Wrong Chance Read online

  Because of the bumps and bruises, it took her eleven minutes to accomplish the three-minute walk from her hospital room to Cash’s. She hobbled into the room, using her IV stand for support, wearing a flimsy hospital gown that made her an exhibitionist of sorts, at least to anyone who was blessed enough to be behind her.

  Chance wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Now we’re even, douche bag.”

  Jazz waved Shoemaker away when he rushed to assist her. “Chance, you psycho, what is your problem? You can’t be serious. What if a medical miracle happens that can cure her? What if a miracle beyond medicine is possible?”

  Chance was unresponsive. He looked put out. That’s how she would describe him right now if she were writing this scene in a novel. His silence was loud and unnerving and working its magic. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jaden lingering in the doorway, leaning against its frame. She’d distinctly told his hardheaded ass to stay put, but that was like talking to a brick wall. So there he was, behind her, clutching that damn basketball. She tried to close the back of her gown, but it was useless.

  She lifted her sunglasses and gave Jaden the evil eye, warning him to behave, and then turned to Shoemaker. “Dammit, even I’m familiar with your Hippocratic Oath. In the interest of life or death, can’t you do something to stop this fool? Call Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, Farrakhan, Michael Baisden. Get an injunction—anything but stand here looking like a donkey.” It was this moment that Shoemaker reminded Jazz of someone, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  With a brow raised, Chance finally spoke up, “Dudette, wait a minute, you knew. Didn’t you?”

  That was a tentative question, she thought. Then she thought about how much she loathed being referred to as dudette. So white boyish. Anything she said at this point would only rub salt in his wound. “Lying about the baby was cruel, Chance.”

  “Cruel? You haven’t seen cruel. I’m such a dope,” he said to himself. Then his ominous blue gaze cut through the room like sophisticated laser beams and landed on Jazz. “You’re so in for it if I find out you knew.”

  Was that a threat or a declaration that he’d be disappointed with her as well? How was she supposed to know Cash was stringing him along about a baby? She slid the sunglasses from her hair and eased them back on her face to break the intensity of Chance’s blue-eyed gaze. “I can’t imagine how you feel. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. But nothing—nothing—can justify you taking her off the life support.” She faced Shoemaker and found Jaden standing beside her, which was cool because she was uncomfortable with the idea of him seeing her lace-flavored panties. “You’re a doctor. You have no right helping him play God. So are you just gonna fucking stand here? That’s my best friend lying in this bed. At least pretend like you believe in your oath and talk some sense into this nut case.” The recognition hit her. The resemblance was spooky. Shoemaker looked like that guy who used to be on TV, Doogie Whatchamacallit.

  “You’re being very rude and asking for help in the same sentence. Hell of an example you are,” Jaden said, the basketball wedged under his armpit.

  “Shut the hell up, Jaden. Nobody asked you. Stay out of grown folks’ business. If you would have stayed in my room like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t be dipping.” She pointed an authoritative finger. “And don’t bounce that ball in here.”

  Chance looked at Jazz like she had blown a fuse and was a breath away from heavy medication, but she didn’t care. Shoemaker gave her a look that she blew off too.

  “You’re warped,” Chance said, shaking his head.

  “Mr. Fox,” Shoemaker said, “terminating someone’s life isn’t a decision you want to rush into.”

  That’s it, Jazz thought, grow a set of balls.

  Chance laughed.

  The sound made Jazz’s skin crawl. Jaden eased to Cash’s bedside—opposite of Chance, facing them all—and held her limp hand.

  Shoemaker said, “Please reconsider this, Mr. Fox. Three neurologists conclusively agree that your wife isn’t in a persistent vegetative state. Her condition is minimal consciousness at best.”

  “This is wrong, Chance, and you know it. You remember exactly how she felt about the Terri Schiavo situation—she didn’t fucking agree with Schiavo’s husband, Michael. You even flew down to Florida with her so she could stand vigil.”

  “You’re poking around in my spousal business,” Chance said. “Buzz off, would you?”

  Jazz was having a hard time believing that her best friend’s life was hanging in the balance and would be over in the matter of hours because this punk couldn’t keep his anger and immature emotions in check. She and Cash had discussed most of life’s what ifs, but this scenario was never examined eleven years ago in their dorm room over butter pecan ice cream, Swiss Rolls, and episodes of Ricki Lake.

  “I’ll see what I can do about starting the proceedings for an injunction,” Shoemaker said, as he all but bolted out the room.

  “Come on, Jaden. Let’s get the hell away from this mistake of a human being.”

  Jaden squeezed Cash’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open. Jazz could tell that Cash was seriously studying Jaden. She weakly attempted to smile at him around the breathing tubes.

  Jazz frowned at Chance and went to Cash’s side. “See, you fucker. Do you see this, motherfucker? See what you would have done.” Jazz silently thanked God for showing up.

  • • •

  The instant Cash opened her eyes, October 26, 2010, turned out to be worse than the day Kurt Cobain ate a shotgun round for dinner. A shiver crept down Chance’s spine as a scream left his mouth. This time he screamed louder than he had when Shoemaker let him in on Cash’s little secret.

