Page 13 of Afterglow
Nah, it can’t be. She doesn’t even live over here.
I wait at the pedestrian crossing even though there are no cars. The red DON’T WALK sign taunts me. Come on, come on.No one’s on the road. Just cross. Be a man. No one ever died because they jaywalked. A few moments go by.
Fuck it.
One cautious step onto the street and a car honks as it drives by at full speed, and I return to the curb. Jesus. Where did that come from? I glance to the right. Then the left. Okay, now there’s really no one. Once more, I look to the right to make sure, before stepping down to the white stripes on the road.
Tring-tring!
The next few seconds draw out in slow motion. A shrill scream. Impact. The collision knocks the air from my lungs, but the freefall that follows feels like it’s happening to someone else. At least until the back of my head hits the pavement.
When my eyes reopen, there’s a blurry shower of rose petals and paper.
Is this Heaven?
The throbbing in my ears drowns out any other noise, and I gasp, each breath further out of reach.
And then there is contact. I focus on the face hovering over me. Creamy skin. A beauty spot topping her left cheek.
Behraz.
Oh, God. ThisisHeaven. She’s an angel. Flushed, cherubic cheeks, head haloed by the sun. The soft ends of her hair tickle my face. And those eyes—her big, dark, gorgeous brown eyes—they warm with concern. Warm like a much-needed sunny day in spring before the midsummer rays get too hot for my pale skin.
Speaking of hot, what’s on my chest? Her hands?Fuck, they’re on my chest. She’s touching me, her small, delicate hands unable to cover my pecs. Fuck, she’s touching me all over,fuck. If I’m not dead already, this is what will kill me.
Every panicked sweep of her hands feels better than the last. My hands reach for her wrists, so tiny and warm, gripping them as if begging for her to stop, though I don’t want her to.
Oh no, no, no. My dick stirs as my vision darkens. I’m gonna pass out.
Please, God. Don’t let me pass out in front of Behraz Irani with a boner.
Pain and anguish tug at whatever thread I’m holding onto, and my throat lets out a whimper.
The stripes of her shirt disappear in the lines of light stealing my vision. Bea’s rosy face pinholes into darkness, and suddenly, there’s no more pain.
Chapter 4
He’s Not Dead
Behraz
Oh,my God, I’ve killed Fletcher Donovan.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.Fuck!
“Help! Someone call 9-1-1!” I cry and search for my phone. My bicycle lies sideways in the middle of the road, rose bouquet all but destroyed, the contents of my briefcase strewn down the block.
I can’t move from here. I can’t leave him. He’s out cold, and besides, his grip still clings to my hands.
“Please wake up. Please, please, please wake up.” My ear sinks to his chest. His heart beats rapidly. The short, quick exhalations from his nose cool my sweat-dotted forehead.
Okay, he’s not dead. Thank God.
“Now, you’ve gone and done it, Bea. You fucked up royally,” I mutter to myself.
A woman with her puppy taps me from behind. “The ambulance is on the way.”
“Thank you so much—I don’t know where my phone is, and…” Manic sobs pour from me over his stilled form.
