Page 13 of Rosie and the Dreamboat
The room erupts in screams of laughter. “Romeo! Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
“Enough!” Leo roars it. “That does it! This is me officially snapping! Rosie as my witness. Give me that little crowbar. I’m getting her out myself.”
“Might as well use those biceps for something,” an old guy ribs. There’s a pause, and I’m guessing he was given a ferocious look. “Sorry, kid. We’re just joshin’ ya.”
I can feel the sensation of Leo physically wrenching on the pod. The water’s slopping. How much does this tank weigh, with the water and me? At this rate it’ll flip, sending me sliding, nude and fetus-like, across the floor to rest on the toes of his boots.
“Don’t just fling it open,” I cry into the dark.
My mind twirls a kaleidoscope of biceps and rainbows and dreamboats and crowbars. “I’m right here,” he tells me again, and through the first crack, light pierces my eyeball like a white wire.
I cover my boobs.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Leo crows, a touch louder than before. “The seal’s broken, I think. Oh, oh, oh, I’m getting the pearl out of this fucker, I swear to—”
The light gets a little more blindingly painful.
“Get her, Romeo.” The guys are cheering him on. “Romeo! Romeo!”
“Stop calling me that! My name is fucking Leo—” Another crack interrupts the tirade of insults and jokes and breathless labor. “My shift’s technically over, so I don’t have to take any of your shit. After I get this girl out, I’m going for a beer, and I’m eating an entire pizza, and I’m ignoring all the Valentine’s Day lovey-dovey crap, because against all odds, I’m single, despite being a solid-gold certified dream—”
Crack.
“Get her a bottle of water and a straw. Poke it through. What? No straws? Not the fucking environment!” Leo ends on a howl. He’s practically overwrought. “I’m nearly there, I can feel it.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Frank’s voice says, worried. “We’ll try the jaws again. You’ve done good. No, Don. Let the kid do it. He’s earned it. And you in there, Rosie. Great job, girlie. We’re almost there. One big pop and you’re out.”
“She’s not wearing anything,” Leo tells him in a protective growl.
“We’ll make sure—”
“We’ll slide in a towel—”
“It’s okay, Leo, relax—”
The Jaws of Life finish what Leo could not. Two prongs are forced in, and the light begins pouring in, faster than water. It’s open about a foot now. I’m being submerged in white, agonizing light, and I shield my eyes and press myself into the wall of the tank.
I hear Bree’s horrified voice. “Oh my God, Rosie!”
“Stop.” Leo’s fireman voice. “Let her sister in. Get that robe. Here.”
I have fabric over me now, and it’s getting soaked in the poisonous salt sludge. I have no strength in my muscles. The relaxation promised by Dionne has taken me too far in the wrong direction.
I feel a familiar soft hand on my face. “Bree! Leo got me out.”
She hums in concern, stroking a finger over my closed eyes. “Well, almost. This entire room of dudes should probably leave. Thank you so much. Great job, everyone.” There’s the sound of metal equipment and shuffling boots. Frank says goodbye to me. Bree is pulling my hair back, squeezing out water. My eyes can’t open.
“Are you still here?” I ask the room. I get my arms into the robe.
“I’m still here,” Leo says. “With my back turned and my eyes closed. But I’m not leaving till you’re out.”
Bree says to him, “Okay, she’s decent. Can you help me lift her?”
The new hand that wraps under my upper arm is big and warm. Bree’s cheerful as they physically extract me. “All things considered, you don’t look like a drowned rat.” She puts a towel on my head.
I press it on my eyes. “You’re just saying that.”
“Bring her through here to the shower,” Dionne says. “We have your clothes here, and I’ve put water bottles in there. Just rinse thoroughly, shampoo, condition. Would you like to proceed with your hot-oil stone massage, Rosie?”
