"Luck Be a Lady" (StoryADay Challenge/Day 17)
THE PROMPT (BY GREGORY FROST, WHO’S MOST RECENT NOVEL-LENGTH WORK IS THE SHADOWBRIDGE DUOLOGY FROM DELREY. IT WAS AN ALA BEST FANTASY NOVEL PICK. HIS LATEST SHORT FICTION WILL APPEAR IN THE SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2020 ASIMOV’S MAGAZINE AND IN AN UPCOMING ISSUE OF WEIRD TALES.)
Think up a narrative about some form of travel—anything from setting out on an adventure, to a school trip to somewhere, to crossing a border, to an accident on the way, (a train wreck perhaps).
Begin this in the voice of a collective first person: “We.”
How does a group consciousness describe the experience?
*
“Luck Be a Lady”
We should have never come to Las Vegas for Dexter’s bachelor party.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Miles said, resting his head against the hospital hallway wall. “Why do I always let you guys talk me into these stupid things?”
“Miles, relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax Leo!” Miles shouted.
A nurse in green scrubs came around the corner. “Excuse me gentlemen,” she said, putting her finger to her lips. “We’re going to need you all to lower the volume of your conversation.”
“Sorry,” I whispered to her. “Won’t happen again.”
She nodded and left.
“Let’s step outside and get some fresh air.” I said, looking down at my blood-stained shirt. “We can’t see Dexter yet anyway.”
The three of us walked past open room doors, where patients were watching either The Price is Right, Family Feud, or Everybody Loves Raymond.
“Aaron, did you forget where we are?” Leo said, when we stepped through the double-doors. “There is no fresh air here. Just heat.”
Miles laughed and exhaled.
“You good Miles?” I asked. “You were boiling up in there.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just wish I was back east, at home with my family.” Miles sat down on a bench near the hospital entrance. He leaned forward and coughed. The mucus he spat was the color of ketchup.
“Damn it,” Miles mumbled.
Leo walked a few yards further to light a cigarette. He pulled a lighter out of his breast jacket pocket and took the Marlboro loosie from behind his left ear.
“Angie is never going to let this go,” Miles said. “Never.”
“You’re right,” I said, taking a seat next to him. “That’s why we’re not going to tell her.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Nothing happened.”
“Too much happened,” Miles said, stretching his jaw. “Ang is like a detective. And Dexter can’t lie to save his life. Plus she’ll see the scar.”
“I never said anything about Dexter lying.”
Miles looked at me and smiled.
Leo walked back over, dropped his cigarette on the pavement and put his chelsea boot heel to it.
“Leo, when was the last time you spoke to Angie?” I asked.
“HA!” Leo shouted. “Angie hates me. We coexist because of Dex, other than that she says nothing to me.”
“And that’s why you’re going to do all the talking.”
His expression changed. “I’m not speaking to her.”
“Yes you are.” I said. “What are little brothers for? And more importantly, it's your duty as the best man.”
Leo balled his hands into fists.
Back inside the hospital, Nurse Vargas told us Dexter was in room 302b, and that we could see him. When we got there, the room door was cracked. I knocked before entering.
“Come in,” a weak voice said.
We entered the room. On the bed, with a pillow behind his back, and an IV drip attached to his hand, was Dexter.
“How are you feeling champ?” Miles asked. “Are you in any pain?”
Dexter flashed a weak smile. “I’ll be alright. I’m just really sore. I can barely move.”
“You look like crap,” Leo said. “Well you always looked like crap, just worse now.”
We always joked at serious times, it breaks the tension of the moment.
“Damn,” Dexter said. “That’s how you speak to your big brother.”
“I’m thirty-one,” Leo said.
“And I’m still your big brother.”
There was a knock on the open door. It was Dr. Brock. His name matched his face. He looked like a sixty-year old vegan weightlifter.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Mr. Bennett, I just wanted to see how you were feeling.”
“So far so good,” Dexter said. “These are my brothers.”
“Nice to meet all of you,” he said, waving at us informally. “Well, Mr. Bennett, all of your labs came back negative, aside from the twelve stitches on your lower back, I expect you to be back up and running in about four-to-six weeks. Thankfully, after the stabbing incident, you were rushed here immediately. You lost a tremendous amount of blood, but fortunately everything worked out. You’re going to be sore at your wedding, I can guarantee that. But at least you’re alive. It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Bennet, and your brothers. Rest up, safe travels back home and congratulations on the wedding again. I wish you a happy ever after.”
Dr. Brock closed the door and left. You could hear his crocs squeaking down the hallway.
“Remind me to never come to Vegas with any of you again,” Dexter said.
“We--you and I--can come here again,” I said. “But these two can stay back east.”
“This is all my fault,” Miles said, walking over to the window. “I should have never invited those dancers back to the suite. I should have left them at the casino.”
“It’s all of our fault,” I said. “We were drunk and irresponsible.”
“We were lucky,” Leo said.
“We definitely were,” Miles agreed, putting his palm on the window. “And luck in this town is fickle.”
“They looked like honest professionals,” Dexter said. “None of us knew what they had up their sleeves.”
“And that miscalculation almost got you killed,” Miles said.
“This wasn’t the first time they pulled a stunt like that either,” Leo said. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Brothers,” Dexter said. “I got stabbed by an exotic dancer. I’m getting married in three days to the love of my life. I miss Angie’s face. I’m just happy to be alive. I’m grateful that all of you had my back. Bad things happen. But like Mom used to say, ‘always count your blessings.’ I love you guys. I’m counting three blessings right in front of me.”
The End.
**This is a work of fiction. Names. characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.