school dropout punk. I know nothing, alright?
Kyle looked at me again, seemed like he wanted to say more.
I just rolled my eyes, plopped onto the couch, and started playing mobile games, ignoring him.
By the time we were cleared to leave the hospital, it was evening.
We trudged back through the muddy path to the old residential area.
Kyle said he needed a few minutes and told me to wait.
A moment later, he walked back, holding two fried chicken drumsticks.
Slowly pulled a drumstick from the bag and held it to my lips.
Fresh out of the fryer, still hot.
I froze for a few seconds.
Then I leaned down and took a big bite right from his hand.
I snatched the other drumstick from the bag, stuffed it into my pocket, and turned to walk home.
It was good.
So that's what fried chicken tastes like.
