The Story of Blood and Roses

Following his orders, I put the call on speaker and waited for the person on the other side to pick up.

The call was picked and someone from the other side spoke.

"Michael, son. What can I do for you?" Surprised at the cheerful tone, and the use of a ulterior name for Anthony, I turned to stare at it. Anthony ignored my shocked expression and replied to the man gruffly.

"Could you come over in a bit? I have someone who is in need of getting bullets extracted from their arm." At this, he openly glared at me. Had I not been hanging out with him for the past couple of months, I would have cowered in fear, but I was immune to that deadly glare in that period, which he seemed to throw my way quite often.

"Back to exciting grounds, Michael?" the man chuckled. "I\'ll be waiting in your room when you arrive." He paused for a bit. "Take care, Michael." He paused for a moment then he hung up. I\'m astounded by how comfortable this Edward character seemed to be with Anthony. He called him Michael and there was no sense of alarm in Anthony when that happened. It was as if it was almost natural for him to hear that name, yet I had never heard anyone refer to him like that. Who was this man?

Certainly a doctor, I knew. He had a rough, but comforting voice that went with being a doctor. He was patient and adept in taking care of difficult patients such as Anthony, I presumed. He was also someone Anthony knew extremely well. These were all assumptions that I knew to be correct, but there was an added catch. This man was probably one of the free-lance doctors that Anthony called on, but a definite trusted one if he had access to Anthony\'s room. No one went up to Anthony\'s room.

As the car sped across the roads, I lost track of my thoughts about the Good Doctor. I concentrated on the enraged look on Boss\' face as broke record speed limits. He drove like a maniac, but one who was so used to drive in the manner he did that he could probably do it without much thought about it. The thought was comforting because I didn\'t want my pretty face, or his, for that matter to be plastered to the glass. We wouldn\'t look that pretty dead, anyways.

My thoughts reverted back to why he looked so angry. I\'d assume it was the surprise of the attack on us that led him to process it in that manner, but I suspected that there was more to it. I remembered my delay in ducking which had led to me getting hit. He couldn\'t be possibly angry at me for being a bit bewildered at his attitude, could he? Probably, anything was possible. You could chalk it up to him to pour out his frustration and anger out on me. Even though I felt like a personal assistant half the time I spent with him, I also felt empowered that I was the only one who he could open up to and snap at. I would call that, the ultimate trust in someone. Not only that, he freely spoke to me and told me his ideas. Most of the times, he\'d ask for what I thought about things, and sometimes he would goad me into defying him and forgetting that he was the leader of the mob just so that he could get pleasure out of scorning me. It infuriated me to no end, but then it kept things extremely interesting. And it was difficult keeping me interested at all times. He achieved that; I would give him credit for that.

And just because of that, he could be angry at me. I could handle it, I told myself confidently.

We reached the mansion in no time. He got out of the car before I could and I gaped as he stomped around it and came to open the door at my side. He held his hand out to me, and I stared at him in surprise.

"Are you being polite because I was shot?" I asked, almost teasing, but the question held genuine curiosity. He didn\'t answer me, but his jaw clicked. It told me that, that was probably not the case. I took his hand anyway and felt him tug at my unwounded arm insistently. I got up and then tried to pull my hand away, but he held on tight as he pulled me out of the path of the door and then slammed it shut harder than what was necessary.

Okay, I get the message. You are pissed.

He dragged me inside the mansion, and up the stairs. The pressure on my hands increased as he pulled harder with each set of stairs we went up. When we were finally standing in front of his room, he opened the door and let my hands go. Yes, he just dropped his hands and then motioned me inside the room.

Always the gentleman, I thought sarcastically.

A white-haired man sat on a folding chair that he had placed beside the bed. It was Edward. Anthony cleared his throat as I entered. The older man turned towards me and his eyes widened just a bit before a warm smile spread across his face.

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