Dangerous Consequences
Page 1
DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES
LISA RENEE JOHNSON
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Renee Johnson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0794-9
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0796-3
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0796-6
First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2017
VD1_1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
EPILOGUE
This book is dedicated to Joyce Cozart. I’m strong because you were never weak. I know how to love because you loved me. I can fly because you taught me I was free. I miss you, Grandmother.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’d first like to thank God for His grace, the gift of creativity, and my many blessings.
They say in life there are no do overs, yet here I sit with the opportunity to say thank you a second time. I independently published my first novel in 2011 and who knew I’d end up a part of the Kensington Publishing family. Mercedes Fernandez, thank you for taking a chance on me and for leaving me in the very capable hands of Esi Sogah who has given me unwavering support on this journey. I appreciate you both.
My husband, Dino, for believing in me no matter what; my heartbeats, Antone, Devon, Julian, and Jordan, for the gift of seeing myself in you; my mother, Elaine, all that I am is because of you; my dads, Robert and Elijah; my bonus moms, Aretha and Diana; my siblings, Sedric, RaSun, La Trese, Marcus, Miriam Regina; my relatives—all of you are my biggest cheerleaders and I thank you for your unconditional love and support.
On most days I can be found kissing the sky (on an airplane), concocting a fabulous cocktail or living life on my terms surrounded by extraordinary friends that always have my back. Monique, Debbie, Deanna, and Aaron with those juicy stories, thank you for everything. I am eternally grateful for all that you do.
There is no such thing as a published author who took the journey alone. My book club, Sistahs on the Reading Edge—nineteen years and still laughing; my friend, Bernard Henderson the best bookseller I know; Deborah Burton-Johnson, Sharon Lucas, and Toni Bonita Robinson, I love you all tremendously; Ella D. Curry your love for books and authors is refreshing; Curtis Bunn, I am truly inspired by your love for the written word; Jane Anne Staw, without you this book would still be a figment of my imagination. Celeste Wright; Lynel Johnson Washington, I’m so glad you’re on my team.
To all the book clubs and readers everywhere who have supported me on my writing journey, I’m sending you my sincerest gratitude. Thanks for taking a chance on a newbie! I hope you enjoy reading about the shenanigans of the Dangerous Consequences cast of characters as much as I enjoyed writing about them. Stay tuned there’s more to come.
Finally, if I inadvertently missed any of you who supported me in this endeavor, please know it wasn’t intentional. I am grateful and forever indebted to you. So please add your name in the following blank. ____________________, THANK YOU for supporting me. I couldn’t have done this without you. I’d love to hear your comments. Come visit me online at www.lisareneejohnson.com.
Sending Sunshine,
Lisa Renee
P.S. I love you to the moon!
CHAPTER 1
Dr. Sydney Marie James panicked as her iPhone slipped out of her grasp and landed on the floor close to the front passenger door.
“Shit!” she yelled. She could hear the exchange operator’s distant voice saying, “Hello? Hello?” But short of unlocking her seat belt and climbing across the seat to retrieve the phone, there was nothing she could do. She was en route to Children’s Hospital, initially on her way to work, but now she was responding to the trauma call she’d just received for an infant who needed immediate neurosurgery. Frustrated, she yelled into the confines of her SUV.
“Hello. This is Dr. James. I’ve dropped my iPhone and can’t pick it up because I’m driving. But I’m on my way and should arrive at the hospital in about fifteen minutes.” She had no idea whether the operator could hear her, but it was worth a try.
The traffic ahead crawled along. Morning commuters on their way to work congested the I-580 inlet that would take her toward downtown Oakland, making traffic a nightmare.
“Come on.” Sydney hissed and blew her horn in irritation. Fresh perspiration trickled down her spine and mingled with the aging sweat from her morning run. She was still dressed in black running tights, Saucony running shoes, and her favorite UCLA sweatshirt. She’d run her usual six-mile route at the Berkeley Marina, with the morning mist plummeting down on her skin and a cluster of squawking seagulls out scavenging for any sign of food lulling her with their singsong pitch, which helped to clear her mind. But that was forty minutes ago, when her world had seemed peaceful and serene . . . before she’d received the emergency call during rush-hour traffic.
She took her eyes off the road for a brief second to search the passenger seat, littered with CDs. She wanted to hear a Ledisi song, the one she’d played while making love to Donathan earlier and during their romantic getaway at the Highlands Inn in Carmel. The soulful music soothed her, which was what she needed on most days while commuting from El Cerrito to Oakland in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
A gap in the blockage opened up. Sydney pushed hard on the accelerator, hoping she wouldn’t run into another obstruction farther ahead. She had no idea which of her colleagues was on duty. It was probably Julia Stevens. But if Julia started surgery on the incoming patient, she would be required to complete it, adding additional hours to her already-long shift. Frantic to reach the hospital, Sydney drove in an unforgiving manner as drivers on either side of her attempted to jump out of their slow-moving lanes and into hers.
