by Amarie Avant
“You can’t call me Kayla, fucker! You can’t call me shit!” Tiny prickles that I could liken to pain go off against my back. She slaps and slaps. With not an ounce of urgency in my bones, I tug off my helmet. Then I glance at her over my shoulder.
SMACK.
I slowly wipe the blood from my lip.
Alright, I deserved that.
Mikayla jumps from the bike and begins to run. I’m off the bike in a matter of seconds and standing in her wake before she’s made it five feet away.
She kicks out at my jewels. Now that, I block. “You have proven your point, Mikayla.”
“Oh, have I?” She punches out.
I sidestep it. There’s a glint of hatred in those eyes. Damn it! I’ve seen those eyes light up with happiness. I don’t like how uncomfortable this look of hate in her eyes has me feeling. She’s been a candy striper for years; it’s shameful how my cock can’t give a fuck about her anger geared toward me. I’ve seen her in one of those uniforms helping sick people, and I’d like to be one of those people, you know? Sometimes I need stitches. It would be nice to have a beautiful woman with medical expertise help me, instead of clutching whiskey in one hand and stitching with the other.
Now she’s angry because she can’t hurt me. So, I place my arms down at my sides and allow her to act out her emotions. She slaps me again.
“You killed Ronald and Terry and …” she pressed her forearms into me. “You murdered Cree!” The punches are slower now. She presses against me, growls and slaps at me some more, for being unmovable.
And I take it. I cannot do this! I cannot kill women and children. And I certainly cannot babysit them—or abduct them!
CRASH.
My motorcycle slams to the ground. I give Mikayla a deadly glare for knocking the damn thing down. I reach for her to correct her for such a vile move, but the motorcycle zaps and pops. The color changes from bright green to cobalt blue-back to matte black and then a candy paint I’d programmed when that was in style. Shit, when is the last time I’d upgraded this bike? I think absentmindedly.
“Ah!” Mikayla jumps as it continues to change colors, brightening like confused Christmas lights in the night. “What the hell is it doing?”
“Shit, I need to work on the program. That should never happen.” Especially when I’m being chased by cops, I think about adding.
She glares at me in confusion. I consider explaining that if the damn thing malfunctions due to being tossed, it might not withstand a bullet hole.
That’s why I prefer trucks.
“Who are you?” she demands.
“Jagger Johansson.” I hold out a hand.
Her hand grasps at her chest. “Oh, God. You really are going to kill me,” she says, starting to breath unevenly.
“No. Why would I?” Damn, see how socially challenged I am?! Keeping her in fear is the safer bet.
“You … said your name. I know what you look like,” she continues, starting to hyperventilate.
I rub the back of my neck. I hadn’t expected to carry on a conversation with this woman. I glance around. “I’ll kill you if I have to,” I lie. She’s about the safest person in the entire universe with me. My truck is parked at the farthest end of the lot. It has a turbo engine with junkyard finishes. Looks like it might not kick past 50 kilometers per hour, but I’d bet a Ferrari engine that it does.
It doesn’t have a Ferrari engine, though. It’s a beast. It can go faster. And now I need to get this junk piece of a bike onto the back of it. If my truck could change shape, you can bet your ass that I would’ve preferred it for the job instead of the damn thing on the floor now giving out SOS signals.
Ava said to rent a private jet, and get the job done quickly and efficiently. Well, I don’t go anywhere without my truck.
“C’mon,” I grip her arm a little harder than necessary and drag her toward the last big parking space, where I’d left my truck. The parking spaces are all connected to the brick building. It’s about a six-yard dash to my baby.
“Why are we here? Where are we going?” She continues to press back on her heels. One of them snaps. “Jagger, I just asked—”
“Shhh!” I hold out a stiff hand; my ear perks. There’s an open field on the opposite side of the street, outside of the gate. A tiny, circular reflection catches my eyes.
“Why are we–”
PUFF. The brick to the left of my head breaks away from the wall.
Suppressed assault rifle.
“Get down!” My hand slams into her back.
We are sitting ducks!
