Page 1 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
1
HOLLIE
“Hollie, where are you? The Lays arrived ten minutes ago and they keep harping on about the live music performance from my daughter, but you’re not here!”
Mom’s voice crackles in and out as I weave through the surge of traffic filled with people in exactly the same situation as me. We’re all trying to get home for Thanksgiving, and every single person in each of these cars is as late as I am. Grimacing, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and with a pounding heart ignore the blare of a furious horn behind me as I cut in front of a white sedan.
“I told you not to make promises like that.” Not that she ever listens. “You knew I was fully booked tonight and you started dinner so early.”
“Don’t act like this is my fault,” comes the indignant reply. “Far be it from me to expect you to choose your family over your job on Thanksgiving. No oneelseworks on Thanksgiving.”
“That’s because everyone is having a dinner as fancy as the one you have prepared and everyone wants live music to complete the atmosphere. Which is exactly where I come in.”
“And despite knowing what I had planned, you fully booked yourself anyway!”
I’m not winning this argument. I’ve lost track of how often I’ve told her to stop volunteering me for things without my knowledge or tried to explain how this time of year is exactly how I make the majority of my income, but all Mom sees is my letting her down again and again. At least I give her decent stories to tell her friends about how her daughter ruins the holidays.
“I’m thirty minutes away, maybe longer with traffic.”
“At this point, you’re so late, why even bother!” The line crackles and dies, leading to a momentary pause. Then my playlist resumes and Christmas music floods my car. The familiar tang of guilt rises like a burn in my chest. She’s right, to an extent.
Tiffany, my boss, presented me with a last-minute opportunity at one of the city's most elite restaurants. A chance like that is rare and the money was far too good to pass up. I made more money in that two-hour session than I’m likely to make all week. Given how fleeting this career is, my entire financial year rides on the success of the holidays. Gigs pick up around Halloween, then it’s a straight shot of monetary heaven all the way through to the New Year. Around eighty percent of my income happens in these few short months, and yet my mother always acts like it’s brand-new information to her.
Deep down, she means well. This isn’t the most secure job in the world, and I could settle into a permanent contract with ahotel or restaurant, but I prefer the freedom of choosing my own clients. Every night can be different, if I’m lucky. Besides, Tiffany would spiral without me.
Settling back in my seat, I focus on the road as the world grows so dark and the city becomes so quiet that I soon feel like a lone fish swimming through the abyss. Where I was once surrounded by like-minded drivers hurrying home, suddenly, the streets are empty and quiet as I head further out of the city toward the small town where my parents live. Christmas Carols fill the car and with them comes a bead of excitement. After Thanksgiving, it’s the home stretch to Christmas, my favorite time of the year. Between the food, the lights, the snow, and the sheer joy that exists within festive music, I’m set up for a good run this year.
In fact, this year might betheyear for me. I’ve been saving to leave New York for a long time, and if my plans pan out this year, this might be the last time I’m late for Thanksgiving.
As I drive through the dark streets, a passing shadow amid buildings containing the laughter and light from families finally together, a soft crackle rises from my phone, interrupting my soft humming along to the music.
Low battery.
Shit. Did I bring my charger?
Keeping one eye on the road and a single hand on the wheel, I cautiously begin rummaging around in my glove compartment seeking out the familiar smooth charging cable. Nothing. It’s not in the dip next to my seat, either. Dragging my hand back from the passenger seat and into my lap, I rummage around past my makeup, emergency toiletries, and wallet, but there’s no chargerto be found. The only place it could be is in my violin case, but there’s no reason for it to be there.
Did I forget it?
A memory suddenly bursts to the forefront of my mind of placing the charging cable down on the sink in the restaurant bathroom then being interrupted by a breathless manager begging me to start my set early.
It’s still there.
“Shit.” Puffing out my cheeks, I tuck my hair behind my ear and floor the gas. All I need to do is make it home and I can charge up there.
Three seconds after I speed up, something loud clunks in front of my car and a vibration moves through the whole chassis. Alarm spikes through me like a clap of thunder and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
Did I hit something?
Another clunk rises up from my car followed by a spluttering and chuffing sound, then with a long, low groan, there’s the painful sound of something snapping. With another splutter and something akin to a wheezing gasp, my car dies and rolls to a stop, haphazardly parked against the sidewalk where I have enough sense to guide it as it slows.
“No way,” I whisper to myself as the lights on my dashboard flicker and die. The warmth blasting out of the heater is the next to go and within ten seconds, I’m shrouded in darkness inside a rapidly cooling car with no other soul in sight.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Snatching my phone from its hands-free stand, I gaze out of the window and try to take in as much of my surroundings as I can.
The outskirts of the city are dark and quiet. A couple of orange streetlights sparsely illuminate the sidewalks on either side of the road. There are a couple of parked cars covered in a light dusting from the earlier snow shower showing they haven’t been moved since, and all the businesses up the street are closed and shuttered. Aside from the dark, ominous alley to the left of my car, it looks like I’m alone.
It should be safe to get out.
