He shrank back.
She didn’t even whirl on us, and Harlow and I shrank back too.
“Dudette?” she asked archly.
The Kevster was sober enough not to reply.
“Do I know you?” she demanded.
“I’m The Kevster,” The Kevster told her.
“What kind of name is The Kevster?” she snapped.
“The norm name my parents laid on me is Kevin, but that’s boring,” The Kevster explained.
Marjorie’s entire affect announced she disagreed with this statement; therefore, she didn’t need to verbalize that disagreement. So she didn’t.
The Kevster didn’t miss it, but he also took no offense to it.
Marjorie finally spoke.
“I do not know you,” she proclaimed.
“I’m an honorary Rock Chick,” he proclaimed right back.
“Oh,” she mumbled, looked him up and down, then said, “So you know these men have many skills. Common sense when it comes to aches, pains and gunshot wounds is not one of them.”
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” The Kevster took his life in his hands to say. And he wasn’t done. “I’m a man. I hope I never get shot. But if I did, I’d take that opportunity to load up on my favorite strains and work my way through a Coen Brothers, then David Lynch, then Roberto Rodriguez, then Kevin Smith, then Richard Linklater, then?—”
“We get you,” I said so that record would skip to the next track.
“—movie marathon,” The Kevster hit the next track. “But I’m not a Hot Bunch dude.”
I butted in. “Knox told me Mace said it’s only for a few hours a day.”
She whirled on me. “He is not medically cleared to go back to work.”
“Yes, but he’s only two days away from being that and he isn’t working full shifts.”
She slammed her hands on her ample hips and leaned scarily toward me. “And he’s doing that not medically cleared for work.”
I didn’t know what to do.
I looked at Harlow, but since her man had never been shot (luckily), she had nothing for me. Raye was picking up food from the food window (and Cap had never been shot either). And Jessie was shaking a cocktail (and I didn’t think Eric had ever been shot, but he hadn’t been since he was with Jessie). I didn’t know where Shanti was, but she didn’t have a Hottie Squad guy (yet?). Therefore, no help there either.
As such, I did the only thing I could do.
I located my phone in my server apron, pulled it out and called Knox.
I did all of this under the eagle eye of Marjorie (and the not-so-eagle eyes of Harlow and The Kevster, but they were both watching).
“Hey, honey,” he answered.
“Marjorie’s here,” I said.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“I think you should probably go home and rest,” I said.
