Wrong Chance (3 page)

The car horn was blown.

Cashmaire's legs were rebellious, downright uncooperative. She walked as if she were dragging two stubborn concrete pillars. The first time her secret came out as a teenager all hell broke loose, which she felt would be the same result now. She climbed onto the soft leather passenger seat—body and nerves in complete protest—and crumbled into a ball of crocodile tears.

Jazz burst into a fit of tears too. “Why in the hell are we crying like this? Cash, what's wrong?”

“Just drive, okay?”

Twenty minutes and several miles later, they exited Interstate 90 just ahead of rush hour. Cash remembered the last time she was home in Cleveland. Jazz was in the hospital after falling down a flight of steps. At least that's what Leon forced her to say. Cash
dug a napkin from the glove compartment and dabbed at her swollen eyes. “I should have told him years ago.”

“Uh, being privy to the subject of this conversation would really help me follow it.” Jazz half-assed kept an eye on the road, the other glued on Cash.

Cash hated that. Hated that Jazz had the tendency to pay more attention to her passengers than she did the road. Cash started imagining she could control the car from the passenger's seat with her make-believe steering wheel, accelerator, and brakes.

“And where's your luggage?”

Cash shrugged an
I don't know.
“Left in a hurry. Panicking. What are we going to tell Leon?”

“That he won't be kicking my ass tonight.”

“You got that right. Not on my watch.” The message Chance left on their answering machine trickled through her mind. “You know how obsessed Chance is about the white-picket-fence, American dream cliché. Starting a—”

“Especially the part about having kids and buying them puppies.” Jazz nodded. “He takes that shit way too far if you ask me.”

“He—”

“Where is Mr. American Dream anyway? He doesn't know you're here, does he?” Jazz picked up speed for no apparent reason.

Cash hated that too. In fact, she hated riding in a car with Jazz if she wasn't doing the driving. She eased her foot off the imaginary accelerator, hoping Jazz's foot would do the same.

Jazz said, “Did he… If he hit you, we're gonna fuck him up. I take enough abuse for the both of us. Chance is hip to the Emancipation Proclamation whether he's in total agreement with it or not.”

Cash shook her head. “He won't put his hands on me.” She wasn't so sure that would still be true if he knew the truth. “He's in D.C.
lobbying against gay marriages and same-sex couples adopting and foster parenting children.”

“Figures.” Jazz smirked. “His ass never agreed with the concept ‘to each his own.' What if people were still tripping about interracial relationships? Then y'all would be under scrutiny. Besides, what does he want to be, a veterinarian or an anti-gay advocate?” Jazz turned her nose up. “No disrespect, but I might write a book and put Chance in it. I'd kill him in the title:
Chance is Dead.”
Jazz laughed.

Cash's insides did a somersault. She really wished she had gone through with her suicide ambitions. “He hired a contractor to build this high-end addition on our home. A nursery; it's really beautiful.” She waited for Jazz to chew and digest that. And they were still moving too fast for Cash's comfort or for what was deemed lawful.

Jazz frowned; her thin brows went southward and ducked behind her sunglasses. “You're pregnant?”

Did Jazz already know her secret? Cash contemplated the question. It sounded like Jazz was
really
asking
if
pregnancy was even possible instead of questioning if she was. Maybe Cash was just being paranoid, so she brushed her thoughts off. “No, I'm not, but Chance thinks so.”

Now Jazz's brows shot northward. “You didn't.”

“The truth wasn't an option; it would break his heart. He wants to start a family so bad.” Then: “And he's been trying so hard, eating all types of supplements that are supposed to make his sperm potent. For the last three months we had sex every day, multiple times a day. He fucked me sore. I couldn't take it anymore. So I lied.”

“Ooh-wee, you're dead-ass wrong for that one. That's some foul shit, Cash.”

Cash finished her coffee. “I know.”

“Then straighten it. Chance is way too fanatical in his quest for a family for me. Even though y'all are mismatched as hell, ebony and ivory, and it's crazy how much y'all look alike being from different ethnicities, but he loves you and he deserves the truth. You know that fool is borderline retarded. Can't you tell Chance is one of those crazy white boys? He might snap and get primitive if you let this go too far.”