Mikayla
My knees feel the most force as they crunch against the sidewalk. I’m not Alice in Wonderland. I would never be curious enough to fall down a hole because I’d be too busy ruminating over the many diseases I’d encounter, the creatures I’d get spooked by, or … the pain I’d endure.
“Ouch,” I scream, as another bit of brick somersaults against my left arm. Now, my arm and my legs are all scratched up.
Jagger barks an order for me to crawl.
“No, screw you! They’re here to help…” My eyes about pop out of my head. Did a bullet just whiz past me?
“That is not the fucking cops, Kayla! They aren’t here to save you! I shook those idiots,” he grits out.
I jump up and run!
“Mikayla, get down!” Jagger shouts from behind me. Bullets buzz in my ears. He’s shooting at an empty field across the street. I determine that his crazy has outweighed his sexy! Forget Jagger!
There’s a hideous truck at the end of the lot. All its missing is the “Sanford and Son Salvage” sticker on the side. It’s laughable. On the opposite side of it, men are arguing in a foreign language. I have no desire to find out because the exaggerated machine guns like, the ones in my little cousin’s PS4 games, are in their hands.
Wait, there were bullets coming from the field across the street! From someone in the shadows, and now these foreigners are coming straight toward us!
Red beams poke against my dress. I dip back down just as bullets spray. Instead of death, I meet another uncomfortable pain. Forget your knees, Mikayla Bryant. Where is my “Jesus Take the Wheel” mixtape? I focus on the gospel and not on the fact that a man, with maybe a Turkish accent, has caught up with us. Jagger leaps in front of me.
As he does, I realize I know where he’s from. There’s an Armenian Power tattoo traveling down his chin onto his neck. It’s astonishing what can be seen when bullets are blazing and everything else seems to be moving in slow motion. Jagger grips the barrel of the Armenian’s machine gun, and shoves the butt back into the man’s chin, then Jagger pops him full of lead with his Magnum. I climb inside of the truck and close the door.
More bullets land against the windows.
It doesn’t even leave a scratch! I slam down the lock button as Jagger grabs the door. His eyes fill with anger for me.
“Find another place to hide!” I sneer.
He slams a fist against the window, and then shoots at the Armenian’s tactical gear on the driver side of the car. I slide over quickly and lock the other door.
My hands are like tiny earthquakes, tremor with each attempt to grab the visor. I pull it down and catch the keys.
“Jesus, you have never failed me,” I whisper.
Another bullet torpedoes against the door. It takes a few tries, but I have the keys in the ignition. The truck sounds like a missile going off as it starts up.
“Where the hell is Jagger?” I press the gears into drive and silently pray that he’s somewhere being shot down as I floor the gas pedal. The truck jets forward toward the wrought iron gates so fast that I slam down on the breaks with both feet.
It’s a warzone out here. Bullets continue to ping pong off the truck as I peel my eyes in search of an exit on this side of the lot.
“Okay, easy does it.” I travel along the length of the brick building. I sigh heavily as I spot the exit in the opposite direction. There’s only one; the one we just c
ame through.
There isn’t much room between the lane I’m in and the barred gate to make a U- turn. I do it anyway. Sparks fly as the side of the truck side-swipes the gate.
I finally get eyes on Jagger. He’s waiting at the gate. How far is that? Half a mile at least…
There’s a man in transient attire, with a rifle in his hands. Something tells me that his look was all to go unnoticed. He’s black. No, his nose and lips are wider than an African American’s. He’s night from day to the Armenian mini militia that just shot at us, and almost as muscular as Jagger.
The guy meets my gaze as Jagger’s foot slams into his chest. He has goodness in his eyes.
Abayomi! Abayomi! The thought formulated in my cognitive mind as I stop the truck a few yards away from the exit and open road.
What is Abayomi? The word pulls from memories of a lifetime I never knew. Something else strikes me as familiar. The thought jumps into my mind from out of nowhere.
He is here for me!
