Page 23 of The Groupie

Rylee

“Agroupie?” I snort. “How is that a cover?” I step backwards as he gets close, and his scent makes my heart hammer. Good sense shouts at me to stop considering the idea, to back away from the danger of this highly flammable man. I’m supposed to be hiding out. But that fucking adventure-seeking part of me—because I refuse to call it risk taking like Mamma Cass does—rises up to taunt me with the possibility of a secret fling and all that titillating adrenaline.

“No one will think we’re something we’re not. No one will think you’re anything more than an acquaintance.”

What he’s saying is true, and I can’t help feeling the sting on behalf of Sheila. Except, Sheila doesn’t seem to care. She seems perfectly happy to have fun, and so should I because that’s all this is about. A fun distraction while I hide in plain sight and heal without anyone in my world knowing there’s a thing wrong.

My ankle disagrees loudly as I shift my weight. At least I hope there’s nothing wrong. It’s a damn twisted ankle is all. I’ll go home and put it up with ice for the rest of the day.

“Fine,” I say. “I have to go.”

His already sizzling smile goes up a hundred watts, and I frown deeper in defense.

“I’ll arrange two seats in the executive suite for you and Sheila. Check with the ‘will call’ window.” The second his arm reaches out for me, I jerk away and start walking. I wish I could say I walked quickly, or even with dignity, but my bastard ankle fails me, and I feel every bit of the sharp pain that forces my limp.

“Put that foot up and ice it, Rylee,” he calls after me. “Wouldn’t want you to be hurting tonight.”

I don’t bother turning back or saying a word to him as I walk down the hall to find a different elevator, damn him. I raise my hand with a single finger showing. You can guess which one.

And yes, the bastard laughs. And fuck yes, the sound gives me goosebumps

* * *

On the way home, I order Uber Eats for lunch for me and Mamma C. I’m not sure she’ll thank me since it’s not her usual KFC or BK style food. I haven’t eaten that shit since high school when I started training seriously. All my competitors were into eating healthy, and I’d be damned if I was going to let any of them get an edge on me.

Now, it’s part of life. Like boarding, the halfpipe, jumping, and snow. Fuck if I don’t miss it already as I stumble inside the back door, not bothering to hide the sting in my ankle this time.

“Welcome back. You gonna make it, Rylee girl?” Mamma C gets up from her rocker on the forward swing and goes to the freezer. I’m tempted to take her place in the rocker, but she’s earned the most comfortable seat in the house. Instead, I sit in a wooden kitchen chair and lift my foot up onto the table.

She hands me the ice pack and takes a look at the ankle.

“You call the doc yet for that? It doesn’t look better. It looks worse. I can dig out some old crutches—”

“No crutches.” That’s all I’d need is for someone to recognize me walking around on crutches tonight. One more reason I shouldn’t go. But that horse is out of the barn, and my anticipation is already well on its way to heaven.

“Call the doctor,” she says.

“You call the doctor,” I say, and we have a showdown of stubborn staring. Unfortunately, I have a feeling I know where it’s going to lead. Tit for tat.

She doesn’t blink from behind those oversized glasses. My chest tightens. Her cough is quiet for the moment, and the ashtray is empty. Fuck.

I slap the ice on my ankle and give in. “You win. I’ll call and make a doctor appointment right now. One for each of us.”

She nods and sits back in her rocker, her gaze still on me. “Go ahead. I’m watching you.”

Taking in a deep breath, I pull out the bent card for the doc and my phone. I tap the number in and listen to the ringing as my heart rate spikes. I do not want any bad news. After a few rings, a voice comes on that the office is closed and to call back during regular office hours. While the voice drones on about the hours, relief fills me like I’ve just landed my first trick of the day.

Taking advantage of the reprieve, I talk into the phone as if I’ve confirmed my appointment and then disconnect. I glance at Mamma C, and she nods. Without wasting a second, I search my contacts for her doctor’s name and tap it on. Luckily, the receptionist answers, and the appointment I make for Mamma C is for real.

With business taken care of, I force myself to rest the ankle and catch up with Mamma C and the neighborhood. Mostly, she talks about the grump next door, Mr. Argyle. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.

“We watched you on TV. It was the qualifying rounds I think,” she says. “He’s impressed and worried for you going so high in the air like that. I told him you can take care of yourself. You always could.”

“Thank you, Mamma.” It’s true, and I’m truly relieved to hear her say it because I don’t want her to worry.

After lunch is delivered and I suffer two more rounds with the ice pack, my ankle feels better. The swelling is down. Two weeks—or rather one week and six days—and I’ll be fine. Mamma clears the table, and my phone pings. Again.

“What’s with your phone? Aren’t you going to answer all that pinging?”