Shirl Henke - Finders Keepers

“Good deal. You take it easy driving home, okay?”

“All righty. Say, yew take good care ’o thet feller. He don’t sound too happy. Right strong fer a sick ’un, though.”

Matt’s muffled oaths had grown louder as she and Mr. Hopwell talked. So had the kicks at the door. “I’ll sure do that, sir.” She returned to the van and took off, heading toward the highway. Just as she turned off the back road, one of the big Slurpees tipped over, spilling thick red goo all over the passenger seat.

“Dammit!” she yelled, pounding on the steering wheel. Granger, whose protests had subsided once she was under way again, renewed kicking the door.

All right, she’d gone through hell to get him that big fat Slurpee. He would damn well drink it! She crossed the over-pass and found a deserted rest area boasting the only shade tree in the state. Setting the emergency brake hard enough to nearly snap it off, she seized the oversize Styrofoam cup and stomped to the rear of the van. She yanked the doors open and glared at Granger, who glared back.

Oh, it didn’t matter that he had gauze covering the blindfold, she knew he was glaring, damn his hide. She thought of Effie and stretching a hide on a barn door. Granger’s would be big enough to stretch over the whole frickin’ barn. Sam took a deep, calming breath. The Econoline still ran. The bent fender was nothing that a body shop couldn’t take care of for a pittance, say a grand or two.

“Too bad, Aunt Claudia. You can afford it,” she muttered as she unstrapped Matt. “Okay, swing your legs around so I can help you sit up,” she told him.

He tried to talk through the tape, but she ignored the mumbling. “Look, I went to a lot of trouble to get you this. According to the ads, it’s the best Slurpee in the state. You gotta be dehydrated and I know your electrolytes are messed up, so cooperate.”

Finally, after considerable struggling, she got him propped against the fender well with his feet dangling over the edge of the fender. He was still pretty groggy in spite of his kicking fit back at the Slurpee stand—or maybe worn out because of it. She hesitated for a moment as she unwound the gauze and reached for the tape over his mouth, willing herself to chill out. Grudgingly, she added, “I owe you for not hurting me this morning. You were right. I was a bitch.” Then she pulled the tape off, taking care not to pull his parched lips any more than necessary.

“Can’t argue with that,” he mumbled. His tongue felt like number-seven sandpaper and his head pounded like Ricky Ricardo’s bongo drums. Then she took hold of his chin with one hand and thrust a straw between his lips with the other. He tried to suck but his mouth was so numb and the Slurpee so thick, nothing came through. He tried again. No go.

“I know you’re dying of thirst. You gotta be,” she said in exasperation, thinking of the red goo soaking into the passenger seat while she wasted time with him.

“Can’t…get it…through the straw.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, pulling on the straw to get it out of the small hole punched in the lid. It wouldn’t budge. She tried opening the lid and it appeared welded to the cup. “Great! The other one opened like sesame. This one’s sealed tighter than Brad Pitt’s buns.” She pried with her fingernails and broke one before the edge of the lid finally popped up, spraying her with thick red ice.

Matt could hear her swearing and only guessed about what was going on since she’d kept his blindfold in place. He was half sitting against what he thought was the rear fender well inside the van, slipping as she scooted around. A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Having troubles, Sammie?” he couldn’t resist asking in spite of how thirsty he was. Why did he provoke this woman? She could dump the whole bloody thing over his head and he’d dehydrate by nightfall.

Sam saw his smirk and nearly did just what he was thinking. “I’d love to give you a shower but it would be unprofessional—and worse yet, unprofitable.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great Ferenghi?”

“What’s that?” she asked. She figured it wasn’t flattering. “Just drink, will you?” she demanded, tipping his head back and starting to pour the icy contents of the cup down his throat when he opened his mouth to answer her question.

The mouthful of Slurpee was thick, filled with shaved ice. And some of it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed and swallowed, feeling his face turning strawberry-red. “I hate strawberry,” he mumbled ungraciously between coughs.

“Tough. I didn’t have time to consult you about the menu,” she snapped, pulling on his jaw so she could dump more of the wet stuff down.

He had to open his mouth to gulp in air as he coughed. That’s when she hit him unsuspecting with another strawberry salvo. He tried to swallow it mid-inhalation. This time all of it went down the wrong pipe. He tried to lean forward but his butt was slipping on the plush carpeting and all he succeeded in doing was sliding more.

“Hold still, dammit! You’re gonna choke,” Sam said, setting the cup down and reaching out to pull him up while he coughed and gagged. “Boy, when you said you hated strawberry, you weren’t kidding.” Ungrateful lout!

He weighed too much for her to be able to pull him upright, so she jumped out of the van and knelt to brace his feet on the smooth carpet and give him some traction. The open Slurpee cup tipped over when his knee brushed against it, splashing the contents over her shoulders and head. Sam let loose with a volley of curses, wiping the sticky liquid from her face. She stood up and combed ice chips from her hair while Matt continued to cough.

Damn, this was getting serious! She leaned inside and tugged on the straitjacket’s straps to pull him forward. That’s when he gave one great whooping cough and let loose with a stream of the trapped liquid. He looked like a big fire-breathing dragon as red Slurpee gushed from his nostrils and mouth. The spray of liquid “fire” caught them both.

Matt couldn’t catch his breath. Every time he tried to inhale, more of the confounded Slurpee shot from what he was sure was the bottom of his lungs to the top of his aching head. Damn, it was cold coming through his nose! And it burned! He could hear Sam cursing and yelling but at the moment, he was too occupied trying to breathe to pay any attention to her.

“Look at the mess you’ve made! I can’t friggin’ believe this! Jeez!” She pounded on his back until his coughing and spewing subsided and his face started to retreat from bright red to grayish tan. Then she left him propped against the wheel well and reached for a big roll of paper towels stored with her other gear. All she could do was soak up the worst of the goo from her new plush carpeting and dab at the mess on her scrubs. The scrubs were pink already, but that didn’t help much with the deep crimson of red dye number two soaking them. As to the mess on Matt Granger, she figured since he spewed it up, he could live with it until tonight.

Then she remembered the front seat of the van, which she’d intended to clean up as soon as she gave him a few sips. “Not bad enough I’m covered, you’re covered and the back of the van’s soaked—so’s my passenger seat!”

“If you hadn’t tried to drown me with the nasty stuff, none of this would’ve happened,” he rasped out.

“That’s real gratitude! I go miles out of my way to get you a cold drink instead of warm bottled water and all you can do is blame this mess on me. Even got smacked by a geezer driving without a license. I was worried about your reaction to the stun gun. Seeing you’re back to your usual charming self, you must be okay.”

Matt took a deep cleansing breath, relieved that his lungs worked. “Right now, that warm bottle of water sounds like nectar of the gods,” he said through clenched teeth. “And for your information, there isn’t a cell—an atom—in my body that doesn’t hurt like I’ve been worked over by a pair of goons with ball bats. Who’d believe one little dame could inflict that much pain.”