Read Online Under the Dusty Moon by Suzanne Sutherland - Free Book Online Page A

glasses open the side door and make his way toward me.
    Oh, come on! They couldn’t have sent a hunchbacked medic? Or one with an uncanny resemblance to Steve Buscemi? Oh no, no no no, send out your cutest indie-rock -geek guy to mop up the putrid mess of me, please. Say, handsome, did you know that I’m none other than the only child of former Dusty Moon songstress, Micky Wayne? Why, of course I can get her to sign your ID badge for you! She’ll be so thrilled that the man here to care for her daughter is a fan — she might even take you out to dinner!
    â€œAre you all right? How’s your pain?” Medic Fanboy asked, snapping me back to reality as he checked me out — fortunately, considering how thoroughly disgusting I was in that moment, it was only in a medical sense.
    â€œIt hurts. My arm,” I said, trying my best to keep my arms down at my sides so that this gorgeous guy couldn’t get a whiff of my blood-, Coke-, and tear-stained stink-bomb of a shirt.
    But it was useless, and I finally had to give in to my total mortification as a team of professionals fussed over me, got me up on a stretcher, and loaded me into the ambulance. I closed my eyes and started counting by threes, hoping to somehow lose myself — my mortification, my throbbing pain, and my utter and complete stank — in the numbers. It was an old trick Mom used to use when I was learning my times tables to keep me distracted while she practised.
    3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24 …
    But it didn’t work.
    It was a short ride to the hospital and somewhere in my delirium I must have told someone to call Mom at Northeast Southwest, so it wasn’t long before she found me, spaced out and trying to trick myself into believing that this whole nightmare of a day had been just that — an awful dream.
    I could smell Mom — a combination of espresso, maple syrup, and lavender — even before she swooped in on me with a truly classic expression of parental concern: “Jesus Christ, Vic, what the hell happened?”
    Somebody get this woman a Mother of the Year trophy, stat.
    â€œHi, Mom,” I mumbled, half-nodding toward an elderly couple sitting nearby us who seemed a bit taken aback by the volume of her concern, which was turned up to eleven. “It’s fine,” I said, nearly chewing off my tongue as it wagged lazily around my mouth. Whatever they’d given me for the pain seemed to have seriously taken control of me. It was kind of nice. A welcome distraction from my garbage dump of a day.
    â€œWhat the hell happened?” Mom repeated at an only slightly lower volume. Clearly she hadn’t taken the hint.
    â€œI was stupid, okay?” I said, waving her off. “I was stupid. I did a stupid thing. A stupid, stupid, stupid —”
    She grabbed me by the chin and made me meet her eyes. “What. Happened.”
    I fidgeted until I could get my chin free, and then explained, “I got doored.”
    â€œBy a car?”
    â€œNo,” I said, already exhausted from her line of questioning, “by a pegasus.”
    â€œOn your bike?” she insisted, taking my chin in her hand again.
    â€œYes,” I said, meeting her eyes with a dull stare.
    â€œBut the car that hit you —”
    â€œI got doored, okay?” I said, shrugging my shoulders to the best of my limited ability. “I’m just a big idiot. A big, dumb idiot, okay?”
    â€œOh, sweets,” she said, “that’s not your fault — it was the driver who was being careless.”
    â€œIt wasn’t exactly —” I started to say.
    â€œThank God you were wearing your helmet!”
    Eighteen.
    â€œMom, it was … like, sort of my fault. Kind of. I wasn’t really — I mean, I wasn’t paying that much attention. I was kind of … I was upset, okay?” I lowered my voice to a pain med-slurred whisper. “Just sad. I was really