by Christa Lynn
I leave the sock on and get in the shower, allowing the sock to get wet so it won’t hurt as bad when I take it off. Once it’s soaked, I lean against the tile wall and lift my leg, slowing rolling the sock off. As the wound is exposed, small trickles of blood ooze out and wash down the drain, a crimson spiral.
I clean it good and finish up, re-bandaging it as soon as I’m dry. It hurts, but not like I thought it would. I get dressed and hit the kitchen for coffee before heading to the office. I sit at the table, sipping my coffee and going over the events of yesterday, chuckling at Sarah’s matchmaking skills. She really sucks at that, trying to push the man that tried to amputate my foot together with me.
I glance under the table and make sure the wound isn’t bleeding again before slipping on my bedroom slippers, grabbing my keys, and heading to my car to make the ten-minute drive to the office. Yes, I’m wearing slippers to work. It’s all good—it’s my office, so I can do what I want.
It’s beautiful outside, and I think about walking, but then think again because I’m not that stupid. My foot is sore, and I hate walking. Plus, I have these portfolios that I have to take into the office. I load my car and take off, watching the sunrise from over the mountains in the distance. It’s Friday, and I’m so ready for the weekend. The account will be done today and ready for proposal next week. The fuck wad that manages it will be there, and I may just have to smack him. He’s arrogant and full of himself, always asking me out. The dick just can’t get it through his skull that I don’t mix business and pleasure. And I’d rather have a root canal and a pap smear at the same time than spend an entire evening with that douche.
I whip my Fiat 500c into my parking space at the office as Michelle pulls in next to me. She’s the best assistant I could ask for, always on time and she does a phenomenal job. We get this account, and I’ll give her a raise and promotion, putting her in complete charge of the account, so I don’t have to deal with the douche nozzle of an owner.
Chapter 2
I get out of the car, dropping my keys as I step out of my Fiat. “Fuck my life,” I mumble as I bend over to pick up my keys, my generally comfy panties now choking the life out of my asshole.
I stand up straight and dig the gold from my crack as Michelle stands there staring at my slipper-covered feet. She looks up at me then back down at my feet. I then look down at my feet and back up at her eyes, cocking my head like a dog waiting on her human to say something. She squats down and stares at my fuzzy feet. “Is that a pig snout? Are you wearing fuzzy pig slippers?”
“Leave my oinkers out of this, they’re innocent.” I snicker.
She stands up and shakes her head then takes the keys from me, headed to unlock the door to Mansfield Advertising, my home away from home. I opened this office two years ago after leaving Central Advertising, my former home away from home since I graduated from college. I got my feet wet with them, learned what I could, and now I’m their biggest competitor. I know they’ve also made a bid for this account, but I think I can top them and shove them out of the running. My ideas are fresh and innovative where theirs are the same old shit. Their creative director needs to retire—they’re so old they are stuck in their ways.
I imagine they’ll force him into retirement soon enough as he’s older than dirt. He’s bland, country, and old-fashioned. Companies nowadays need new ideas and creative input, and he has none. Nice enough man, but it’s time for him to go, and until Central relieves him of his duties, they’ll always be on the back burner.
Michelle gets the lights on, and I set the portfolio folders on the conference table and hobble over to the coffee pot. Michelle and I drink coffee like it’s water, our brains buzzing with ideas and suggestions. We busy ourselves with the presentation, going over it with a fine-toothed comb, making subtle changes here and there. We have lunch delivered from the local deli and scarf down roast beef sandwiches like we haven’t eaten in days. We wash those down with more coffee, shoving potato chips into our mouths and trying to avoid getting grease on the displays.
But by two o’clock, the caffeine buzz has worn off, and we’ve both officially checked out, leaning back in our chairs with our feet on the table messing with our phones. “Tell me something,” Michelle asks, breaking the silence. “What’s with the slippers?”
I glance at my furry foot on the table, having completely forgotten about them. “Oh, some a-hole pushed his chair back over my foot, almost taking it off. It’s a little swollen, and I can’t get shoes on,” I say nonchalantly.
