B-Careful

by Shannon Holmes

  B-Careful

  The B-More Careful Prequel

  Shannon Holmes

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Thank You

  Kingston Imperial

  Kingston Imperial

  B Careful: The B-More Careful Prequel Copyright © 2020 by Shannon Holmes

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Kingston Imperial 2, LLC

  Rights Department, 144 North 7th Street, #255 Brooklyn N.Y. 11249

  First Edition:

  Book and Jacket Design: PixiLL Designs

  Cataloging in Publication data is on file with the library of Congress

  ISBN 9781733304146 (Trade Paperback)

  1

  The ambulance darted in and out of traffic, racing through the streets of Baltimore. Bright flashing red lights doused everything in its path, cars, trees, buildings and pedestrians, with the color red. Accompanying the frantic display of lights was a loud, ear-piercing siren that invaded the thin night air. The frantic display of lights alerted anyone within earshot that there was a medical emergency, and to please get out of the way.

  Behind the wheel of the ambulance was a young, clean-cut, white male named Brett Anderson. The rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins, from driving at this high rate of speed caused the Caucasian paramedic to grip the steering wheel so tightly until there was a slight discoloration in his knuckles. He ran every red light and stop sign in route to his destination; maneuvering the large vehicle with the ease that only comes from years of experience. Somehow as an ambulance driver, he had always seemed to find the correct balance of driving recklessly and safely.

  Nevertheless, he knew that this was a matter of urgency, one of the highest medical emergencies that he'd dealt with all year. His skillful yet reckless driving reflected that. He knew time was of the essence. Every passing second was crucial. The high speed at which he traveled was a grim indicator that the potential for loss of life was high. Still, if he could help it, this patient wouldn’t be Dead on Arrival.

  Countless times he had made trips like this to a multitude of hospitals from different neighborhoods in Baltimore city, wherever the need to transport severely injured victims or patients had arisen. He transported people from car accidents, house fires and violent crime scenes. Every call that he responded to was almost always critical in nature. The driver understood that his current trip was always the most important one. He understood that his aggressive driving could possibly save someone’s life.

  At the moment, the patient’s poor condition conveyed the seriousness and the urgency of the situation.

  As the paramedic gunned the engine and raced down Eutaw Street toward the emergency room at the University of Maryland Medical Center, everything became a blur. It was as if everything was at a standstill except his vehicle. Other automobiles moved out of the way, pulling over, allowing him to pass. Those that didn’t, he sped around them, weaving in and out of the traffic lanes.

  At these high speeds, the driver ceased being able to make out the makes or models of cars, or even see pedestrian faces as he blew past. Instead he was focused on one thing, and one thing only, getting his patient the medical treatment she so desperately needed. The young lady was already on basic life support.

  While concentrating on the road, he couldn’t help but think of the patient in his ambulance that his partner worked on feverishly, and what terrible condition they had found her in. She was badly beaten and lying in a pool of her own blood when her body was discovered in a downtown hotel.

  “Hold on baby,” the female paramedic mused as she continued to monitor the patient’s vital signs. Her pulse was weak, but in this battered condition, she was fortunate to have one at all. Her vital signs teetered on life and death.

  Although she had no previous connection with this stranger, the paramedic was sympathetic toward her grave situation. Her emotional support didn’t just stem from them both being of the same race, African American. It was deeper than just that. It was a maternal instinct the paramedic felt toward her and the condition that she was in.

  The middle-aged paramedic had a daughter of her own around the patient’s age. Maybe, just maybe, this could have been her child. In spite of the fact that this wasn’t her own flesh and blood, it was still somebody’s daughter; so she was going to care for this young lady to the best of her ability.

  In her fifteen years on the job, Pamela Jones struggled with the emotional toll of being a first responder. In her line of work it was hard to cope with the trauma she witnessed on a daily basis, as she watched life and death play out right before her eyes.

  Day in and day out, the pressure was on her to perform life saving techniques under some of the most pressure packed situations. She suffered in silence, finding no one, outside of her co-workers, who could identify with the atrocities she had seen, while dealing with every medical condition known to man; heart attacks, strokes and drug overdoses. She also witnessed the aftermath of fatal car crashes and the carnage of murder. On a lower level, she also had to deal with trauma victims, gunshot wounds and victims of stabbings and domestic violence. It never ceased to amaze her what human beings would do to themselves and others.

  Years on the job had done nothing to insulate her from the catastrophes she witnessed. Somehow, she had learned to emotionally distance herself from her job.

  However, it was when tragedies or accidents afflicted the young that it bothered her the most. She hated to see young lives cut short due to negligence or a violent malicious act.

