Butterscotch 47 - Ankle (Patreon)

Marjorie got on my good side so I could hold my bad ankle up and sort of hop along while she kept me from falling. We headed toward the gap in the outer fence and then to the parking lot. I glanced back a couple times, but the guys were still fighting, with a crowd egging them on.

Damn! I was so annoyed with them both that I couldn’t speak but only made hissing and fizzing noises like an angry cappuccino machine. I punctuated those with little moans and yelps when my foot touched the ground, or someone jostled against me.

“I think you need an ER,” Marjorie shouted in my ear. I nodded, rather than trying to scream yes.

We didn’t get our hands stamped as we exited, but made our way toward the valet stand. Of course. Why would Marjorie park her own car? But I was grateful we would not have to stagger a Wilshire block or more to find her vehicle.

A young black guy who didn’t look old enough to drive dashed off to the valet lot as soon as Marjorie surrendered the claim ticket. Someone found me a plastic chair to sit in and asked, “Do you need an ambulance?”

I shook my head as Marjorie pushed in between us. “I’ll drive her to the clinic,” she told the man who peered around her to examine me, still looking concerned.

“Morons,” she muttered as she braced a hip against the chair I was sitting in.

“Who?” I asked. “He just wanted to help. Oh, you mean the guys, fighting?”

“Them too,” she agreed. “But mostly men in general.”

I had to giggle at that. Oh, yeah, Marjorie the lesbian.

She bent over and gave me a quick peck right on the lips. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “I came with Rory,” I said. At this distance from the stage with the crowded stands between us and it, I didn’t quite have to shout. “He’s going to wonder where I went.”

“Fuck him,” she remarked. Then she grinned. “On second thought, don’t do that.” She bent over and kissed me again. I gave a little back this time—the woman did know how to kiss.

“How come you were here?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. “Have you been following me?”

She shrugged. “Only since I saw you getting on the freeway near downtown. I recognized the truck.”

I frowned. Her explanation meant she had followed us after we got off on Santa Monica. She wouldn’t have had concert tickets, but that probably wouldn’t have stopped her. Being a Pritzger, she could have called someone who could get her in. Wealth has its privileges. But did I believe her that she hadn’t been following us since Rory picked me up at Mom’s apartment? Maybe. Still, it was a bit creepy.

“Stalker,” I accused when I had worked through that chain of thought.

Smiling, she kissed me again. My head and ankle hurt and kept me from really enjoying her kisses.

I tried to keep an eye on the stadium exit, but Marjorie kept herself between me and a good view of who might be coming out. I didn’t see a clot of security swarming the area, so the boys had likely not killed each other. One of them should have figured out by now that I had left the venue.

And sure enough, I spotted Armand’s bulk almost staggering out through the exit gate, just as the skinny valet pulled up in Marjorie’s car—a blue Mercedes this time. After a moment, the vehicle hid the big guy from my view, and me from his.

My phone rang—or rather, vibrated—in my purse. I fumbled it out and looked at the screen. Rory. I answered it. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey, Babe,” he replied. “Where are you?” The crowd noise was muted a bit. Maybe he was back under the stands?

“I caught a ride to Urgent Care,” I explained. The phone wriggled in my grasp, and I almost dropped it. I looked at the screen again. Armand.

“Oh, hey, yeah, huh?” said Rory. Incoherence was so unlike him.

“I’ll get a ride home from there,” I said, making a decision. I hadn’t realized until just then that I was still annoyed at him.

“I’m sorry, Babe,” he said. “I’m an idiot. Armand left to look for you outside the stands. He’s leaving too, ‘cause of the noise.”

At Marjorie’s direction, two of the valet guys were picking me up, chair and all, and carrying me to the car. It was so ridiculous, I had to laugh.

“Is he there?” Rory asked, all suspicious again. The phone buzzed in my hand again.

“No,” I said. “He’s calling on the phone, too.” I didn’t plan on telling him—either of them—that I was with Marjorie. “Look, I get home, I’ll call you. Bye.”

“Babe,” he said. I hung up. The valet guys were laughing at me (I’m not sure why), but they had the car door open and helped me slide from the chair into the car. Marjorie was already in the driver’s seat, and she fastened my safety belt.

“Thanks, guys,” I said as they carefully closed the door.

“De nada, chica,” said the one, smiling, and the other just said, “Sho’.”

I reached a hand over to trade a squeeze with Marjorie, then she had to use both hands to navigate out to the street.

I reclaimed my hand and called Armand back.

“Kissy?” he said immediately. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “On my way to urgent care with a friend.”

“Good.” He paused, but before I could speak, he went on. “Rory is an ass, but we settled things. Friends again, I guess.” He made the burble noise he used for a chuckle.

