Buried Biker by KM Rockwood

wadded up pieces of paper towel and stuffed them up my nostrils, hoping to stop the bleeding. My nose was a bit misshapen, but not too swollen. My jaw was bruised and dark, but I hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the five o’clock shadow helped hide it.
    My hair, though, was a tangled, matted mess. Money was always tight ,and as long as I could keep my hair tucked out of the way under my hard hat at work, nobody cared how long it was, so I’d been postponing getting a haircut.
    Sticky clumps of hair hung by either side of my face. I tried pulling them apart, but it was obvious I’d have to wash the blood out.
    I took off my jacket and shirt, laying them over a grab bar. Then I lathered my hands with a lot of the soap and bent into the sink, rubbing the suds into my hair and rinsing. It was awkward, but it worked.
    The door to the hallway opened. I froze. Water dripped from my hair onto my shoulders as I backed up so that if anyone looked under the door, my feet appeared to be near the toilet. I tried to convince myself that no one would bother to check. Why would they? But I held my breath as I heard the newcomer splash into the urinal, then the flush of water. He left.
    He hadn’t washed his hands. I hoped he wasn’t a hospital employee.
    I took my jacket and rinsed the blood out of the sleeve as well as I could. It was an old hunter’s jacket I’d gotten at Goodwill, a black and red buffalo check, so at least the stain wasn’t all that noticeable. The jacket itself, however, stood out like a sore thumb. I folded it so the quilted black lining showed instead of the garish plaid.
    Easing the wads of paper towel out of my nose, I didn’t breathe for a few seconds while I waited to see if blood would start dripping again.
    It didn’t.
    I tried to breathe through my mouth.
    Putting on my shirt and tucking my wet hair behind my ears, I studied my reflection in the mirror again. Not perfect, but I didn’t look like quite such a deranged madman as I had before.
    Now to figure out how to get up to see Kelly. Without being noticed so that if—or more likely when—Montgomery started asking questions, people wouldn’t remember me. That eliminated going up to the front desk and asking for her room number.
    The large waiting room was almost deserted except for a line of people waiting to talk to a single, harried lady who was manning the information desk.
    Hallways led off in several directions and an alcove with a bank of elevators sat in one corner.
    Partially shielded by a plant with big leaves, I sat down in a plastic chair by the elevator bank and watched people hurry by. Joining them and just wandering the hallways without having any idea of where Kelly was didn’t seem like such a good idea.
    I was in luck. The two biker chicks came from a hallway carrying huge paper cups and a take-out bag. Their boot heels clicking on the tile floor, they strode purposefully toward the elevators.
    People moved aside and let them by. Their boots, tight jeans, and leather vests were crisscrossed with chains. As I expected, they had embroidered patches on the back of their jackets with saber tooth tiger skulls, “Predators” above and the women’s names, Li’l Mama and Black Rose, below. Beneath that, Black Rose’s said, “Property of Razorback” and Li’l Mama’s said, “Property of Funky Joe.”
    Funky Joe was the guy I’d left lying on the sidewalk outside.
    I got to my feet and followed them, figuring they were on their way to Kelly’s room. When the next elevator came, they got in, and no one else got in with them, although several people had been waiting longer than they had. I watched the numbers over the elevator door. It stopped on the third floor.
    The fewer people who noticed me, the better.
    A whole bunch of people got onto the next elevator. I entered with them and got off with a small knot when we reached the third floor. I tried to step out quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Black Rose or Li’l Mama,