This part, I remember.
I'm on the gurney, tied in. The medics have put that big collar around my neck. Moving so slow. So careful. A cold wash of water over my face to clean the blood away. They put chemical staples on my head, sealing the gash shut.
They wheel me down the aisle. Slowly. To me, the place sounds as quiet as a church. I can't hear cheers or boos or anything. Just loud echoes in my hears. High pitched ringing. I'm still in the ring by the time you're behind the curtain. So slow.
I hear the low clapping. The same sound they made when Mick was being carried out by the Funkster. Japanese applause. I close my eyes and feel a tear roll down my cheek. I can't raise my hands. Can't give them a thumb's up that I'll be okay. I can't do that. But I want to.
I get behind the curtain and the other wrestlers from the show are there: the midcard and openers. They're applauding, too. It's a weird sensation being on a board and people applauding you as the medics push you toward the ambulance.
The ambulance...
There's you, sitting on the ambulance's bumper, a beer in your hand. The medics are taping up the cut on your forehead and you're saying something about duct tape.
You're sitting on the bumper of the ambulance. Waiting for me.
The medics stop halfway there. You see me and jump off the bumper. Walking over to me.
My eyes are shut. Not closed from bruising like yours, just shut.
You get to the medics. One of them tries to get in your way and you crash the bottle over his head. The rest of them fall away.
You walk up to the gurney. Looking down at me.
"Ro?" you ask.
My right eye peeks open. Sees you.
And I smile.
I ask, "...we got 'em, didn't we?"
You giggle a little, flexing your taped leg. Your face has already been washed and your eyebrow bandaged and the blood and other stuff mostly hosed off. You look a little like a girl the morning after Halloween.
"They bought that so fucking hard that it's gonna cause an interest rate hike," you say.
I reach up and peel the velcro holding the collar around my neck. It rips with that sweet
rrrrrip sound I've always loved. I sit up, but the medic puts his hand on my shoulder. "That's a nasty cut on your forehead, Ms. Chance."
I look up at you. "I cut too deep. I was a little too excited. And I never was any good at it." I shrug, frowning a little. "You were right. You should have done it."
"Yer goddamn right," you say, like I was a disobedient student. Then, you bite your lip and look down at me, concern filling your eyes. "It was so much fucking work keeping my face angry in the ring." You stroke my blood-soaked hair and gently make sure I stay sitting on the stretcher. "God, Ro, you cut deeper than fucking Eddie did against JBL."
You look at the medics. "Can we get her some saline and an orange before she blacks out? And some madeleines! She likes the Bourbon vanilla kind!"
I laugh. "You remembered!"
Sitting up on the gurney, the medic checks my eyes.
"You have a concussion," he says. "But you already know that."
I nod. "I kinda blacked out at the end there," I say. "I think I hit my head on something, but I don't remember."
"It was probably the blood loss," the medic says.
"You were lights on but nobody home," you tell me, caressing my head. "I had to carry you to the finish, Chance."
I nod and it hurts. "As usual."
I stretch my back, rolling my shoulders. "You and Gemma probably have celebration plans tonight?"
"Actually ..." you say with as much coyness as you can manage while medically suffering from exhaustion, dehydration and emotional tension injuries. "She was serious about not wanting to see this. Y'know how she is. So she's gonna take the hop back home and get some business done in London in the morning. Sooooooo ... I'm in Paris with nothin' to do for a couple of nights," you say innocently, fiddling with a roll of gauze.
I give you a nervous smile.
"Oh. I thought...well, I already have tonight and tomorrow booked because I thought you and Gemma..."
I'm trying to keep a straight face.
And failing.
"This is where you say 'Shut the fuck up, Chance.'" And I wink.
You narrow your eyes at me and grip my corset top softly, the way I could tell you wanted to all match, letting your fingers slowly caress my breasts.
"Medics," I whisper, throwing my eyes at the men watching us.
"Shut the fuck up, Chance," you purr, and lean closer to kiss me, delicately.
