Free Coin-Operated Machines by Alan Spencer Page B

him.  Don't you feel stupid he didn't fight back? The fact you wanted him to hit you disturbs me.  Brock's trying harder than you are.  He knows you don't like him, but he still wants you to like him."
    Brock spoke up .  "Wait, you two, just hold on.  Brandy, can we start over?  From scratch.  I'll make you a deal.  You write up a contract.  Have a notary sign it.  If I ever relapse, I lose Hannah.  I'll sign it.  I swear to you."
    The deal caused them both to go quiet. 
    "Hannah means that much to me.  No drugs.  Ever.  Two years, I've made it with your sister.  We're the perfect team.  We love each other.  You only know the bad parts of me, Brandy.  Give me a chance.  I'll keep trying no matter how many times you kick my ass."
    Brandy mulled it over.  She wasn't impressed with Brock, but his offer stuck true in her mind.  "Okay, Brock, you've got a deal.  You stay sober, or I kick your ass to the curb."
    "Can I add one stipulation to the contract?"
    Brandy's eyes were coal black.  She waited for his request.
    "Please don't kick me in the balls like that again.  They're still lodged in my throat as we speak."
     
    * * *
    In the ER room, Hannah winced every time the nurse's aide wiped around Brock's gash, the pink slot of open skin that was half an inch wide.  Hannah had to bite her fist when the doctor administered twelve stitches to close it up.  Brock's shirt was covered in dried blood, what had dried into a dull brown-orange color.  His ribs and stomach swelled with ache. He'd have a collection of ripe bruises. 
    Dr. Mihn asked him, "How did this happen again?"
    "I, uh," Brock trailed off, scrounging for an excuse.  "I fell down the stairs.  Wild party.  The old man needs to calm down."
    "Yes, he does," the Asian doctor said, disapproving of his reply.  "Well, you'll be fine.   Let the stitches heal.  In four weeks, come back to get them taken out.  You'll have a mean battle scar."
    You said it, Doc.  A battle scar.
    Hannah stepped up to Dr. Mihn.  "So he's fine then?"
    "Shipshape beyond a few bruises.  The old man is no worse for the wear."
    After receiving the treatment, they walked out of the emergency room, and Brandy waited outside with her head in her hands.  He wasn't sure what to expect.  She glanced up at them when they approached her.  She rose to her feet, and Brock sized her up.  He didn't feel anger.  He only wished for an honest chance to win her over. 
    After a moment of drawn out silence, Brandy walked up to Brock.  He went stiff, but when she pulled him in for a hug, he hugged her back.  She whispered to him, "I'm sorry, Brock.  Hannah's right.  You didn't deserve that."
    "But you feel better, though.  Be honest.  Come on.  You liked punching out my lights.  Mopping up the floor with me.  Exchanging fisticuffs."
    Brandy laughed without meaning to, and said, "Rearranging your face."
    "Throwing me under the bus."
    "Cleaning your clock."
    "Knuckle sandwich delivery."
    Hannah stepped in between them, "Enough."
    Brock extended his hand to Brandy.  "Clean slate?"
    Brandy conceded.  "As long as you don't press charges, yes, clean slate."
    Brock led them out into the parking lot and back to the car.  "All right, let's get home so I can ice down my balls."
                 
    After receiving more genuine apologies from Brandy on the way back to their apartment, and Brock accepting each of them, they called it a night.  Hannah explained she had packed a bag for the trip tomorrow, and it was in her trunk, so the sisters had a short talk while Brock sat in the car.  When Hannah returned, they drove to his apartment.  There, Brock showered and then they went straight to bed.  He couldn't sleep, though, tossing and turning, once again concerned about Angel.  He snuck into the living room, turned on the standing lamp, and started jotting in his notebook. 
    Maybe it'll be as easy as letting Angel punch in my face and all will be forgiven.  No,