  Currently, she was sick to her stomach. Never in her entire life, on or off the job, had she seen anyone this badly beaten, male or female. That’s what disturbed her most about this incident. The paramedic couldn’t help but feel like the world had failed this patient in many ways. Least of which it failed to protect her.

  I wonder what happened to her, she thought.

  Usually, Pam suspected a husband, boyfriend or an ex of this type of brutality. In her mind, this case was no different. Only someone that this young lady was intimately involved with could produce such rage to beat her within inches of her life. Whoever did it really did a number on her, the paramedic concluded.

  Why? she wondered.

  This badly beaten victim gave new meaning to blunt force trauma. Her face was swollen twice its normal size. There was a large cut on her scalp, trickles of blood leaked from her nose and mouth. The welt marks on various parts on her body, back, chest, arms and buttocks, testified to the severity of the physical attack.

  Everyone who had laid eyes on her couldn’t help but wonder what kind of animal or psychopath would do this to another human being, let alone a woman. Looking at the injuries inflicted on her patient, she felt justified in labeling the perpetrator by any name she could think of, other than a child of god.

  The paramedic wasn’t an overly religious woman, yet every time she looked down at her pati
ent, she felt compelled to say a silent prayer.

  Lord have Mercy, she thought. Please don’t let this child die. Not like this. Not tonight . Not on my watch!

  Pray as she might, every time she laid eyes on her, the paramedic couldn’t help but wince. Netta looked that bad. She had serious doubts about her survival rate in this condition.

  “Pamela, how’s everything back there?” her partner shouted through the glass partition. “How’s the patient holding up?”

  The situation looked grim, but the paramedic tried her best to be optimistic, shouting back to him some words of encouragement.

  “The patient is holding up just fine. She’s one tough cookie, but she’ll be even better once we get there,” she replied optimistically.

  These two knew each other like a book after working together for the last six years. They had built a rapport that extended off the job. They had become trusting friends who truly cared about each other’s well-being.

  Pam’s message to her partner was coded. Brett immediately knew exactly what that meant, Hurry the hell up. He gunned the engine even harder, desperate to win his race against time.

  In an emergency situation like this, it seemed as if the ambulance was moving slowly, although in real time it was moving at break neck speed. For the paramedic tending to her patient, it felt like it was taking an eternity to reach the safe haven of the hospital.

  After checking on the IV in Netta's arm, Pam continued to care for the patient by placing an oxygen mask over her mouth, while simultaneously keeping track of her pulse. The paramedic was sure that she had done everything in her power to stabilize the patient until they arrived at the hospital, where a trauma unit team awaited their arrival.

  At best, all they could do now was try to keep the patient's condition stabilized. The paramedic hoped things didn’t take a turn for the worst before they reached their destination. Yet, that was wishful thinking to say the least. Netta was severely injured. Anything could happen on the way to the hospital. There was always a chance that she could lose her life. The journey to the hospital was unpredictable, even to a seasoned medical professional such as herself.

  Helplessly, Netta looked on, her swollen eyelids staring up at the bright lights inside the ambulance. Pain had consumed her. Tears trickled down her cheeks. It was the first time she had cried from physical pain since she was a kid. Physically, she was in a bad way. Her aura of invincibility was shattered. Netta, the boss bitch of the Pussy Pound clique, was now just another victim of the streets of Baltimore, fighting for her life.

  Subconsciously, she began to replay the events that led to her being a passenger in the ambulance. Netta even envisioned her assailant, Black, as he administered the savage beating on her. She felt every blow as he unleashed all his rage and fury on her.

  Netta’s head was spinning. Her body was swimming in a current of pain. Submerged in the darkness of the hotel room, she never saw the first punch coming. Black, her ex-boyfriend recently released from prison, had ambushed her just as she exited the bathroom and prepared to go home. She knew it was a bad idea to come here with him, especially after what she had done to him, but she felt like she had no other choice.

  Although he hadn't forced her or kidnapped her, Netta knew it was come willingly or die. Right there on the spot. She knew Black was a killer many times over. She also knew he wasn't the type to take no for an answer. Especially when she owed him. And especially when she stole from him.

  Black savagely pummeled her with punch after punch as she came crashing down on the floor. He straddled her and continued to pound every part of her body with blow after blow, until Netta blacked out from the beating. Another powerful blow from his fists would only serve to bring her back around again.

  His steady stream of punches put a quick end to any feeble defense Netta managed to mount. She covered her head only to be beaten in her body. With his bare hands, Black injured her in countless places. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t satisfied. Now that vengeance was his, he wanted more. Nothing short of her death would make him happy. This was a day he had longed for while he was in prison.

  Black grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged Netta to her feet. He cocked back his fist and cold cocked her over and over again, for good measure. He watched as she crumpled to the floor, blood oozing from her mouth and nose. He stood over her limp body, verbally chastising Netta.

