The night was almost perfect, right up until she hit the kid on the bike.
For starters, the girls had taken her somewhere besides the country club. Jillian had gotten so bored with the place, with the same yawn-inducing lighting, same tired salads, same awful music, she almost welcomed the judgmental stares and thinly veiled sarcasm that came free of charge. But then again, she didn't want it getting around that she had gone out without her husband.
Since Jillian's husband, Derek, was out of town, Gabby and Rachel had coaxed her out of the house. It hadn't taken much; a girls' night was exactly what Jillian had needed. Desperately. Derek had been... difficult lately, and maybe that's why she permitted herself to drink more than usual.
Just her and her two friends in a new place, no husbands, no cutting remarks, no jealousy; just three wives in their mid forties out for the evening, laughing and commiserating. Gabrielle had flirted shamelessly with the bartender, and since she was fond of low-cut blouses that accentuated her impressive cleavage, he was more than happy to flirt right back. The drinks got stronger as the evening went on.
On the surface, Jillian was the only one happily married. The others knew that her relationship wasn't all wine and roses, but since Jillian didn't discuss her husband much, the girls skirted carefully around anything serious. There'd been so many times she'd been tempted to break down and tell them everything, but the shame that masqueraded as pride had kept her quiet, even with those strong Long Island Ice Teas roaring through her bloodstream.
She should have been smarter and called a cab, but she didn't want the girls to know that she'd used all her cash for just a single dinner, and he'd put a hold on her credit cards until he returned. Besides, a cab would take time, and she needed to be home when he called the house to make sure she was there.
Three blocks. That's how close she was to the brownstone when the kid came out of nowhere. She was focused on simply getting home, so she could endure her husband's phone call that always left her with a cold feeling in her stomach, then sink into a warm bath. She came up to the four-way stop, rolling almost to a complete halt, then started into the intersection and BAM.
A figure slammed into the driver's side front panel and went rolling across the Mercedes' hood, dropping out of sight on the passenger side. Jillian hit the brakes, but too late. For a moment, everything was silent.
Her first thought was how Derek would react. A close second, but still second, was concern for the person on the bike. As she slapped the car into PARK and fumbled for the door handle, the third thought was she had been drinking. And what was the first thing the cops checked when there'd been an accident? Especially when a vehicle hit someone on a bike? An intoxicated driver. That brought her full circle back to Derek. She didn't know what scared her more, being arrested, or the look in her husband's eyes when he found out.
She glanced at the rearview mirror. The street was empty.
The bike lay on its side next to the front bumper. It looked fine at first, but then she saw how the front tire was bent, curled like a Pringle. Her heart started hammering as the realization and shock of what had happened sank in. She peeked around the passenger side, and found the biker using a parked car to find his feet.
At least he was wearing a helmet. But then she saw the blood on his face and knew he'd been hurt. He was lanky, tall, almost a full foot over her petite five foot frame. He wasn't more than a kid, she could see that now. Maybe early twenties. Scraggly beard. Wild, stringy hair poked out from under a black, skateboard-style helmet. His white, Dead Kennedys T-shirt was ripped in several places, but it wasn't immediately apparent if it had been torn in the accident, or was like that already.
He blinked as he surveyed his injuries. "What the fuck, lady?"
"I'm so sorry, I didn't see you," she said, knowing how lame it sounded.
"No shit," he said, examining his left elbow. Then, as if remembering something, he checked his messenger bag. Whatever it was, it was more important than his wounds, but he seemed satisfied it was still intact and its contents safe.
They both checked the streets suddenly, as if worried that someone might see them. Jillian had no idea why he was nervous as well. She said, "I'd call an ambulance, but I don't have a cell phone." She almost said, "My husband won't let me," and stopped herself just in time, wondering why she would blurt that out to a stranger. A stranger she'd just hit with her car no less.
"Fucking learn how to drive, Jesus Christ." He limped around the front of her Mercedes.
She couldn't help it and checked her watch. Derek would be calling in fifteen minutes.
"Aw, fuck lady. Look at my bike." He seemed more concerned with his transportation than the blood running freely down his tattooed shin from a shredded knee.
"Let me help you," she said suddenly. She didn't know what else to do, and she had to get home. "I can pay for your bike, if you want."
"That's the least you can fucking do," he said.
Her words tumbled over each other, almost as fast as they occurred to her, boiling up out of her rising panic. She had to get off the street, she had to somehow deal with this punk bicyclist, she had to get home, she had to answer the phone. "I don't have any cash on me, but I have some at home. I can pay you there." She had a couple hundred stashed away, for emergencies. And if this didn't qualify as an emergency, she didn't know what would. "Please, let me help you. We can clean you up, get some bandages on you. You're bleeding. My house is just up the street. Just a few blocks. Let me help you."
"You're gonna pay for my bike?"
"Of course. Let's just get out of the street."
He eyeballed her two-door Mercedes. "My bike won't fit."
She pointed to a wrought iron fence. "Can you lock it up here? We'll just be a few minutes. I promise."
The kid weighed his options, scrutinizing this woman before him. She knew what he was thinking, could see it in his face. She was probably twice his age, the kind of woman he would sneer at if he saw her on the street. She was rich, probably lived off her husband's money, spending her days going shopping in tight workout gear. She kept her body fit and toned, something that Derek demanded. The kid outweighed her by at least sixty or seventy pounds.
Finally, he shrugged. She helped him drag his bike over to the sidewalk and he pulled a heavy chain out of his messenger bag. After locking the bike to the fence, they climbed into her car.
In the cramped interior, Jillian realized she could smell him, a feral mix of sweat, nicotine and pot smoke, unwashed clothing, and the tangy, salty smell of blood. She worried that Derek might catch a lingering whiff of the kid's presence, and she pushed the button so her driver's window slid smoothly down.
The kid noticed and snorted derisively. They rode the three blocks in silence. Jillian pulled into the alley, opened the rolling door with a remote, and backed into their private garage. Derek's Range Rover gleamed next to the Mercedes. He was off at some convention in Las Vegas, and Jillian didn't want to think about what he was doing there outside his business meetings.
The kid whistled, impressed with the house when they came up the stairs. As always, the place looked like a show home. It had been remodeled only last year, and it was Jillian's job to keep it looking like a magazine spread. He trailed his finger along the massive dining room table and peeked into the kitchen that gleamed with stainless steel and marble. "Oh yeah. You're gonna pay for my bike all right. Way I see it, you owe me. Big time."
The realization that she'd just let a strange man into her house hit Jillian like a sucker punch. Her panic hadn't let her think things through. If he wanted to, he could easily overpower her, taking whatever he wanted from the house. He could even rape her. Fear ignited her adrenaline, flushing out the Long Island Ice Teas. She backed up to the wide staircase, eyes on the front door.
She tried to think of a weapon, something she could use to defend herself. Just in case. Derek had guns in the house. Of course he did. But he kept them locked up in the hidden gun safe in the garage and sure as hell didn't provide her a key or the combination. A friend had given her pepper spray once, when she had to walk home late at night. When Derek discovered the pepper spray, he uncharacteristically went out and bought her a Taser. This wasn't a stun gun, where you had to press it against a person. No, this was an actual gun that fired electroshock projectiles. Jillian wasn't even sure if it was legal for civilians. Of course, it was more of a toy for Derek, and he ended up keeping it with his things.
