Gutter Punch || Asher & Carter
There was a lot Carter had gone through in his job. People doing more than they’d signed off on, people making comments, jokes, jabs at his profession. Clients who didn’t take no for an answer. But nothing had prepared him for the night from hell. And suddenly this night had found him sitting on the back of an ambulance while a paramedic checked his eyes. Asked what day it was. Felt his throat and gingerly turned his head. “I’m fine.” He mumbled, shaking his head. He looked terrible- blood down the front of a shirt that was ripped open, buttons gone. Marks on his chest and throat and neck, like someone had tried to rip flesh with teeth and fingers. He was a mess, but nothing was broken. No concussion. And he’d assured the paramedic he was okay. Just spooked.
The client in question had bolted. And Carter was more than spooked- he was terrified. He took a Lyft (the poor woman kept asking him if he was okay, offering him tissues), and texted feebly: ‘can i como see u??’ to Asher. Then after: ‘Im comin to se u’. And then: ‘soorry. messy’. He couldn’t go home. He asked the Lyft driver to take the long way to the address he’d given. What if the guy was out there? What if he followed? He was trying to come up with how to explain this in an email to his boss. What legal actions would they take? The police were already looking for him now. Carter finally walked himself slowly to the door, buzzing Asher’s bell. He’d been punched in the stomach, choked, kicked, bitten. And he knew Asher shouldn’t see him like this. But he’d had the fear of god beaten into him and he needed to see Asher. He just needed to. “Sorry... is it a bad time?” He asked, voice garbled and shaky as he stood in the doorway with a few tissues held up to a bleeding nose.
@asherhemmings
