Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
Porter’s cellphone rang as the cab pulled up in front of my apartment. With his phone tucked against his ear, he fished money out of his pocket, while whoever he talked to, gave him an earful. He wasn’t even getting a word in edgewise.
“Let me pay.” I grabbed his arm.
He shook his head, shoved money at the driver and spoke into his phone, “I hear you. No, I get that, but I don’t deserve any of that. I don’t even think I should vote.”
Porter walked a few feet away from me. One hand covered his ear while he listened with intense concentration. “I get that, Jordan, but I haven’t been back there in years. I have no say in this decision. Nor should I.” He paused so long, I thought he’d hung up. “Is that what Dad told you to tell me?”
There was a small grocery store right across the street. I could really go for some ice cream. I waved at Porter and pointed at the grocery store.
He lifted up his finger to say, “give me one minute.”
“Jordan, I honestly have no say. I support whatever you guys decide.” His voice indicated the seriousness of the conversation, and I didn't want to bother him.
Porter’s back was to me as I dashed across the street. I glimpsed back at him. He didn’t even know I was gone. I found some ice cream and a cheap bottle of wine. I paid for my purchases, and I got halfway across the street when I heard someone calling.
“Miss! Miss!”
I turned. “Are you talking to me?”
The clerk waved something at me. “You forgot your wallet in the store.”
Porter and I briefly made eye contact.
“What the fuck,” he mouthed.
I turned back to the store. A squeal of tires and the surge of an engine roared through the air. I froze as those headlights sped towards me.
“Beth!” Porter shouted.
I stepped back into the other lane, but the car veered into that lane. I stumbled forward, and it surged back towards me. This fucker was trying to hit me.
I started to run. It was too close.
Oh. Shit. This is going to hurt.
I hit the ground. Pain laced up my arms, and something cold and wet tricked against my hands. Miraculously, I was still breathing.
I heard the store clerk’s voice. He sounded so far away. “Lady! Are you okay?”
I was being rolled over, and suddenly, Porter’s face was mere inches from mine.
“Shit.” He touched my arms, my face, my neck. “I’m so sorry. Beth. Say something.”
“Something is leaking. Am I bleeding?” I asked in a daze.
He shook his head. “You’re wine bottle broke.”
“My ice cream,” I said lamely.
“We’ll get you some more.”
Everything hurt. Were my wrists broken? It felt like my kneecaps had been removed, like my hips had been jarred so hard, they had popped out of their sockets.
“Did the car hit me? I think the car hit me.”
“That wasn’t the car.” He shone his phone flashlight into my eyes exactly like a doctor would.
“Something hit me. I’m pretty sure it was the car.”
Remorse crossed his face as he studied my wrists. “That was me. I tackled you.”
Our eyes met.
“You tackled me?”
He put his hand beneath my neck and gently pulled me into a sitting position. “I don’t think anything is broken, but you’re pretty banged up. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
In shock, I glanced down at my hands. My palms were skinned to a pulpy mess. The knees of my pants were ripped, but there was no blood. And every single bone in my body hurt.
Queasiness rolled over me. “I feel weird.”
He lifted me up into his arms. “You might have a concussion.”
I stared up at his face while he carried me. “You saved me.”
“I hit you with all my weight and drove you into a cement sidewalk. I’m not sure if that qualifies as saving you.”
“My hands are stinging.”
He flinched. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Beth.”
“It’s not your fault. I wanted to get some ice cream. You were right there,” I babbled in shock.
“I was distracted. I was on the phone.”
“Why would someone try and run me over?”
He opened the truck door and put me down on the seat with so much gentleness and care, it made me want to weep. Didn’t he know by now that kindness was my undoing?
He secured my seatbelt over my hips. “We’ll get to the bottom of this okay?”
I wanted that, sure, but I was startled when I realized I wanted Porter—this, being cared for—more.
Two hours later, I waved my bandaged hands at Porter, who sat on the edge of my bed in the ER.
“Sexy, hey?” I rolled my eyes.
He lifted one of my hands and kissed my fingertips. “You’ve got sexy covered.”
Our eyes met. The weird thing was I knew he meant it. I really liked this guy. Not only as a friend. I had feelings for him. Big feelings. I didn’t know how to process that, but the need to let him know was growing stronger.
I hated that I was fake-engaged to him. I wanted everything with him to be real. “Porter, there’s something we need to talk about.”
“De ja vu,” a familiar voice interrupted my confession.
I sighed and turned to take in the blond woman that had appeared beside my bed. “Detective Christensen.”
She flipped through my medical report. “It says you were involved in a hit and run?”
“An attempted hit and run.”
“Trouble sure seems to like to find you.”
“Do you get sent out to mock all victims of crimes or is that something you reserve for only me?”
“What can you tell me?”
Porter cut in. “It was a black Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with a soft white top. It went from approximately six miles per hour to thirty-five miles per hour in the span of one block. Beth tried to dodge it, but the vehicle deliberately tried to hit her.”
“What else?”
“The driver was a white male, 40-50 years of age. He had no facial hair, and he wore a hat and dark-rimmed glasses. Aviators.”
“Did you get a license plate number?”
“GAN 4563. New York plates.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “So did the car actually hit you?”
I shook my head .
“How did you get hurt?”
“I knocked her down to avoid her being clipped by the vehicle,” Porter answered for me.
“And where exactly did this take place?”
I cited my address to her.
She tucked her stubby pencil back into her pocket. “Okay. Let me run those plates and see what we can see on the street cameras. Lots of streets don’t have cameras, but if they do, and if what you are saying is true, then this would be considered attempted murder.”
I gasped.
She gave me a grim smile. “Along with mocking our victims, we also consider attempted murder a pretty serious crime.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m going to run those plates, and I’ll get back to you.”
Another hour passed before I was released from the ER. Porter wanted to carry me to the truck, but I insisted on walking. I hobbled beside him and tried not to groan. Every single step hurt like a son of a bitch until Porter took pity on me and literally swept me off my feet.
I was about to protest out of stupid pride, but my phone rang.
“Beth? This is Detective Christensen, I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”