Jagger presses his forearm against the African’s neck. The guy’s body slams back into the gates and a quick flash of fire from Jagger’s Magnum goes off just as he positions the gun at the man’s jaw.
Blood sprays across Jagger’s face. I expect him to turn around and shoot at me. A tiny black object is in his hands.
Tears burn my eyes as I stare at him. Abayomi falls…
Abayomi! My mind quickly deciphers that it’s an African name. Somehow, I know it’s the stranger’s name!
A quick image flashes before me… I don’t know how old I am. A boy with a thick short Afro is in my face, he’s making baby noises. And then he says something in a language that I cannot decode. His words wrap around me like a terry cloth robe on a cold California night—might not get that cold, but it’s cold enough for me.
The crumbling man at the gate is Abayomi!
I growl through my sudden sadness and let it fuel my anger. I press onto the gas as hard as I can, ready to shoot through the entrance of this trucking company. Hell, I don’t mind driving over the empty field. Anything to get away from—
“You are not authorized to drive this vehicle, Dr. Bryant,” an automated voice says through the radio speaker.
I press against the gas again. My right heel is missing, so I slam harder and harder. The engine revs, screaming like a demon clawing through a lake of fire. The bed of the truck rises.
All I have is one memory of Abayomi: he’s a boy, and I’m a baby. He’s sworn to protect me. Jesus, did I just imagine the past? I wish I could believe that I never knew him… but deep down, I know I do. He just died for me and I have no idea why.
Again, I slam my foot down. “Drive you motherfucker!”
The electronic voice rings out with each attempt the same unsympathetic line.
“You are not authorized to drive this vehicle, Dr. Bryant!”
It taunts me.
I’ve not yet had the chance to sink or swim. I’m no doctor. And as far as I’m concerned, Jagger Johannsson has filthy plans for me. Plans to strip me of my identity and the life I’ve made for myself.
I was president of the Southern California Women of Color club. We help Black women, Latina’s, Asians. Heck, there are some white girls with cornrows who are on my team.
I was valedictorian at Wilson Woodrow High school in Long Beach.
I was one of the members of my church who attended missionary trips in South America. With my phlebotomy technician certificate, I administered vaccinations to those in need, for one month each summer since turning eighteen.
I was a daughter and the favorite cousin who added a splash of Brandy to my little cousin’s eggnog. It was probably the only contrary thing I’ve ever done regarding a person’s health. My little cousins are cute, and they’ll prank you, too.
Now, Jagger slams the tiny black remote thingamajig he had earlier, against the driver door. His gaze tells me that I’m not going anywhere.
I hunker down on the gas pedal, he doesn’t even move back as the front of the truck grinds the ground and the bed tips up.
“Open it up now,” he grits out.
“No!” I slam my foot down on the gas pedal, with no intention of giving up the life I’ve made for myself.
He doesn’t punch at the door. He just peers inside and meets my gaze. His demeanor is just as militant as usual. “Uthando lwami,” he says.
My eyebrows crinkle.
“C’mon, uthando lwami,” he smiles at me as deceptive as the fallen archangel himself. “Open up for me, let me in,” he says, with a calmness that scares me.
I rev the engine.
The automated voice offers the same response. Tears have wet my face, my neck, and my breasts. I’m a survivor. I’m too smart to be taken, to die. I live a well-structured life.
“Listen, Kayla, this button here owns the car.” His hard, sexy voice is muffled. Jagger gestures toward the remote. “I disabled it earlier to see if you had the balls.” He presses his hand against the driver side window and caresses it. There’s lust in his eyes. “I really, really like you, so I’ll further elaborate. There’s an auto response, which you are currently listening to, every time you press on the gas. In other occasions, when the damn thing isn’t in auto, it just blows up instead. Meaning, you press the gas. BOOM. That’s the end of you.”
“Leave… me alone,” I cry out. Is he serious? Will the truck blow up if I press the gas again? The bike he claims to have modified to change colors makes me worry that he’s no liar. I close my eyes and slam my foot down again. The bed of the trunk flies into the air, tailing side to side with the amount of power under the hood. The front wheels tread as the engine roars, begging to jet off.
