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“Uh. Well.” I’m not often at a loss for words, but then again, this scenario is a first for me. “It requires discretion.”
There’s an uncomfortable stretch of silence, then he says, “What the fuck is goin’ on?”
“Trigger fell and knocked himself out.” I rush the words.
“How’d he do that?”
Now, I could lie, but Red doesn’t appear to be stupid. He’ll know the minute he walks in on the scene. “We were having sex and he… uhm… fell.”
There’s silence on the line, then a grunt of laughter. “This I gotta see. Where’re you at?”
I look around. Where are we at? I was so busy anticipating the rest of our night that I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the address. “We’re at a garage. Not sure where it is.”
“You’re at the fuckin’ garage?” He almost shouts. “My fuckin’ garage?”
Oh dear. “Well, to be fair, Trigger didn’t tell me we were at your garage.”
“Just exactly what happened?”
“He rolled off the hood of a car.”
Trigger’s groaning and I’m starting to panic. Red needs to stop asking questions and come help me.
“What car?”
He’s missing the point. “It’s a Mustang. Blue. Older model.”
“Fuck!” he shouts. “That car’s worth a fortune and the hood is fiberglass. He better not have fucking dented it.”
I rise up on my knees and look at where I just had the best sex of my life. “It seems okay. Should I call 9-1-1?”
“No,” he says grimly. “I’m on my way. Fifteen.” The line goes dead.
“Trigger,” I say, slapping gently at his face after I’ve removed the condom and tucked him back into place. I have this image of Red roaring into the garage and throwing Trigger against a wall. “Trigger, I called Red and I think he’s mad about us having sex on the hood of his car.”
I get no response, so I slap him again. “It would be good if you woke up. Maybe we could be gone before he gets here.”
Trigger isn’t cooperating and true to Red’s words, I hear the roar of a bike almost to the minute.
He’s not alone though. He’s got a drunk guy with him, forties, holding a black bag. “Hey sweetheart,” he slurs when he sees me.
I look past him to Red. “Who’s he?”
“Dicer,” Red grunts, bent over, studying the hood of the mustang. “Doc.”
My head swivels from him to the drunken man and back. “You’re kidding, right?”
“He isn’t,” Dicer says as he plops down next to Trigger and opens his bag.
“He’ll fix him up.” Red rubs at a spot on the hood, then frowns as he looks at his fingers.
Dicer stares at Trigger, his bloodshot eyes half-closed. “He’s passed out,” he declares.
I’m losing patience with both of them. “Is that your professional opinion,Doctor?”
He’s too drunk to pick up on the sarcasm in my voice. “How much has he had to drink?”
“I’ll wager considerably less than you have.” The hostility is leaking into my tone and I’m annoyed at myself. I do get mad, but I manage it. It’s Trigger though and I find myself outraged.