“Swollen? I hope it’s not infected,” she says, her eyes not lifting from her phone.
“Fuck if it is, I’ll deal with it,” I say, my eyes also not lifting from my phone.
“Well, watch it. We need you on both feet on Monday for this proposal, and not in your fuzzy slippers.”
“You don’t like my slippers?” I ask, setting my phone on the table.
“Oh, I like them all right, they’re …” she pauses. “Pink,” she continues as she cuts her eyes over to my feet.
“Yes, pink. I like pink, so what?” I shrug my shoulders and close my eyes, leaning my head backward, forgetting that my chair is balanced only on two legs. My body jerks and my legs thrust up as the chair goes back, landing with a thud on the hard floor. “Fuck!” I scream as Michelle gets up and runs to me, her hand covering her mouth trying not to laugh.
“Are you all right?” she asks, confirming my wellbeing before busting a gut. I glare at her and nod as I try and crawl up from the floor, picking up my chair and then rubbing the back of my head, which crunched onto the ground as I busted my ass. “Only you, Shelby.” She giggles as she walks to the window and looks out. “Looks like a storm coming,” she says, peeking through the blinds.
“Let’s hit it. We’ve got all we can do done, and frankly, we haven’t done shit in the last hour.”
“Well, you have.” She giggles.
“Fuck you,” I snark, her eyes going bright as she stifles another giggle.
“I’m going to start calling you ‘Grace’, just for shits and giggles.”
“Up yours.” I laugh as I flip her the middle finger. She grasps her chest in shock and drops her eyes, but I hear her laughing, so I know she's just being a dick. We pack up the posters, carefully sliding them back into the portfolio envelopes and lock them up in my office before heading toward the parking lot. The lot is relatively empty, the other offices shutting down operations for the day, which they do a lot on Fridays during the spring and summer.
“See you Monday,” Michelle says as she gets in her car, the engine of her Camaro roaring to life. I’m instantly jealous as my eyes go back and forth between her muscle car and my rice burner.
“I need a new car,” I mumble as I get in, the little engine moaning to life. I want a car that roars too, so I decide that as soon as I get this account, my Fiat Fucker is being traded. It’s time to move up in the world, so a sports car is on the menu. Sarah will be happy as she always insists on driving since she won’t be seen in my putrid-green golf cart they call a Fiat. I don’t know what I thought when I bought this, but I’ve liked it so far. At least, until I heard the growl of Michelle’s Camaro taunting me.
She blasts out of the parking lot leaving me sucking her exhaust while my baby car buzzes to the street. Rain has started to fall, so I flip on the wipers, the rubber screeching across the glass. Before I can even pull out, the heavens open up, and visibility is minimal. I debate backing back into my parking space and waiting it out, but I’m ready to get home and crack open a bottle of wine. I know Sarah is going to be tracking me down like a bloodhound to go with her tonight, but I’m afraid she’s on her own.
I tentatively pull out onto the road and squint through the heavy rain, headed toward home. The rain is torrential, and the lightning and wind make it hard to control my pesky miniature car. Another reason why it’s time to upgrade. This little bastard isn’t worth shit in a storm.
As I approach a curve in the road, my
baby car’s tires decide they don’t want to hold on anymore, and my little green bastard takes a spin, nose diving off the roadway, performing a three-sixty, and slamming its ass into a telephone pole. The crunching sound of metal against wood and glass shattering echoes through my car, or what’s left of my car.
“Shit!” I cry, my neck jerking and my arm twisting the steering wheel. But on closer examination, I realize I’m fine and not seriously hurt, which I’m thankful for. I look up and see a man running toward my car, an older man with crisp white hair now wet and falling on his face. His cell phone is in his hand, and he’s talking as he approaches the driver side window.
“Miss, are you all right?” he asks, opening my driver door to check on me.
“Yes, I think so,” I say, though I can’t be one-hundred-percent sure.
