Boy in a Band (A Morgan Mallory story)

by Lisa Loomis

  “Are you okay?” I asked, attempting to twist and turn toward him.

  “Morgan, stay still,” he said, adjusting his hands on my head.

  I didn’t want to stay still; I needed to fix this. Why was Randy being so composed?

  “You’re bleeding. Your eye, it’s bleeding,” I said.

  It felt like the words were coming out in slow motion, as if I were in a dream. My head felt thick, my thoughts confused. I watched the blood ooze out of the cut above his eye, run down the side of his cheek, then drop from his chin onto my dress. I reached up slowly and tried to wipe it away, but he pulled his head back.

  “It will be fine, just stay still,” he demanded. “I need you to quit moving.”

  I didn’t understand his command.

  “I want to get out and see the damage,” I repeated.

  Even though I wanted to move, I didn’t try, and I wondered why. Then I heard the sirens. I lay still as Randy and I listened. As the sirens continued, I could tell they were getting closer and closer. I knew they must be coming for us. I closed my eyes. I wanted this not to be real. Take back time.

  “Randy, we need to get out of here. The cops are coming,” I said softly.

  I felt tired, and disoriented. I wanted to be back dancing, him holding me in his strong arms. “Can’t get no satisfaction,” echoed in my head.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Randy said adamantly.

  Randy was a bit of a rebel, so I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to get out of here before they came.

  “Is Tom okay?’ I asked.

  “Tom’s gone. He booked it the minute we stopped,” Randy said.

  I quit protesting and let my head rest in his lap. I opened and shut my eyes several times; it seemed like a long time that we sat like that. I heard vehicles stop, car doors open and shut, voices giving orders, and finally the sirens shut down. The flashing lights kept going though, and when they opened my door, they filled the car. I watched the red and white light dance off the dashboard; it was pretty in an odd way. I realized from the way the lights danced off the tiny pieces of glass that the windshield was shattered, but most of it was still in place. With the light I could now see two holes in the windshield where some pieces had broken away and fallen into the car.

  “Get her first, her head is split open,” Randy said.

  I tried to reach my hand back and feel my head, but he wouldn’t let me. I knew then why he was holding my head, wanted me still. Is that why my thoughts are so slow?

  “Is her neck or back hurt?” the EMT asked as he leaned into the Blazer.

  “I don’t know,” Randy said.

  “Is Tom hurt too?” I asked, confused.

  “Quit talking. Tom’s not with us. He’s okay,” Randy said.

  The way he said it, I knew he didn’t want the cops to know Tom had been with us. My mind was foggy and floating, I recalled Tom’s face in the rearview mirror, panic in his eyes as we swerved. The EMT secured a neck brace around my neck with Velcro, and Randy helped them carefully slide me out of the car onto a board. Once I was outside, I had to squint my eyes. Those lights are so fucking bright. I tried to turn my head, but couldn’t. The brace, it must be the brace so I shut my eyes. I could feel the EMTs jostle the stretcher around slightly as they loaded me into the ambulance.

  “Don’t let her go to sleep,” I heard one of the EMTs say.

  “Sweetie, open your eyes,” another instructed.

  I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling of the ambulance. A young man’s face came into view, and he undid the neck brace and started examining my neck. His eyes were narrowed in concern, his lips tense. His complexion was smooth and he was sort of cute. They gave me repeated instructions on things to move: my feet, my legs, my arms. All I wanted to do was go to sleep now, I felt so tired.

  “Where’s Randy?” I asked. “He’s bleeding.”

  “He’s coming too,” replied the female EMT.

  She smelled like fresh soap, not like antiseptic, and I found that comforting, like a mom rather than an EMT. The ambulance dipped as Randy climbed in and sat down on the bench across from me. The lower half of his shirt and the crotch of his jeans were dark and wet. He was covered in blood. How had he gotten so much blood on him? I could feel the fear now, slowly rising. His eye hadn’t bled that much? Wasn’t his blood on my dress?

  “Randy, you’re really hurt,” I said worried, my voice sounding to me as if I were underwater, garbled.

  “No, you’re the one who’s hurt,” he said.

  I looked into his eyes and could see the concern.

  “Sir, you need to lay down,” the other EMT said to him.

  He lay down as instructed never breaking his gaze. He looked so handsome in the partial light. His blond wavy hair spread out on the bench. I wondered why I was afraid to explore him as an option other than Max. Why I kept my current relationship going. The EMT dabbed at the cut above his eye, cleaning off the blood, and still he looked at me. They rolled me onto my side, facing him and it felt like they were poking inside the back of my head. Big jolts of pain shot through it over and over.

  “We’re going to have to cut off your pants,” the male attendant said to Randy.

  The sirens started back up as the ambulance pulled away from the scene. I watched as the EMT took a pair of scissors out. I wondered what Randy looked like with no pants on. The EMT lifted his right leg by his pants.

  “I’m telling you it’s her blood, not mine,” Randy said, annoyed. “Just fix the cut above my eye, that’s the only thing wrong with me.”

  “Can’t take that chance, you have a lot of blood in this region,” he said, his hand circling Randy’s crotch. “We have to be sure you don’t have another injury.”

  “I can tell you I don’t, but go for it,” Randy said frustrated.

  Only then did he look away. I shut my eyes again. I heard the sound of them cutting his jeans, the tear of the scissors going through the tough fabric. I remembered Mom telling me once to always wear clean underwear because you never knew when you might be in an accident. “That dress makes your eyes look really blue” I heard Randy say. I hoped my dress was pulled down, covering me, even if I did have on clean underwear. The siren went on and on as I was jostled around on the ambulance bed; it was making my head hurt even more. The shooting pains were now joined, by a pounding, a terrible throbbing.

  “Morgan? Morgan, wake up,” said a strange voice that resonated in my head.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. It was hard to open my eyes, like my eyelids were glued shut, and my head felt thick. The bright lights told me I wasn’t in the ambulance anymore. I stared at the ceiling and the white pressboard tiles, afraid to move my head. A doctor in a white coat sat down on the edge of my bed and looked into my face.

  “I’m Doctor McMahan. Can you tell me how many fingers I have up?” he asked as he held his hand in front of my face.

  I wondered where Randy was in the hospital, or if he was even still here. I hadn’t heard whether the blood on his pants was all mine. I hoped he was all right, that the cut above his eye wasn’t too bad.

  “Two.”

  “Now,” he said, holding up four fingers.

  “Four,” I answered.

  Other books by Lisa Loomis available now at Amazon:

  Gem Rats (Chick lit)

  Casanova Cowboy (New Adult romance novel)

  A Horse Named Joe (Chick Lit)

  Finn & Geo’s Winter Adventure (Children’s picture book)

  Coming this fall:

  Racing through Cornfields (New Adult novel—prequel to Casanova Cowboy—Ryan Walker’s story)

 

 

 
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