“Not today, people!” Sydney bellowed. She accelerated in an attempt to prevent a red Nissan pickup truck carrying lawn care equipment from swerving in front of her.
The traffic came to a sudden halt. Realizing she was about to crash into a s
ea of stationary cars, Sydney instinctively slammed on the brake pedal with both feet and held her breath as she heard the tires screeching and smelled burning rubber. Her Range Rover came to a complete stop without a collision.
“Thank God,” she exhaled, releasing her tight grip on the steering wheel.
Then the scream of another set of tires, a loud thud, and the sound of shattering glass punched Sydney in the center of her back. Dazed, she moved her damp, dark brown hair out of her eyes and noticed light blue smoke merging with the morning smog, along with the overpowering odor of overheating antifreeze billowing past her windows. She peered into her rearview mirror and saw a Hispanic man getting out of the red Nissan pickup she’d earlier prevented from cutting in front of her. She watched the man walk to the rear of his truck, reach into the truck bed, and remove a shovel, knocking it against the lawnmowers, the noise loud enough to make her jump. Then he hastily approached her, swinging the shovel at the air.
“Pendeja estupida! I can’t believe you just made me wreck my work truck,” yelled the man in a Spanish accent as thick as the fog that blanketed the San Francisco Bay.
“Get out of the car, you pinche puta!” He slapped Sydney’s car window with the open palm of his thick, callused hand. The contact echoed loudly inside the car.
Intimidated by the force and vulgarity of the man’s anger, Sydney stared at him through the speckles of spit on the glass that separated them. Bulging muscle cords in his neck and trickles of blood running down his forehead and pooling at his neatly trimmed mustache pointed downward to the shovel dangling from his left hand.
As bile rose in Sydney’s throat, she attempted to calm down and think rationally. She glanced at the passing commuters, praying for someone to stop to help her. Instead, she found a string of spectators hoping the drama would unfold before they crept by completely and missed it.
“Open the fucking door!” the man blurted as he yanked on the door handle.
Her eyes glanced at the clock, then at the phone. She needed to call for help.
“Get the fuck away from my car,” Sydney barked, hoping her angry words would bring the man to his senses.
“I’m not playing around, lady.” The man began jerking on the door so hard her car rocked. She unfastened her seat belt, climbed across the middle console, and retrieved the phone from the floor. She was so nervous that instead of dialing 911, she dialed her husband. He answered after the first ring.
“I must have dicked you down well this—”
“Donathan!” Sydney screamed into the phone.
“Get out of the car, you pinche puta!” The Hispanic man continued his tirade, drifting in and out of his native tongue. Holding the shovel high above his head with both hands, he slammed it into the hood, repeating his assault over and over again.
“Get away from my damn car.” The loud thud of the shovel hitting the hood registered through the phone.
“Sydney, who is that? Where are you?” Donathan demanded.
“I was just rear-ended by this man and he’s—”
“I’m going to fuck you up just like you fucked up my truck. Get out, pendeja, before I smash your windows.”
Sydney scrambled for her purse on the backseat. She reached inside and pulled out an old canister of pepper spray she’d hoped she’d never have to use.
“Where are you?” Donathan demanded again.
“I-I’m on I-80 about to merge onto 580.” The hood of the truck absorbed another hit from the shovel.
Her eyes went wide as the man shouldered the shovel and paralleled his feet, like he was Barry Bonds readying his swing and his strike zone was now the front windshield of the Range Rover.
“Oh, God, nooo!”
CHAPTER 2
Frazzled, Sydney stood on the shoulder of the road as she spoke into her cell phone to the exchange operator. “I’ll live.”
Five vehicles were parked next to the guardrail, including two highway patrol cruisers. Sydney’s eyes were fixed on the Hispanic man being stuffed into the backseat of the police car. He was clad in jeans, cowboy boots, and a plaid button-down shirt, his hair short, neatly trimmed above his ears. He looked like a normal guy, but where normal people radiated a sense of calm, this man was pulsating with anger.
When Donathan maneuvered his Harley onto the shoulder, Sydney ended her call with the hospital and watched as he parked and removed his helmet. His face was tense and his forehead furrowed as he got off the motorcycle and made his way to her.
“Are you okay?” Donathan asked, his eyes narrowed in confusion. He stole a glimpse at the hood, then pulled her into an embrace.
