Page 41 of Resist

“It is!”

“Fine.”

“Good. Now both of you get your arses to the banana room.”

“Da fuck?” Josh nonchalantly squirted his face with his water bottle then shook his head like a dog.

“The bloody banana room. That’s what it’s called. It’s on the mezzanine level. I have it booked for the next two hours, so hurry up.”

“The banana room?”

“YES!”

Opening the door, I swung it wider than I needed to and stomped out before I laughed at the ridiculous name of the function room. There were six of them at the hotel and they were all named after tropical fruits: pineapple, guava, mango, coconut, and paw paw.

“Stupid names,” I grouched, stopping at the lift and punching my hand against the down button. “Come on, come on. Why do they always take forever when you’re in a hurry?” The last thing I wanted to do was ride in the lift with two sweaty, shirtless men when I was this riled up.Fuck it. I’ll take the stairs.The mezzanine level was only two flights down.

Opening the door to the stairwell, I made my way down the first flight when I miscalculated a step, slipped, and slammed my foot against the steel railing post. Pain shot through my big toe, and I cried out as I gripped the railing to prevent from falling hard onto the concrete. “JESUSMOTHERFUCKINGARSEHOLEDICKHEADFUUUCK!”

Tears sprung from my tightly pressed eyes, and I swallowed my pending scream, my fingernails grating against the railing. I raised my leg and balanced precariously on the other, and if I were bright pink and covered in feathers, I’d look like a fucking flamingo. A very pained flamingo blowing out deep breaths as if she were in labour. “Owwwwww.”

Lowering myself to the ground, I grabbed my foot and held it tight as I rocked back and forth, blinking back tears. This was absolutely the last thing I needed, to be crippled while touring the country … on a bus the size of a shoe.

Stop whining, you clumsy bitch, and get up. It’s not that bad. You’ve suffered worse than a stubbed toe.

My annoying inner conscience was right. I had suffered worse. Much worse. So taking the deepest of breaths, I let go of my foot, reached up to the railing, and pulled myself to my feet, pain once again jolting through my leg when I pressed my toe to the ground.Shit! Shit! Shiiiiit!

Knowing my luck, it was probably broken, which meant I obviously couldn’t bear my own weight, and I couldn’t hop down the stairs on my own either or I’d more than likely end up with a few other broken bones.

I needed help. I needed Jason. But what good could my son do when he was over a thousand miles away?

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, the screen still showed Lucas’s message, except he’d filled in the contact entry as Dimps. “Nooooo, I can’t ring him, not after my outburst and Cinderella-style flee.”

I exited his message and scrolled through my contacts, realizing the only other number I had for anyone else in my revue was Patsy’s. And she couldn’t help me; she had a bad hip — I’d heard all about it over coffee earlier in the day.

Knowing I had no choice, I bit down hard, scrolled to Lucas’s number, and pressed dial, it only ringing twice before he answered.

“Hello?”

“Lucas, it’s me. I need—”

“I think we’re in the wrong room. Sorry.” He must’ve held the phone away from his face, because his voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Bugs, check we’re not in the mango room.”

“We’re not. It says banana, you fucking banana.”

“Apparently we’re in the correct room—”

“LUCAS, listen to me. I’ve no doubt you know a banana from a mango—”

“Are you saying that as a metaphor for something else—?”

“NO! God help me,” I mumbled. “The reason I’m not there is because I tripped down the stairs—”

“What? Where? Are you okay?”

“No, not really. I can’t walk.”

“Where are you?”