Like Slow Sweet Molasses by Unknown

be…personal.”
    “I
came to do my part in supporting our local economy.” Chance printed the awed
faces at the table into his memory bank for future reference. His eyes met and
held Sheryl’s whom he remembered offered assistance during his subbing stint
for Angela’s class. People at the table stared like he was hell’s devil. He
felt the part, too, when he spied Angela wrangling for her freedom moments ago.
    “Your
money’s not good here, friend.” Chance’s one time friend bragged. “Whatever
you’re having is on the house.” Insinuating boldly, he named a few drinks. “Mojito?
Black Russian? Jamaican Rose ? They’re free for the taking.”
    Chance
recognized the challenge implicated in Darrell’s words, never having the
opportunity to respond.
      “Lieutenant,” Angela interrupted, both
perturbed and happy to see Chance. She figured Mrs. Thatcher called him even
after she asked her not to. “Would you mind giving me a lift?”
    “I’ll
take a rain check on that drink, D.” Chance captured Angela’s hand in his like
it was nothing unusual, leading her in and out of the maze directly to his Cobra
parked at the curb.
    “Hurry,
Chance.” She was panic-stricken. He helped her in then popped over to the
driver’s side.
    He
sensed it. Something wasn’t right. “What is it?”
    “Turn
on the light.” He did. She held out the badly bruised arm.
    “Fuck!”
He exploded, forgetting his vow to clean up his vocabulary. His calloused hand
gripped her arm mindful not to hold her too tightly as she groped for something
in her purse. “Did he do that?”
    “I
don’t believe it was intentional.” Angela withdrew an injector from her clutch.
“The nearest emergency room, please.” She jabbed the spring-loaded needle into
her thigh holding it there until all the solution drained. “I mean,” she
proceeded in a conversational tone, “he did hold me against my will unknowingly
infecting me with peanut residue from his hands.”
    The
muscle car’s beefed-up motor roared to life, slingshotting them from the curb.
    “What
were you doing at his place, anyway?” he grated.
    “I
don’t owe you an explanation of where I go or don’t go,” she huffed. “Besides, I
didn’t know it was his place.” His disapproval burned into her as he glared in
her direction momentarily taking his eyes from the task at hand. “My co-worker
invited me to her party, if it’s any of your business.”
    “He’s
bad news, Angela. Warn your girlfriends.” Fluorescent lights zigzagged across
the hood of the car. He tooled the familiar streets having to go out of his way
to locate the closest hospital—another one of the catastrophic remnants of
Hurricane Katrina.
    “The
question is…what were you…doing there?” she cross-examined, each breath now a
laborious act.
    “Don’t
talk.” He worried about her condition. “I’ll answer any question you ask,only after you’ve received medical attention.”
    “So
you’ll know—any number of reactions could occur as a result of my
contamination.” She would have thought him fearful of nothing. His eyes told
her she was mistaken. “Swelling is likely to impact my face and extremities.
Minor inconveniences when the most severe trauma possible is…my death.”
    His
foot hit the floorboard sending them hurtling forward faster than a bat out of
hell. “Just shut up and concentrate on breathing.” Chance demanded her
cooperation.
    She
laughed, a lilting sound that wormed its way to an unsuspecting target—his
heart.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    Chance
sat mesmerized by Angela’s beauty even though her facial features exhibited the
swelling she warned him about. Her care in the emergency room, of which he
convinced the staff to allow him to be present miraculously by flashing his
badge and ordering the crisis team to treat her as an attack victim, relayed
her imminent chances of demise. His education of the situation concerning her
ailments lent