  NINE

  Eventually everyone must face the consequences of their misdeeds. Cash remembered that was the theme of Jazz’s latest work in progress. Cash had no doubt that she was finally about to tangle with the consequences of her misdeeds. She grimaced as she tried to sit up, then figured it was better to just stay put.

  Chance’s cold blue eyes grew more intense. She felt him scrutinizing her as if she were a complete stranger. The bitterness poisoning his body language was disturbing. She felt his anger tingle the marrow of her bones. His normal fluid motions were stiff and hard like a stubborn tumor. His high energy was now humid and acrid.

  Cash’s thoughts spun out of control like a car with bald tires doing ninety on a sheet of black ice. It didn’t take a brainiac to know that Chance had questioned the doctors about Chance Jr. and learned more than his fragile sanity was capable of handling. She forced herself to straighten her mental steering wheel and reestablish control of her private thoughts. “You’ve been drinking.” She coughed, short of breath. “Your eyes say things that I’m terrified to hear.”

  “Guess this explains the hair missing from your snatch that you tried to explain away.” Chance looked at her with disgust. “And you were faking the periods.”

  She nodded.

  “Should have gone with my first mind when we met: left a daycare center in your mouth and moved on.” Then: “You gross me out. How come you didn’t just die?”

  His words raised the short hairs on her neck. Silence soaked in the room while the bond connecting them splintered and shattered. He had never spoken a cruel word to her. Now she regretted not ending it all back in Denver. Right then her life turned into a series of should have nevers. She should have never accepted the payment to go out with him back in college. Should have never fallen in love with him knowing her situation. Should have never lied in the first place. Should have never gotten on that plane or allowed Jazz to drive.

  She whispered, “I’m sorry, Chance. I’m so sorry. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.” She reached up to catch her tears and felt a series of stitches distorting her good looks. She felt him watching her as she traced the wounds.

  “Serves you right. Hope you heal ugly.” His sneer matched his words. “You were never gonna tell me.”

  “Don’t you
understand I couldn’t?”

  “Baloney.” Then: “You’re a lying, conniving, cunt bitch.”

  “It didn’t start out that way. Never was my intention to deceive you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  She coughed, then she steadied her breathing. “The truth?” After all this, the truth still felt like an impossible task.

  “That would be swell for a consummate liar, but you’re not capable.”

  She found the contraption to manipulate the bed, made a show of adjusting the bed to her desired taste. God, I know we aren’t familiar, but please give me the words. “My self-esteem was low. I isolated myself from my peers because of it. Wasn’t sure if I was able to…you know, function in a relationship. Then you came along and gave me life, validated my existence as a woman.”

  “That’s fuckin’ absurd. You’re a monster. Here’s a promise: buzz the fuck off or I’ll be detrimental to your health.”

  “But…. I still love—”

  “For crying out loud, go fuck yourself.” He headed for the door.

  “Chance, wait, please. What can I do to make this right?”

  He stopped in his tracks and lingered there for a moment. With his back to her, he said, “Drop dead, you nasty nigger bitch.”

  TEN

  Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

  “For the last damn time, Jaden, stop dribbling that ball in this house,” Jazz said, scowling at him through her sunglasses. She calmed her nerves with several deep breaths, then she poured Cash and herself tall glasses of homemade tea.

  “LeBron James practiced like this every day when he was my age. Look what it did for him. Daddy didn’t have a problem with me practicing, so why are you tripping?”

  Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

  “Bet LeBron didn’t practice in the house.”

  “How would you know?” Jaden’s narrow face and big eyes were a clear indication that he would be a heartthrob when he grew up and matured. He was frail and definitely tall enough—six-one—at fifteen to have NBA ambitions. And Jazz knew he was hardly done growing yet. His baggy urban clothing and long cornrows gave him thug appeal, but Jaden was a suburbanite who didn’t have a clue about the mean streets.

  Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

  “Honey—” Firm eye contact. “—I’m sorry. Never in a million years would I want you to be apart from your father. If there were some way, any way, to put things back the way they were—” She snapped her fingers. “—I would, that fast.” Then: “Family means everything. Everything else comes second.”

  “My daddy was going to practice with me every day after work until I went pro. Because of what you did, that’s not possible anymore, is it?”

  Despair surged through her veins and found a home in her heart. “You’re making me feel terrible again.”

  “You should.”

  “Can we please finish whatever this is later, after Cashmaire leaves?”

  “It’s not like I can up and leave if I wanted to.” He pinned her with his eyes. “I’m stuck here with you, remember?”

  She bit her tongue and bolted from the kitchen before he could spew more venom. She didn’t know how to deal with Jaden’s anger. She’d lost plenty of sleep trying to figure it out, and she was sure tonight wouldn’t be any different.

  Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

  “It’s hard to believe it’s been six months since the accident,” Jazz said, setting a cup of tea in front of Cash, then settling herself on the couch with the other.

