Chapter 102

Chapter 102
Samantha’s apartment smelled like fabric starch, coffee, and tears. Bolts of cloth were draped over the table and the couch. And the floor. 

Samantha stood by her mannequin, pinning a flowing brown dress with focused care. Her brow was furrowed, extra pins caught between her teeth despite having a pin cushion strapped to her left wrist.

Neema sat on the couch, shoulders slumped, hands folded in her lap. Her heart felt heavy, and a heavy sigh left her lips, breaking the silence.

Her friend looked up for a second before returning her attention to her creation as she somehow managed to speak with the pins still held between her teeth. “He really messed up.”

Neema rubbed her thumb over her knuckles. “He scared me. What if he got hurt or killed?”

Samantha paused with a pin in the air. “What?”

“He ran toward danger,” Neema said, her voice shaking with the fear she still felt just thinking about it and all the what-ifs that could have happened. “Like… He wasn’t afraid of losing his life. Or his reputation. I can’t be the reason he ends up dead or in prison.”

A beat passed, then Samantha set the pin down on her cushion and finally removed the ones between her teeth before she walked over, sitting across from Neema on the coffee table overflowing with fabric. “You’re not responsible for his choices.”

“But I feel like I am,” Neema said. “If he weren’t with me, then he wouldn’t be breaking the law and punching people.”

Samantha studied her. Her brows drew together in concern. “Are you worried he’s violent?”

Neema’s head snapped up. “What? Like in general? No. Never. He could never hurt me.”

“Then I really don’t see the problem,” Samantha said softly.

Neema opened her mouth to argue, but stopped before a word could form on her tongue. Frowning, she took a moment to just think about everything. She replayed the fight. Yes, she’d been scared and then angry, but Quinton had acted recklessly and… like a man who would do anything for his woman. Wasn’t that what every woman wanted? A man willing to go to hell for her? 

But then she’d walked out and said she needed space, and he hadn’t stopped her. Instead, he had respected her decision even though she saw the hurt in his eyes. Again, wasn’t that what she wanted? Really, when she thought about it now, Neema had no idea what her problem was.

Her chest tightened. What had she done? Neema cleared her throat to find her voice. “I think I left because I was overwhelmed,” she said slowly. “Not because I feared him or what else he might do.”

Samantha smiled knowingly. “There it is. Took you long enough. Jesus, Chika, I was worried I was going to have to spell it out for you,” she teased.

Ignoring her friend’s jokes, Neema stood suddenly. “I made a mistake.” She grabbed her bag. “I need to go back. Now.”

Samantha laughed. “Go. Before you overthink it.”

 

Quinton drove too fast. Every red light felt personal. Every second without Neema felt wrong. He pictured her eyes, her voice, the way she curled into him at night, and how much he’d missed her last night like a missing limb. He needed her, and Quinton was willing to beg her to listen and realize they were good together.

“I’m coming,” he muttered, gripping the steering wheel. “Just don’t give up on me yet.”

 

The cab sped through traffic, city lights streaking past the windows until they were on a less busy back road.

Neema hugged her bag to her chest, her heart racing, not with fear, but with urgency. She pictured Quinton’s surprised face when she walked back in. The relief. The way his arms would wrap around her.

Her phone buzzed. Neema stared down at the text message.

Samantha: Just kiss him before he opens his mouth.

Neema smiled. Well, that was one way to do it. She tapped the screen to reply, but just then the cab jerked violently forward, the loud sound of metal on metal cutting through the air.

The world lurched. Neema closed her eyes and screamed, thrown against the seatbelt as glass rattled and metal screamed.

“Jesus!” the cab driver shouted in the front seat.

Neema wasn’t sure if they were hit again, but her heart hammered wildly as the cab swerved, tires screeching and the asphalt. Her breath came fast and shallow. “Oh my God,” she whispered, shaking.

Her hands gripped the seat like it would somehow save her. The cab was still moving, so Neema cracked her eyes open and turned in her seat, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs from the inside.

She wanted to see what or who had hit them. Her brain screamed to make sense of the situation. 

At first, she couldn’t see anything. The vehicle directly behind them was a good distance away. Neema wondered if the culprit who hit them had already run away. But then she realized the truck she’d seen was picking up speed fast. 

It was getting too close. Too aggressive.

Then Neema saw the driver, and her breath caught somewhere between the back of her throat and her lungs, where it was needed. 

Jerome.