“I haven’t switched the damn thing from auto to ‘on’ yet, uthando lwami.” His voice lowers into a soft groan. He places his forehead against the window. “Just open up for me, uthando lwami. Let me in.”
Tears stream down my face. I slide into the passenger seat, reach over and pull up the lock in order to let the devil in.
Jagger
Mere moments ago, I felt like grabbing Mikayla Bryant by the neck. The side of my truck looks like it was scratched by a fucking T-Rex. The instant she’d broken down, I accidentally called her uthando lwami. And it sure wasn’t to decipher her awareness of our native tongue.
I saw her life pass before her eyes, when I came to the driver’s side door and slammed my truck remote against the glass. It was the look of hopelessness, one I know all too well. It jump-kicks powerful men off their thrones. That look. She remembers all the good times and every little good deed she’s done. And unlike the men I’ve murdered, her life is worth something.
Well, those good deeds don’t go unpunished. She believes I’m the big bad wolf. I have no intention of anything more than leading her to the slaughter. The Prince of Zihula is waiting. Now, we have no way to get there. The cargo plane flew over when I murdered the African with my Magnum. He was there for her. The Armenians were there for me.
But why?
Well, I can pretty much guess the Armenians are riding my cock because of a family of theirs I recently murdered. I thought I’d shaken them on the flight here.
As for the African, he’s a disgrace to hitmen around the universe. No professional training with the sniper rifle he had. There’s not a moment to spare. I’ll have to figure out why he had a death wish at a later time.
That damn cargo plane wouldn’t descend. The pilot is spooked. Mikayla and I must get out of the area. I get into the driver’s seat, and stomp on the gas. We need to clear the general vicinity before the cops find us, again.
Never have I crossed paths with authorities on so many occasions. I’m a master at murder.
Kidnapping?
Not so much.
Mikayla keeps to her side of the truck as I head toward the 710 freeway.
A deep silence settles between us for a while. She then asks, “Where are we going?”
“Well, uthando lwami, I—”
“What does that mean!” Mikayla snaps. “Where are you from? Your voice is … different.”
I smile over at her. “Won’t tell you what that means, if it burns your bones that I call you uthando lwami. I’ll save that for later.” Shit, she’s beautiful and I want a touch. I gulp down the desire filling my cock and tell myself to think before I act. I can answer her question to clear my mind from lust. “And I’m from—”
“Why save it for later? Is that necessary?” Mistrust narrows her gaze.
“You’re gorgeous, girl. I love a woman unafraid to ask questions. Albeit, you are asking them faster than I’m able to answer them.” I slap down the signal to turn left next to a Winchell’s Donut shop. We’re traveling North East. By process of elimination, we must pass by the freeway.
“Answer me.”
I shoot her a quick glare. ‘Don’t confuse my kindness, uthando lwami’, I want to tell her, but the look in my eyes says it all. “The word means something in our language. We are headed to Las Vegas, the original plan was South Africa, which we also have in common.”
There’s no tit for tat from Mikayla now. Once at a red light, I reach past her and pop the dashboard to grab a bar. My blood sugar level is low. There’s a gash on my left bicep from pushing her over earlier and taking the shot from the first Armenian. Unlike the African, those fucks were there to kill anyone that had anything to do with me.
“Hungry?” I ask, just as I see the sign for the freeway.
“No.”
“You didn’t eat supper, Mikayla. You should have a bar.” I merge into the right lane and reach over again to grab another bar.
“Fuck off.”
“I’ll shove this down your throat if you refuse to eat it yourself, Mikayla, I will not have you starving.”
“Humph, why are you concerned?”
“I’m hungry. You have to be.” I pick up speed, and then decide to keep it at a respectable rate.
She glances at me, and then her eyes widen. “Oh, you’re bleeding. Will you do me a favor, Jagger?”
I glance at her lips, perfectly capable of keeping my speed behind the car in front of me, while gawking at the beautiful woman beside me. Is that worry in her voice for me? “Anything.”