Goddess, I wanted this. For the last hour--which felt like four--I wanted this.
And I can tell from your kiss, you did, too.
* * *
Years earlier, it's April 9. The very first night Rowan Chance and Megan Dow met.
They sit on the ring apron after the crowd is gone, eating bad hot dogs and just talking. Talking and laughing. Like girls on a swingset after school, swinging their feet as they sit on the apron.
Megan leans back against the ropes a little, feeling the reassuring creak of them. The clink of the braces. She loves being here. Even now that she's been "in" long enough that she doesn't need to put the ring up and break it down, she still does. The smell of the canvas, all dusty and warm, and the soft crackling bite of the buckles. She loves it all so much. But her eyes are focused on the strangely beautiful exotic dusky beauty here eating dollar dogs at her side. She looks out of place, like she doesn't belong here. But after watching Rowan in the ring, Megan knows she does.
Rowan kicks her legs as they dangle over the edge of the apron. Even smothering the hotdogs in ketchup, mustard and relish doesn't really hide the stale taste. But she doesn't care. Not at all. Because she's sitting next to this amazing, mad woman who talks like a bastard child of Palahniuk, Hunter Thompson and Bruiser Brody. And...yeah. She's starting to get a crush. A serious one, too.
A couple janitors move around the stands, picking up soda cups and pop corn bags. The crew hasn't come out to take down the ring, but they should be here any second.
And in her head, Rowan is saying to herself,
I shouldn't do this... but it doesn't seem like I've got much time. I'm getting in a car to drive to New Hampshire tomorrow and if I hesitate now...I may never see this woman again.She wipes the mustard and stuff from her lips with a napkin. Her heart racing in her chest. Looking right down at her boots, she says in a hesitant voice, "I'd like to kiss you."
Looking back at that night, Megan learned two really important things. The first was that it's totally impossible to find a way to look cool when you're taken so fucking completely by surprise in the middle of taking another slug of beer to chase down another bite of cheap hot dog that you rasp beer and relish through your fucking nose.
She wipes her streaming red face on her jacket sleeve, and manages to swallow the mouthful she has left, racked with coughs.
"I'm sorry!" Rowan says, immediately worried. "Are you okay?"
"Iugn fine," Megan manages to get out. "Fine."
But then, Megan gets her breath back she scrubs her face with the heel of her hand. She showered so she's got basically no make-up left, just hints of her ring cosmetics. She wasn't wearing the fancy Japanese lip enamel back then.
Megan looks at Rowan with a half-grin.
"... ya sure?"
Rowan looks up from her boots and right into Megan's eyes.
She nods quickly. "Mhm." Biting her lip.
Why am I so nervous? Why is this so hard?
I want you so bad. To drag you back to some quiet room in this building and just...Meanwhile, Megan's mind is racing.
Oh fuck, those eyes.
She can feel her toes curling in her shiny new Docs, a brand new addition to her "Punky" gear.
But those eyes.
She stares deep into them, and feels her cheeks flush - and her grin widens.
Megan slowly leans closer, and sets her beer down--and she walks her fingers along Rowan's arm, feeling that supple olive skin and smooth muscle tone. And she gets a soft grip on Rowan's shirt, teasingly tugging her closer.
Years later, Megan thinks,
That was the first and only time I was the more sexually confident one of us."An' what makes ya think I kiss girls?" She purrs teasingly, her eyes half-lidded as she draws Rowan close enough to taste the hot dog on her breath and breathe her shower and hints of sweat and perfume. "Even fuckin' gorgeous ones with really crisp armbar takeovers?"
She leans in so close, teasing Rowan. And Rowan thinks,
Oh no. No way this girl is teasing me.And suddenly, all of Rowan's nervousness vanishes. Megan made this a game. A challenge.
Rowan grabs the back of Megan's head, squeezing her purple hair between her fingers.
"Megan...shut the fuck up."
And they kiss.
THE END
(Both parts of this post were co-written with
The Purple Vixen.)