“It's gone too far.” She'd known that the morning the contractors showed up at their house ready to punch the clock. “And they do say people who've been together a long time start looking like each other.”

“Straighten your issues with him out.”

“Can't.”

“What do you mean by
can't?
Tell him why you lied, he'll understand.” Jazz made an
I'm thinking
expression. “Then again, he might not.”

“I can't have children.” Now the truth was starting to flow. “I've known since puberty.” Cash felt the car pick up more speed. “Everything Chance and I share, all that we are, is built on lies. Selfishly I married him knowing I couldn't give him the very thing he wants most in this world.” After a deep breath, she whispered, “A family.”

Jazz was flying down Lakeshore Boulevard and looking directly at Cash. If Jazz kept up this nonsense, Cash knew for a fact they would be pulled over by Bratenahl police.

“Slow down, Danica Patrick.” Cash tapped her imaginary brakes.

“Girl, I'm not driving that fast.” Then: “Whoa, back up. How come you can't have babies? What's the matter with you?”

Cash swallowed. The moment of truth was upon her. Not once
had Cash doubted the authenticity of their friendship. Today, however, she hoped that she wasn't about to share her secret with the wrong person. Her vision blurred with tears. “It's complicated.” She blinked her sight clear. “I'm—Jazz, watch out!”

A huge pit bull-looking dog stood in the middle of the street, frozen in the path of the Mercedes' onslaught. Cash stomped on her imaginary brakes and braced herself for impact. Jazz stood on the real brakes. The Mercedes careened to the left, Jazz's best effort to avoid hitting Scooby-Doo. The last thing Cash remembered was her head going through the windshield.

H
ands down, today, October 17, 2010, was the worst fucking day of Chance Fox's life. On second thought, it was a toss-up between the day Nirvana's lead singer, Kurt Cobain, got juiced up on heroin and shot himself to death in a Seattle hotel.

Chance's blond dreadlocks were pulled into a stringy ponytail. With his hair out of the way, he knew people would focus on his eyebrow piercing and the Marlboro tucked behind his ear. He didn't smoke cigarettes. The cigarette behind-the-ear thing was edgy and he always thought it looked cool. He wore a quarter-length leather over a Guns & Roses T-shirt and cutoff camouflage pants, as if it wasn't damn near winter. He reeked of marijuana and his fluorescent orange high-top Adidas proved the weed was good.

Chance had been languishing at Metro Hospital on Cleveland's west side for nine solid hours while the trauma team worked diligently to save his wife's and unborn son's life. All he knew for sure as of this moment was that the air bag on Cash's side of the car had malfunctioned. He had a buddy, a personal-injury lawyer, who was going to ram one hell of a lawsuit up Mercedes' tight rectum.

Doctor Shoemaker, young and exhausted-looking, probably from a nineteen-hour shift and a going-nowhere relationship, Chance thought when the man trudged into the private room hospital administration had stuck Chance in to worry himself sick. Shoemaker
wore green scrubs and crepe-soled shoes. He pushed his fingers through his blond hair, removed the surgical mask, and shook Chance's hand. “Hi, Mr. Fox, I'm Doctor Andrew Shoemaker.”

Chance's bowels knotted. His mouth instantly went dry as the Mojave. To be honest, Chance wasn't sure if he should take a break or keep pacing a groove in the floor. “Dude, give it to me even. Will she live?”

“It's up in the air, but it doesn't look too good.” Chance watched Shoemaker work the tension out of his neck. “Do you have a relationship with a higher power, Mr. Fox?”

Shoemaker's prying and impersonal tone didn't sit too well with Chance. He had a good mind to blow off some steam and ring Shoemaker's scrawny fucking neck. Instead Chance let his anger simmer and said, “For crying out loud, dude. You've got to be kidding me. What goddamn difference does it make?”

“Your wife suffered major head trauma. She'll never look the same. Close, but not the same. She's undergone extensive reconstructive surgery. On top of that, she suffered some iffy internal injuries in the abdominal region. So if you're acquainted with something greater than yourself, now's the time to ask for help. Mrs. Fox needs it.”