“Punk motherfucker,” he mumbled under his breath. His tone was seething and harsh. She could feel his heart beating like it wanted to jump out of his chest, which matched the beat of her own. The possibility of becoming a road-rage statistic disturbed her as she listened to the two African American males, in their midtwenties, give their statements to the officers. They’d arrived just in time to subdue the Hispanic man before he broke out the windshield with the shovel.
“What happened?” Donathan questioned, his voice quivering with the fury he wanted to unleash.
“Honey, I’m fine. I just happened to be on the highway in front of a lunatic this morning.”
Sydney rubbed her hand across her upper chest, where the seat belt had pressed into her during impact. As she took a peek inside her sweatshirt, Donathan’s eyes followed. The couple stared at an almost two-inch-wide bruise that reminded her of a beauty pageant sash. “You need to get that checked out—”
“It’s just a bruise from the seat belt,” she said. “No big deal. I’m fine.”
“Sydney, don’t give me that I’m-fine crap. You might have fractured your collarbone.”
She raised both hands in self-defense. “Calm down, sweetie. I’ll let one of my colleagues check me out when I get to the hospital.”
“Excuse me, Dr. James,” one of the officers said, interrupting their battle of wills. “Here’s my card. I’ve written the incident report number on the back. It will be a few days before the report is ready, but if you provide this number to your insurance agency, they’ll be able to obtain all the information they need. The district attorney will contact you soon to discuss the possibility of filing charges. All I need is your signature on this preliminary report and you’re free to go.”
“File charges?”
“Yes, ma’am. In cases like this, that’s procedure.”
“Well, what if I don’t want to file charges?”
“Of course she wants to file charges,” Donathan interrupted, his face twisted with confusion. He stretched his hand toward the highway patrolman. “Thanks, Officer.”
“No problem, sir. Glad we were all able to walk away without any casualties. Now, if you can just sign right here, Dr. James, you can be on your way.”
Sydney nodded with understanding, took the clipboard from the officer, and scribbled her name.
Donathan made his way over to the two Good Samaritans and thanked them. Sydney stood still for a moment. Had her erratic and aggressive driving been the cause of the accident? As she headed toward her SUV, a wave of panic washed over her and her hands shook as she buckled herself in. What would have happened to her had the Hispanic man actually gotten her out of the vehicle? Would he have hit her with the shovel? She could be dead. Her momentary thought of being responsible for the accident dissolved. She might have driven a bit erratically to prevent the man from cutting in front of her, but by no means was she the reason he’d rear-ended her.
Donathan approached the driver’s side window. “Are you sure it’s drivable? We should have the highway patrol officer call a tow truck—”
“Babe, I really don’t have time for that. I need to get to the hospital. The dents on the hood are from his shovel, not the impact, so it should drive okay.” One turn of the key and the engine hummed to life. “See, it sounds great.”
After a moment of hesitation, Donathan conced
ed, and then leaned through the window to kiss her. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Sydney took a deep breath and watched in the rearview mirror as her husband walked away.
After a few false starts, Sydney pulled away from the shoulder into the oncoming traffic. She carefully negotiated the lane switches until she was in the farthest left lane and refocused her attention on getting to the hospital. She turned up the volume on the sound system and sang out loud, trying to forget the horror of what had just happened to her.
A bright red Emergency Medical Service helicopter was lifting off the landing pad as Sydney entered the doctors’ parking lot at Children’s Hospital. She killed the ignition and cut short her duet with Mary J. Blige. After she retrieved her gym bag from the backseat, Albert, the security guard, appeared out of nowhere.
“Morning, Dr. James.”
Sydney grabbed her chest. “Albert, you scared the shit out of me,” she said before she climbed out of the driver’s seat and closed the door behind her.
“Sorry about that, Dr. James. Dr. Stevens mentioned you’d had an accident.” He stepped forward to examine the damage to the hood of the vehicle. Sydney had worked at the hospital for three years and was very familiar with the security staff. When she worked overnight shifts, Albert always made sure she got to her car safely.
Sydney glanced at the speckles of dried spit on the driver’s side window.
“Other than my bruised ego and being late for work, I’m fine,” she answered, then rushed through the secured entrance, checking her watch as the elevator doors closed behind her. It had been almost three hours since her shift began. She exited the elevator on the fifth floor and never looked up. Her subconscious guided the way to the doctors’ lounge.
Minutes later, freshly showered and ready to begin her rounds, Sydney strolled down the corridor outlined by the dark blue baseboards and nursery rhyme murals of stars, cows, and moons. She stopped at the nurses’ station, but before she retrieved her clipboard, she stretched her arms above her head, twisting from side to side to relieve the tension in her middle back. Her private cell phone vibrated inside her pocket. She looked at the screen but didn’t recognize the number. “Sydney James,” she answered.