Page 40 of Veiled Vows

From my head right down to the tip of my toes. I feel like I’ve just been tossed around inside a blender and dumped out into a puddle, and not the nice kind of puddle either. There’s grit nudging against my fingertips each time I flex them gently into the cold water lapping over my knuckles.

I don’t remember water in the car, but given how fast we were going, I won’t be surprised if something burst because?—

Shit.

We crashed.

It’s coming back to me slowly. We were racing away from someone taking shots at us, and then the window smashed, I think. Did my driver get shot? I think so. He was screaming so loudly that it had to have been a bullet.

Get up, Jasmine.

There’s more water down by my thigh, soaking into my jeans and making the fabric pull uncomfortably tight against my skin. I like these jeans. I got them on sale with Catherine last Christmas because they used to have little green bows near thepockets, bows that have long fallen off due to far too many cycles in the wash, but they still make my ass look good.

Not now. Now they’re soaking up dirty road water and God knows what else because I’m not in the car anymore. In fact, I have no idea where the car is. There’s just water and the sharp press of gravel and pavement against my cheek. I try to shift, and pain pulls like taffy right down my back, like pulling a muscle only a hundred times worse.

Fuck. What if I got seriously fucked up in the crash? Maybe I’m dead and this is my soul trying to pull itself out of my body. What an unremarkable way to die.

Opening my eyes, I’m greeted by a pair of shiny black shoes pointing away from me. Droplets of water cling to the smooth, overly polished leather, and the bottom cuffs of the slacks are stained dark from soaking up liquid. This guy’s been sloshing through puddles, or it’s the remains of when he dumped me down on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I have to remember my training. Years I’ve spent learning self-defense, but I never trained for how to reorient yourself after being thrown through a car crash. Moves and images flicker through my dull mind in time to my sluggish heart, and then a voice drifts through the night air.

“Just shoot her and get it over with.”

“Boss wants a video,” replies a second voice, this one so close that it has to belong to the man standing over me. “How we gonna wake her up?”

“No clue. I told you to shoot the tires!”

“I did,” hisses dirty-pants man. “I just also shot the fucking driver.”

“Asshole.”

“Don’t fucking start. Look, you record and I’ll try to wake her up. If it doesn’t work then just shoot her, alright?”

The distant man mutters something in a language I don’t understand, then suddenly there’s a hand in my hair dragging me out of my watery grave. Every strand pulls like a needle against my scalp, and fresh, sharp pain flares across my forehead drawing a gasp from my clenched teeth.

“Ow!”

“Look,” says the pants guy. “Told you I’d wake her up.”

“Let go of me, you fuck!” Twisting against his hold only amplifies the burning pain in my scalp, and my vision is so blurry that both men are just shadows, with one holding a beacon presumably from his phone.

“Stay down, bitch!”

Something collides with my jaw, sending an explosion of hot pain through my face and lancing down my neck. My teeth clack with sickening clarity, and the taste of blood suddenly floods my mouth. I hit the ground again, but this time I throw my hands out and stop myself from landing face-first.

Think I bit my tongue. Did he kick me?

I have to fight back, but another blow like that and I’m not sure I’m getting back up. Blinking slowly against the glaring light, my vision starts to clear. There’s only two of them, and the entire stretch of road is empty until it curves out of sight at one end. Behind both men, the guard rail is split in two with the red rear lights of my car flickering in and out of life. My driver’s body lies a few feet away, two bullets in his chest and one leg bent at an unnatural angle. Shit.

I’m fucked.

I’m so fucked.

Swiping my tongue around the inside of my mouth, I gather a mouthful of blood and spit it onto the ground with a wince. “Alright, let’s talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” says the pants guy. “We have our orders.”

“Smile for the camera,” sneers the second guy, and he walks forward with the camera held high. “Gotta look pretty for your audience.”

---