Bulletproof (Healer) by April Smyth

Gabe that makes me want to protect him. But that’s stupid. He doesn’t need saving. He’s supposed to be my bodyguard. I just can’t ignore that there is a softness buried beneath all the menacing stares he gives that reminds me of a small child. I think of how when I walked Bruce home from school, I would always tuck him into my right side when walking beside a busy road so I would create a barrier between him and the passing traffic. It was irrational. A car wasn’t going to swerve and drive along the pavement. But with my bad luck, was that really so far fetched? I couldn’t protect my little brother forever but this was my small contribution to his safety. Somehow I was extending his happiness with this action and this made me feel useful. That’s what I want to do with Gabe.
                  Chec returns with keys jangling around one of his sausage-like fingers, “Well this is where I love you and leave you, doll. I’d get some sleep if I were you. Rose should be here in the morning. She’ll be more use than this buffoon.” He pats Gabe’s knee roughly but the drunk boy doesn’t stir, “Isn’t that right, Gabby? You’re useless. Can’t do anything right.”
                  Chec gives me the room key and basic directions. He tells me not to worry about Gabe. That he’ll sort himself out and have a hellish hangover in the morning to make up for his misgivings. Finally, he tells me to charge anything I want to the room. Nothing is too much, he reminds me before patting me on the shoulder, giving Gabe a final look of distaste and turning away. I am ecstatic to see the back of him and pray it’s the last time I have to deal with such a grotesque man. 
                  I consider leaving Gabe asleep on the couch but from the repulsed expressions on the faces of the passers-by I guess this isn’t much of an option. He’s just too big, too heavy for me to support his weight up to my room. “God damn it, Gabe,” I feel frustrated at how little I can do. 
                  A pleasant worker offers to take my things up to my room and I nod, at least that’s one load off my shoulders, I think. I stand and stare at Gabe whose whole body is collapsed as if it has admitted defeat after a long struggle. Totally exhausted. It seems unfair to wake him but I don’t want the humiliation of asking one of the employees to carry him upstairs so I nudge his leg with my foot. The balls of my feet are numb from walking in the high heels. I’m glad physical pain isn’t an issue for me and I pity the girls who walk in these stilts every weekend and endure, what I imagine is, searing pain running from the tips of your toes to the top of your thighs. 
                  Nudging Gabe gently is futile. Eventually I am kicking him in the shins with a lot of force then punching his arm. “Come on, wake up you stupid smelly drunk,” I say, clenching my teeth together. “I’m trying to help you!”
                  It takes me ten minutes until his eyelids stiffly jolt open. His mouth is dry, saliva is building up at the corners of his lips, and he murmurs, “Where am I? What time is it?”
                  “We’re in the hotel. It’s almost ten now. Get up before you embarrass me any further,” I say, feeling the angry stares of the snooty women with their designer handbags and pocket-sized dogs. I want to add some blasphemous language, hiss horrible names at him for stressing me out like this but he looks so baffled that I think of Bruce again and my irritation melts away. 
                  Gabe leans on me in the elevator to our room on the fifth, and top, floor. I’m afraid he is going to be sick. He continues to retch and he smells so bad that I feel like if he doesn’t vomit then I will. His hair which was once slicked back like a movie star is sticking up on end. “You’re a mess,” I say, rolling my