Page 52 of Brown Sugar
Taste my flavor, feel my love…
I’m singing under my breath, jotting down the lyrics. The melody comes to me with each word, the creativity flowing from me for the first time in weeks…
I’m so tuned into the moment that I’m hardly paying attention to the bustling cityscape around me. Arnold’s doing some of his own singing—he’s turned up the radio and sings along to some hard rock song he loves from the ’80s.
The car that rams into us seemingly comes out of nowhere.
We have the green light as we’re crossing through the intersection when a truck speeds past their red light and clips the back half of the car. The songbook flies out of my lap. The same happens to the pen between my fingers. I scream as I’m whipped back and forth from the force of the collision.
“Crap!” Arnold fumbles with the wheel to course correct in the middle of the crowded intersection.
Tires screech. Horns honk. Rubber burns and my heart leaps into my throat. The scenery around me spins into distorted shapes and colors I can hardly recognize.
It feels like we’re whirling around for seconds on end ’til finally we crash onto a nearby sidewalk and the car jerks to a sudden halt.
I’ve snapped forward against the seatbelt, half out of my seat. I’m unable to process what just happened. As I try to push myself back up into the rest of my seat, it feels like my brain’s been rattled inside my skull. My back and neck are aching and I’ve lost my voice.
Arnold’s not much better off. He’s face-planted against the steering wheel. Blood trickles down the side of his face.
Another scream tears from my throat.
People have gathered around the car. Onlookers horrified from the collision they just witnessed. I’m a shaky mess as I claw at the door handles and push open the dented in door on my side. A man with headphones around his neck and a basketball jersey reaches for me.
“Miss, are you okay?” he asks. “That was a crazy crash!”
“My driver… he’s… my driver needs help!”
“We’ve called 911,” pipes up a woman from the man’s side. Her eyes fill with worry. “You’re all bruised.”
I can feel it—my neck is throbbing from where the seatbelt caught against me and I’m certain I must have a lump on my forehead from how I’d fallen half out of my seat.
But that hardly compares to Arnold, who’s slumped over the wheel…
“That guy came out of nowhere,” the man with the headphones says. “He straight up ran that red light and smashed right into you guys.”
“And then kept going,” the woman says, shaking her head. “There’s nothing worse than hit-and-run drivers.”
I’ve tuned them out. I’m barely able to swallow as the swelling in my throat thickens and the immediate realization I’ve narrowly escaped another dangerous situation sinks in.
It could’ve been an accident. It could’ve just been some random hit-and-run like the man with the headphones and the woman claim.
Or it could be something else.
The most troubling possibility of all.
This was on purpose…
“Kiana, what am I going to do with you?” Tommy sighs. They’re his first words as he shows up to the ER where I’m being checked out.
Because I’m a high profile patient, I’ve been ushered through the special VIP ward of the hospital, where there’s more discretion and fewer prying eyes. He enters the room to find me seated on the exam table, as shell-shocked as I was at the scene of the crash.
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head side to side, sunglasses hiding his eyes. “You’ve got the worst luck in the world. How just a simple trip to the dance studio turned intothis. And Arnold…”
“How is he?” I murmur, my voice hoarse. “Is he okay?”
Tommy swats a hand. “He’ll be fine.”
“He wasn’t fine. He was bleeding and unconscious!”