Free Even Villains Have Interns by Liana Brooks

bleeding into
the snow and you feel bad about seeing his undies?”
    She turned to Freddie for help. He was laughing
at her too. “Shut up! This is not enthusiastic consent! I don’t
want to... molest him.”
    “Just shut your eyes,” Freddie said. “I’m
genderless, no reproductive organs, so I can’t molest anyone.
Right?”
    “Right.” She shut her eyes firmly. No peeking
allowed.
    “What kind of underwear is that?”
    Ha! She peeked. “Those are running
shorts.”
    “Fond of black, isn’t he.”
    “Shut up and put the pants on him. And,” she
said, noticing the bandage was soaking through, “get him some more
gauze.”
    “Someone is going to notice he’s stripped and
treated. Shouldn’t we... You know... Leave him for the
doctors?”
    “Gauze!” She pulled the soaked dressing away. A
hard lump gleamed sullenly in the cab-light. “His body expelled the
bullet. That’s good, right?”
    “Coming up on the hospital,” Hudson said.
“There’s two police cruisers at the ER door and an ambulance
unloading.”
    “Pull up, we’ll push him out on the far side so
they don’t see in. Freddie, you better switch with Hudson when we
slow down, we’ll need to evade like the very devil was on our
tail.”
    “Ya think?”
    “Less snark, more minioning!”
    Freddie snorted.
    Hudson slowed the car. “Switch... now!”
    Freddie threw the door open, helped Delilah
shove Alan Adale into the snowdrift, and hopped into the seat
Hudson was hastily vacating. They sped off, leaving the alderman
bleeding in the dirty snow.
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
     
    Dear Daddy,
     
    Freddie says he needs more pants. His
measurements are attached. Don’t ask. Just... don’t ask.
    D
     
    Bright sunlight was obstructed by the blocky
body of Detective Morrow. Alan turned away and tried to make sense
of the pain. Machines. Beeping. Squeaking wheels. Nothing he
associated with home.
    “How are you feeling?” the detective asked.
    “Sore. Confused. Um... This is a hospital, isn’t
it?”
    “John H. Stroger Junior,” Morrow confirmed.
    Alan nodded and instantly regretted it. Bright
lights twinkled in his vision, gradually fading to black spots.
“Home sweet home. I wonder if the nurse who named me still works
downstairs.” He blinked the last of the spots away and found
Detective Morrow’s eyes. “Pertinent question, why am I here?”
    “Someone shot you.”
    “What?”
    Morrow sat down beside the hospital bed. “Last
night, around eleven thirty, you were shot outside your home.”
    “Shot? In Chicago? No. No, no-no. We have the
lowest incident of gun crime in the country. People do not get—”
His words slurred. What was in that IV? “People do not get,
shot,” he enunciated clearly.
    “Uh-huh. How you planning on explaining the
bullet hole that ripped your side open?”
    Alan looked down at his aching right side.
“Um...”
    “You were shot.” A notebook appeared as if by
magic.
    “Cute trick.”
    “I do parties,” Morrow said, pulling a pen out
of his jacket pocket. “Now, what do you remember about last
night?”
    A cluttered mess of colors and shapes gabbled
for attention in his mind. “There was a—” Not a girl, couldn’t say
girl, that sounded too young “—a woman. At the apartment. We
talked.” Flirted. Most assuredly flirted. “We talked.”
    “Do you remember what you talked about?”
    Lock picks. “Stuff.”
    “And did she have a gun?”
    “No. No.” He shook his head against the pain.
“She didn’t hurt me.” The fragments of the night before started
piecing themselves together. Locke in the hall with her steampunk
gear. Flirting. An elevator. A man? Probably a man, stepping out of
the elevator with a gun. “How did I get here?” he whispered to
himself.
    Morrow leaned forward. “What?”
    “How did I get here?” Alan asked, louder. “I
don’t remember that part.”
    The detective cleared his throat and pulled out
an electronic file pad. “According to the nine-one-one