Chance almost bolted from the room to find his wife when Shoemaker referenced Cash's stomach area. “What about our baby? Were you able to save him?” No one could tell Chance that their unborn child wasn't a boy. From the moment Cash announced the news of her pregnancy, he intuitively knew. He had gotten carried away—according to Cash—and had the nursery constructed to resemble a boxing ring, a discipline that he was considered a pro in. Like father like son would become. Chance often imagined himself teaching his son the art of fighting. The room had life-size murals of legendary UFC fighters—his niche—splattered across
the walls. He'd even gone out and bought a two-stroke minibike and a gas-powered go-cart knowing it'd be at least five years before Chance Jr. could learn to ride them. That didn't matter to Chance Sr., he was having a boy! Nothing was too good for his boy.

Chance penetrated Shoemaker with bloodshot eyes. It dawned on him that Shoemaker was a spitting image of the late '80s sitcom character Doogie Howser. “Dude, please tell me that my son is alright.”

“Mr. Fox, uh—” Shoemaker scratched his head. “—you don't know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“You should sit down for this.”

F
or the last nine days, Chance—pissed, unshowered, nine years sobriety shot to hell—sat vigil beside Cash's hospital bed praying she'd die a painful death. But the resilient bitch just wouldn't croak. She held on to life like she had something to prove. The entire nine days Chance tried to drink himself numb, but not even Cash's morphine drip could numb his pain.

And for that, she deserved more than a coma. Today he would see to it that she got everything she had coming to her. Chance sensed a presence enter the room; then he heard the squeak of soft shoes; then he smelled Shoemaker's Herbal Essence shampoo. Chance didn't budge. His focus was on Cash, on the electrocardiographic contraption, wishing the oscilloscope screen would read
flatline.

“You should reconsider this,” Shoemaker said with a strained voice. “She isn't brain dead. Life support will prolong your wife's life without curing or reversing her underlying medical conditions.”

Shoemaker's concern earned him a dark glance; Chance set his jaw in an uncompromising line and said, “She has no Advanced Healthcare Directive or a living will. That leaves the decision to withhold or withdraw artificial life support up to me, dude.” Chance pawed at his irritating, overgrown beard. He was dying for a shave. And the tensed energy pouring out of Shoemaker wasn't making
his irritation any better. “Just butt out, Doogie, and hand over the consent forms.”

Shoemaker moved toward Chance. “They're here.”

“Give 'em up.” Chance held out his hand, still watching Cash's vitals, still wishing a flatline into existence. Whoever had told him that your frame of mind becomes your reality was full of shit, a goddamn liar, because Cash was still alive.

Shoemaker said, “It is my duty to inform you of my professional opinion. You're being vindictive and you'll regret it.” Then: “My personal belief is that she was wrong for keeping a secret of such magnitude. But two wrongs don't make a right, Mr. Fox. Allow her condition to naturally stabilize, if that's possible.”

Chance put his John Hancock on the forms, then he dug deep and hog spit in Cash's swollen face. “Law 9: Win Through Your Actions, Never Through Argument. Always remember that, Doctor Shoemaker. Pull the plug.” To Cash's unanimated body, he said, “Now we're even, douche bag.”

J
azz's lean body still hurt like hell. But this hurt was nothing compared to the many physical pains Leon had caused her to endure over the years. Every time she moved, she found something else that ached, but that wasn't going to deter her from putting a stop to Chance's bullshit. She would never be able to live with herself if she didn't at least try to stick up for her best friend.

Jazz was a slender spark plug. Not much in the way of tits, though. Her ass, however, was just right, an attractive little tush. She was an elusively good-looking black beauty, the kind of woman who was pretty without a drop of makeup. Elusive because she hid her naturally long hair stuffed in ball caps of the country's worst sports teams. Sports fanatics scrunched their faces as if something stunk when they read the insignias on her hats. Think Detroit Lions and L.A. Clippers. She hid sensationally long lashes and deep amber eyes behind $1.99 convenience store sunglasses. Always: indoors, outdoors, day, night. Her jaw-dropping dainty body was always obscured by dark, oversized clothing. The only visible signs of her outward beauty were her shamefully flawless, chocolate complexion and her kissable lips. The way Jazz had been conditioned to hide her God-given beauty was downright heartbreaking.