Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Ma’am, don’t! It’ll make things worse!” I barked the order. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the Creole restaurant on Royal Street. I landed in the trauma bay at an equally upscale, private hospital. “Move aside!”
She did, trembling.
A peach decorative pillow fell while I slipped behind him, braced my stance, and hooked my fists under his rib cage, then executed a swift, practiced thrust. Hard. Upward.
He wheezed, body convulsing for air.
Crap.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I muttered.
The Heimlich wasn’t working.
His body sagged. My strained muscles almost caved when Montana appeared. The sight of him not holding my most prized possession halted my impulse to save a life.
My glare should’ve slapped the taste from his mouth and all those perfect teeth. I trusted you with my son!
“Don’t worry. Momma has Darius,” he said, helping me bring the man to the polished herringbone floor. “Ambulance is five minutes out.”
Unable to trust a soul, I spent precious seconds I didn’t have seeking Darius. Miss Virginia tucked him in her protective embrace near the office hallway.
Zuri, chill, he’s safe. But this man wouldn’t be.
My mind snapped into ER mode. The hushed whispers morphed into the hum of a ventilator. My fingers pressed against the older man’s throat, finding the small hollow between the Adam’s apple and the cricoid cartilage. Training took over.
I dug into my apron. Pulled out more napkins while the man’s eyes crushed closed.
“What do you need, Journey?” Montana sat on his haunches.
“A straw.”
Someone chucked one in Montana’s direction, and I snagged a steak knife from the linen table, dunking it into the Creole Kool-Aid Royale. I prayed the vodka sterilized it enough.
“You don’t need to watch this,” I suggested to the wife.
Blood pooled at his throat as I made my quick incision.
I pressed my fingers into the cut, moving tissue and muscle, slid the straw in, and crossed my fingers. For one heart-pounding second, nothing happened.
Then air rattled through the straw, allowing the man to breathe.
The room exploded with applause. His wife dropped to her knees, clutching his hand, kissing his face.
I sat back hard on the floor, my own hands slick with blood, and wiped them on the apron.
Montana’s face. Lawd. He wasn’t just looking at me. He saw me. Zuri Caldwell, MD.
Felt good.
Frightening.
And prompted me into action.
I tore the bloody apron off and rushed toward my son. As if Virginia understood my need to get away, she carried him toward the office. She tossed a silent plea over her shoulder. Don’t take him. Virginia had a deep maternal connection to Darius. I followed. Behind me, Montana ordered, “No pictures, please.”
Had they?
Had anyone captured an image—
I stumbled over a crate in the middle of the office floor. “What the—”
Diana Ross went on vacation. Darn that wig! It sailed across the air.
On the ground, I pressed my hands to my head, locs tightly cornrowed to my scalp. My son shot off like a rocket toward the wig, as Peaches entered the room. “Journey, you’re fabulous—” She murmured, “Child, you okay?”
“She tripped,” Virginia said, helping me up off the floor.
My son bounded over, twisties bouncing to the tempo of his excitement.
Just then, Montana entered. “I mentioned legal—”
Darius held up the hair. “Mommy, your puppy.”
Ugh. That’s what I got for trying to shut Darius up with a wig joke. Anytime he was about to burst and mention my wig, we used code words. After a while, I’d embedded a history lesson, using the term peruke, a popular seventeenth- and eighteenth-century wig. My bright boy forgot the code word. Peruke. Not puppy.
I slapped the Diana Ross wig into place. I think. She was a beast in one direction.
I scooped up my son. “I won’t be in tomorrow, Miss Peaches, Miss Virginia. I’m sorry.”
Another server popped in and mumbled how the ambulance had arrived.
Peaches sighed. “I’ll handle that. Don’t go nowhere, Journey, until I hug you and that bébé!”
She vanished. The way Darius and I should. Right now.
Montana stared at me, something in his eyes capturing me. Concern instead of hunger. He said, “Everyone erased what they filmed. Most of them are locals—the weekly lunch crowd is always heavy with the usuals. The rest understood me.”
Okay, so he’d done a mob shakedown. Fear motivated them. Still, my firm stance told him my position stood. We were leaving. That was final. Plus, the $860 first-month and cleaning deposit for the crappy studio. Adios, Louisiana!
Virginia appeared lost in space. She caressed Darius’s cheek, her moist eyes on me. “Please come tomorrow, sugar. We have our new-hire dinner on … Fridays.”
I planted Darius on the ground and folded my arms. Visions of New York—a place Darius and I should’ve gotten lost in—warned me not to fall for her kindness.
I’d almost died … he’d almost gotten my son.
Arms crossed, I attempted a smile, hoping it came off playful, not mean. “Huh, a new-hire dinner. Cute idea, but I don’t buy it. Nor do kids eat free in a place this bougie.”