“I’ve called nine-one-one; they should be here shortly,” he says, helping me out of the car. And older lady arrives holding a large umbrella and stands over me to shelter me from the frog-strangling rains. “Let’s go stand over at the bank, so we don’t get too wet. Are you okay to walk?” the lady asks, apparently, the wife of the man that got me out of the car.
“I think so,” I say once again, as I’m too stunned to say much more. My head is hurting, and I feel something wet on my face. I go to wipe my nose and red stains my wrist.
“Oh, hun, you’re bleeding,” the lady says as we stomp through puddles to get to the bank drive-through and out of the rain. There aren’t any cars in the drive-through, but then I realize the electricity is out.
“Oh, God, did me hitting the pole knock the power out?” I ask as the man hands me a handkerchief to catch the blood flowing from my nose.
“No, darling, it was already out. Lightning hit a transformer down the road,” the man says. “Here, sit down here on the curb, the ambulance should be here shortly.”
“Oh, I don’t need an ambulance, just a tow truck, apparently,” I grumble.
“I think you may have broken your nose,” the lady says as she lowers her glasses and gets in my face to inspect the damage. “Yep, I think it’s broken.”
“Fuck,” I grumble, her eyes lighting up and her face backing away. I guess cussing is a good way to get little old ladies out of your face when you don’t want them there. She pats my leg and does her best to reassure me that she wasn’t offended, though the look on her face said otherwise.
I start to hear sirens under the thunder, which is tapering off as the storm moves on. The red lights now glowing under the steam that rises from the road. Then the blue lights appear behind them, causing a spectacular light show.
The rain has slowed so I walk back to my car to speak to the police officer that now stands next to my smashed up green bean. I guess it would be considered green bean casserole now, and I chuckle at my inner humor. So much for trading it in, it looks like it’s totaled anyway.
As I approach him, my head starts to spin, and the lights slowly blur. “Ma’am, are you all right?” he asks as my legs give out on me, and he catches me and sets me to the ground as the paramedics walk up carrying their equipment. My ass is now wet from sitting on the curb, but I guess that’s better than being dead. That is until I see him. The damned EMT from the bar last night.
He looks at me with surprise but doesn’t let on to anyone that we’ve met. He hunkers down next to me and starts asking me questions. “What happened?” he asks quietly. My head is spinning, and I feel like I’m going to pass out. I realize the cop is also next to me, waiting not so patiently to find out how I got my little green machine wrapped around a telephone pole.
“I’m not real sure,” I say, almost slurring my words. Great, they’re going to think I’ve been drinking. A small drop of blood drips from my nose, and I catch it with the hanky that the old man gave me, and I look around to find them. He’s over talking to another police officer; his arms are moving around in a spinning motion.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks the inevitable question.
“No, I just got off work,” I say, another drop of blood oozing from my beak. I can already feel my face swelling around my eye, and the pressure is becoming painful.
His partner walks up carrying a medical bag, and they proceed to check my vitals, blood pressure and my eyes with that baby flashlight. The bright light causes me to jerk my head back as he shakes his head. “I think you’ve got a concussion. Let’s get you into the ambulance and off to the hospital to be checked out.”
“No, no, I’m fine. I just want to go home.”
“No chance, Miss …”
“Mansfield, Shelby Mansfield.” I smile, thankful I remember my name.
“Well, Miss Mansfield, we’re taking you in to be checked out anyway,” he says as his partner shows back up with a backboard. Great, let’s make this more embarrassing than it already is. I think about arguing with him, but the stern look in his eyes tells me I’d better not.
“Fine, you’re the boss,” I say, trying to stand up.
“No,” he growls as he and his partner carefully lay me onto the backboard and strap my head down.
“What do you think I’m going to do, run off?” I laugh.
“Sorry, ma’am, it’s procedure. You could have a neck or back injury, and we have to do what’s needed to ensure we keep your injuries to a minimum,” he says, so professional. The spark is still in his eyes, but it’s a more severe flash if that makes sense. As I look up from the backboard at this man’s greenish/blue eyes, the world starts to spin and everything goes dark. Before I’m completely out, I hear, “We’ve lost her! Get her into the ambulance stat!” I feel myself moving and then a loud slam as the doors to the ambulance close, and I’m whisked away, my little green machine left behind.