  Cash drifted off for a moment as if she were revisiting something unpleasant from times past. “That day changed so many people’s lives.” Cash nodded blankly. “No matter how you slice it, it’s my entire fault. Do you have any idea of how hard that is to live—”

  “We’ve been down this road too many times before. Damn, girl, if you apologize one more time, I’ll go crazy.” Jazz laughed—alone—at her weak attempt at humor. She was sure that people thought she was touched, evident from the way they behaved around her after the accident. Everyone except Cash and her literary agent. After all, “crazy” was one of the terms Leon loosely threw around during the disposition of their divorce.

  Cash got quiet; silence saturated the room.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Jazz sipped her tea. “It wasn’t your fault, you know? I was only involved in that marriage. I was never committed.” She pulled her ponytail through the back of her Washington Wizards cap.

  Cash smirked. “Like there’s a big difference, Jazz.”

  “In a bacon and egg breakfast,” Jazz said, “the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed.”

  “Yeah, you were just barely treading water. I’m not thrilled about how it happened. I’m just glad the divorce happened before he drowned you.”

  “Tell me about it. The accident threw me a life jacket.”

  Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

  Always four irritating bounces, Jazz thought. Then she thought about how Jaden felt that she had taken him away from his father. “My only hope is that Leon does right by his son.” Her gaze fell on Cash, who immediately turned away. “I wasn’t staring at your scar.”

  Cash traced the scar that crawled from her earlobe to the corner of her mouth. “I know. I’m not really self-conscious about my looks.”

  “No lie, it’s like you’ve been blessed twice. You look totally different, but you’re still the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. Nothing can flaw what God has given you.” Jazz waved nonchalantly. “You can hardly even see the scar anyhow.”

  Cash perked up and grinned. “Think Playboy will still take me?”

  Jazz nodded. “And pay you a million dollars. Girl, do you hear me? You got it going on.”

  “So,” Cash said, changing the subject, “when will the new book be done?”

  Books were a subject Jazz wanted no part of. She shrugged an I’m not sure. “Can’t find the mental strength to write.” In fact, she didn’t believe she would ever write again. Eric, her literary agent, was pressing her to get her ass in gear because Simon & Schuster was screaming about a breach of contract. With everything she was going through on the day-to-day basis, Eric, Simon, and Schuster could kiss her natural black ass.

  Cash nudged Jazz. “Come on now, we have to regroup, redirect, and recommit.”

  “That day in the car,” Jazz said. “You never told me why you couldn’t have kids.”

  “Let it go. It’s no longer important.”

  “So what about Chance, anything?”

  “Not a peep since he walked out on me in the hospital.”

  “Fuck him,” Jazz said with conviction. “Y’all were an odd couple anyway. But it still intrigues me how much y’all used to look alike. Look at the bright side, though, you’ve moved back home. Now we can hang out like best friends are supposed to. You’ve got yourself a brand-new start, and you’ve landed yourself a great job with the district attorney’s office.” Then: “Even though Cuyahoga County residents view you as a carpetbagger.”

  “About that.”

  Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

  “I could scream! That boy and that damn ball.” Jazz shifted toward the sound. “Jaden, would you please stop.” She faced Cash, feeling awkward. “Excuse me.”

  “Take your sunglasses off.”

  Jazz withdrew and sat back on the couch. “For what?”

  “Because you’re not a vampire, Jazz. I want to see your eyes.”

  “It’s that serious?”

  “What I have to say, yes.”

  Jazz sucked her teeth, removed the sunglasses, and bulged her eyes. “Satisfied?”

  “Your eyes are so attractive. I don’t know why you still insist on hiding them. Leon is gone. Hard to believe you and your author photo are one and the same.”

  “Whatever. Talk.”

  “The new start thing.” Cash threaded her fingers with Jazz’s.

  “What about it?”

  “The person you once knew as Cashmaire Fo
x—” Cash touched her scar. “—she died in our car accident. With my new look, now I can start over as Scenario Davenport and leave Chance and my past behind.”

  Jazz thought about what Cash said for a long moment then nodded. She understood Scenario Davenport’s position perfectly well. “I understand.” With the apropos of nothing, Jazz said, “Girl, did you hear about the hieroglyphics serial killer murdering all those people in Denver?”

  “Yeah, honey child, that’s awful. As long as he stays out of Cleveland, Ohio, I won’t have to prosecute him.”

  ELEVEN

  She pushed through the rental office door like a stormy wind. The gray-haired blind man sitting behind the desk smelled and committed her expensive fragrance to memory. His nose was better than a bloodhound’s; it never failed him.

  He sniffed the air. “Never smelled that perfume before. What is it?”

  The urgent clicking of her heels came to a stop in front of the counter he was holed up behind. “You wouldn’t have. It’s called Thin Air. Had it designed for my personal use.” Then: “Heard through the grapevine you would help me.”

  He tried to pinpoint her ambiguous accent. Midwest with a touch of West Coast. “Depending on what kinds of help you’s in the business of needing.”

  “A safe apartment. Off the radar.”

  He said, “I stock those. What’s your name?”

  “Uh, Ca—umm…Marie. No last name.”