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 came 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.