  “Bitch, you dead! I’ll teach you about tryin’ to play me, yo,” Black growled while delivering bone-jarring kick after kick to his fallen victim’s rib cage. Quickly Netta felt the agonizing pain of bones breaking. As she lay there withering in pain, too badly injured to make an escape attempt, Black prepared himself for the second phase of his attack.

  Going into the hotel closet, he retrieved a wire hanger. Black quickly dismantled it and then doubled it, fashioning it into some sort of makeshift weapon.

  “Since you wanna be a hoe, I’ma beat you like the hooker you is, yo,” Black threatened. “When I'm finished with you, yo...They gonna have to give you a closed casket funeral bitch. Nobody steals from Black and lives!”

  Menacingly he stood over Netta. He brought the hanger high over his head, then brought it down hard on her back. Simultaneously, Netta let out a blood-curdling scream. Her screams for mercy only excited him. He repeatedly lashed her until he drew blood. Black beat her unmercifully. He blacked out while dispensing his brand of street justice.

  In the back of the ambulance, her recollection of the attack shook Netta to the core. Although she was restrained to the stretcher, Netta began to go into a series of violent convulsions. This caused the paramedic to spring into action. She tightened the straps on the stretcher so Netta couldn’t flail her limbs, thus further injuring herself.

  “Calm down baby, everything is going to be all right; we almost there,” the paramedic told her, while gently rubbing her forehead.

  Softly she spoke to Netta as she waited for the convulsions to subside. Once Netta was in a more stable condition, the paramedic began to look through her personal property that the police had handed over to her. She was curious about the patient’s name. The paramedic wanted to be able to check up on her after they dropped her off at the hospital emergency room. She really cared if Netta lived or died. Already she was deeply vetted in Netta’s well-being.

  “Shanetta Jackson, huh,” she said silently as she looked at the Maryland driver’s license.

  The photo caused the paramedic to do a double take. She looked back and forth at her patient strapped to the stretcher, and the driver’s license. She soon realized just how unrecognizable the woman really was. Under normal conditions, she could tell that the young lady was a very attractive dark skin sister. Nothing like the grotesque figure she was currently staring at.

  “Shanetta, hold on baby. You’re going to make it. You hear me?” the paramedic assured her, while speaking the words of life into existence.

  Moved by her own words, the paramedic gently squeezed her hand, like a concerned parent. To her surprise, Netta faintly squeezed her hand in return, applying the minimum amount of pressure. It wasn’t much of a response, but a response was a response.

  Her reaction bought a smile to the woman’s face. In a show of emotion, tears welled up in his her eyes as Netta began to show signs of life for the first time since they found her.

  Through swollen eyelids, Netta couldn’t quite make out her caretaker’s facial features, but she sensed the presence of a loving female paramedic. Barely able to see, the image was dark and shadowy. However, it wasn’t anything for her to fear. It wasn’t like the evil presence she had encountered in the hotel. She knew this person wouldn’t do her any harm.

  However, Netta was in so much agonizing pain she began to drift in and out of consciousness. Her life began to flash before her eyes. She looked back on recent and distant memories, the most vivid ones were tragic. All the negative images seemed to flood her mind. Like the brutal murder of her elderly caretaker and grandmother fig
ure, Ms. Mae. The woman was Netta’s saving grace. She practically raised Netta, instilling in her morals and what little sense of decency she had.

  “Looks are God-given, so be thankful. Praise is man-given, so be humble. Conceit is self-given, so be careful.” she remembered Ms. Mae saying. Her words of wisdom seemed to stay with Netta throughout her entire life.

  Netta could see the old woman’s inviting smile, her head full of gray hair, and rich dark skin. The heavenly image that she saw of the lady she loved so dearly was comforting.

  Suddenly, the glimmer of light was gone. Netta breathed deeply as a sense of relief washed over her body.

  Her chest cavity expanded and deflated with such regularity that it eased the paramedic’s fears. This was a good sign. Now there was hope for Netta, where there once was little or none.

  Netta existed in a suspended state, coherent yet incoherent. Every survival instinct inside Netta pleaded with her subconscious to stay awake. However, it was another matter trying to comply with that request. She didn’t have an ounce of energy left in her body. The brutal beating she had endured exhausted her, both physically and mentally. She was holding on to life by sheer will power.

  Netta had experienced pain in the form of hurt and heartache, more often than she cared to remember in her life. She had suffered through enough hardships to last a lifetime. But this was something totally different. That had been emotional and mental anguish. She had never been physically incapacitated like this before. Her body exploded in pain in places she never knew existed. She was trapped in her own personal hell, which in this case was her body.