I rolled my eyes, amused that a little violence seemed to be part of some male friendships. “I’ll call you when I get home,” I offered. Marjorie glanced over at me as she exited the parking lot and steered into the traffic on Santa Monica.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’m thinking of maybe having a movie day tomorrow, at my house….”

He was trying to ask me for a date, I realized. The big goof really had few social skills that weren’t nerd-oriented. “We can talk about that when I call,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said but couldn’t seem to think of anything to keep the conversation going.

We stopped at a light, and Marjorie reached over to take my hand and give it a squeeze. I squeezed back. “Bye, Armand,” I said gently.

“Bye, Kissy,” he returned, and we both hung up.

We were moving again. I could see the towers of a building complex ahead of us. My ankle throbbed and shot pains up my leg. I wanted to whimper, but resisted. My head hurt, too, and I fingered the knot near my temple gingerly.

Marjorie gave me another glance. “How are you doing?”

“It hurts,” I said, trying not to make too much out of it.

“Push your seat back so you can stretch your leg out.”

I tried to figure out the Mercedes seat controls, but Marjorie pre-empted my efforts with the master switches from her side. The seat tilted back until I said, “Stop.” (There might be advantages in having a rich girlfriend.)

But that brought to mind Marjorie’s “gifts.” And her marriage proposal. I took my phone out again and called Mom.

“Hey,” I said when she answered.

“Which hospital?” she asked. I frowned. How does she do that shit? I asked Marjorie and relayed the answer to Mom. “How did you know I was hurt?”

“Your voice, honey,” she answered. “You’re my little princess, and of course I know that you have a boo-boo.” Mom, so annoying and so embarrassing, but at least no one but Marjorie could see me blush. “Meet you there,” Mom said, hanging up.

I sighed as I put the phone away.

“Your mom is a hoot,” Marjorie offered.

I rolled my eyes and made a face. “I’m surprised that you two actually get along.”

“Well, it wasn’t love at first sight,” she admitted. “But once she was convinced I really care about you, she was more willing to be friends.”

I made a noise. “Uh, huh. But Marjorie, about your gifts and—uh—proposal….” I didn’t know what I wanted to say and sort of trailed off.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re straight?” she asked.

I had to giggle at that, but I protested, “I don’t know what I am!” I gestured at what I was wearing. “All I know is, until I fell off the world, I was enjoying myself. A lot.”

She nodded, making a last turn before the hospital emergency entrance. “We had a lot of fun together the other day.”

I squirmed. My ankle throbbed, and my head ached. “Yeah,” I admitted. But I added, “You scare the crap out of me, Marjorie. You’re so used to getting your own way. Your money, your personality, I felt like I was caught in an undertow at the end of the day.”

She took a beat to reply. “I’m sorry,” she said.

I put a hand out that she could grab and squeeze, and then she needed both hands to turn into the emergency drive-thru. She stopped the car and popped out, calling to an attendant. “Can we get a wheelchair here?”

Marjorie in charge. She had the situation well in hand, and soon I was telling someone my vital information (leaving out a little but not much) while they arranged a visit to the x-ray lab.

“Can you be sure that you’re not pregnant?” the intake nurse asked me again.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I replied, just as I looked up to see Mom coming in through the electric doors of the emergency room entrance.

Marjorie saw where I was looking and waved Mom over.

We moved this way and that. Mom and Marjorie consulted. I got my x-rays (which did not make me pregnant), and eventually, I got a diagnosis (hairline fracture) and a light cast on my ankle.

“Come back in a week, and we’ll take it off, or go to your own doctor,” the technician told me. He had nice hands but a completely professional attitude, so he was hardly any fun at all. “Take ibuprofen if it hurts,” he added.

“Okay,” I agreed. I sat in the wheelchair while Mom handled paperwork. Marjorie stood near me, fidgeting. “I’m not going home with you,” I said quietly.

She nodded. Her eyes looked moist.

“Marjorie,” I said, “we’ve only known each other for a few days.”

“I know, yes, that’s true.” She nodded again. “But, Kissy…. It’s like one of those old sixties songs. I’ve got it bad for you. I think about you all the time; I can’t seem to help it.”

“You scare me,” I said. Was she crying? “Your money, your gifts, your proposal—it’s too much. We’re not—we can’t—. At least…at least I don’t think I can?” I didn’t mean that as a question. I knew I couldn’t.

She turned half away, still nodding. Was I crying now? Without looking at me, she admitted, “I havebeen following you. I’ll stop.” She sighed and wiped at her eyes.

We smiled at each other, tears running down our cheeks. Hadn’t we done this before?

I watched her walk away. Neither of us said goodbye, and perhaps it wasn’t really—it felt like we’d see each other again, someday, somehow.