Chapter 3
“Would someone stop that fucking beeping? It’s giving me a headache,” I moan as my eyes blink to life. I see nothing but fuzz and white jackets rushing around me, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve been shoved into a mental ward. The beeping just goes on and on, and I scan the room trying to figure out where it’s coming from and why it won’t stop.
“Miss Mansfield?” I hear a soft female voice coming from beside me, but I can’t turn my head to look. What is this damn thing around my neck? I let out a groan as the now bright lights are beating on my head.
“Ugh …”
“Miss Mansfield, I’m Cara. Doctor Askew will be in to see you shortly. How are you feeling?”
“The lights are bright, this damn thing around my neck is uncomfortable, and what is that damn beeping?” I bark out, her head jerking in surprise.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s the EKG measuring your heart rate. You’ll get used to it,” she says as she pats my shoulder and walks away without shutting off the beeping.
“I want to go home,” I whisper to no one. Suddenly, something starts squeezing on my upper arm, and I panic as it doesn’t seem to be stopping. The beeping gets louder and faster, and suddenly Cara is back at my side.
“Miss Mansfield, you need to be calm. Your blood pressure is high, and your heart rate just spiked. Please try to relax and be calm or we’ll have to admit you.”
“Admit me?”
“Yes, ma’am, you’re in the ER at St. Francis Hospital. You were involved in a car accident, and you have a grade two concussion. That alone isn’t dangerous, but your blood pressure is, and if you can’t calm down and let us get it under control, you’ll have to stay a bit longer.”
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath.
“Is there anyone we can call for you?” she asks.
My mom is in Tampa, and if I call her, she’ll be on a plane, and I can’t handle her right now. She’s overbearing and pushy, and I’ll end up killing her. “Sarah, my friend Sarah.”
“No, I need immediate family members.”
“Then no, Sarah is the only one that I know that will come. My family lives too far away,” I tell her, suddenly missing my dad. I know he’d be here, but Heaven had a bigger calling for him t
hree years ago. My brother is in the Navy and stationed somewhere in the Middle East on some secret mission, so I can’t reach him.
“Very well, do you have her number?” she asks.
“It’s on my cell phone,” I state, suddenly panicking. “Where’s my cellphone?” I cry out, trying to sit up.
“Lay down Miss Mansfield,” Cara says, lightly pushing back on my shoulder. “Your phone and purse are in a locker, safe and sound. I’ll get them for you,” she says as she walks away, her day-old perfume staying behind a bit longer. I didn’t think nurses were allowed to wear perfume on the job, but what do I know? Or care, for that matter. But whatever it is, she needs to tone it down a bit.
I close my eyes and try to relax, but that damn beeping is driving me nuts. I quickly realize that when I get stressed over the beeping, it speeds up. So, I take deep breaths and try and calm myself to keep the beeping at a minimum.
A few minutes later, Cara comes back toting my beat-up backpack, and she sets it down next to me. “Your cell should be in there, feel free to call whoever you like,” she says with a smile and walks away. I dig down in there, trying not to move my head, and find my iPhone at the bottom. I pull it out and look at it, but the screen is fuzzy, and I realize I don’t have my contacts in.
“Where are my glasses?” I ask myself, digging into my purse and quickly realizing they must still be in my car. “Damn it,” I mumble.
I flop my arm beside me because I can’t see my phone without my glasses and … wait, Siri can help me. I press the home button and the screen pops to life, “What can I assist you with?”
“Siri, call Sarah,” I say to the phone, people looking over at me like I’ve lost my mind. I smirk at them but ignore their starting.
“Finding salad,” Siri responds.
“Ugh, no, bitch. C-A-L-L S-A-R-A-H,” I speak phonetically and a little louder than I need to.
