A Date With The Devil: A Childhood Friends-Enemies-Lovers Off-Limits Romance by Amani B. Clarke

Author:Amani B. Clarke [Clarke, Amani B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Authormania Book Club.
Published: 2024-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

The cab's suspension groans as we hurtle over a pothole down Biscayne Boulevard toward downtown, my body lurching with the jolt of it. Head pressed against the window, I watch Miami's murals of color on Latin-inspired buildings without seeing them, my mind trapped in a sterile room where life's palette fades to monochrome. Each red light we stop at feels like an eternity, each green light a fleeting hope.

"Please," I murmur, though whether to the driver or to God, I'm not sure. "Don't let her be alone when it happens."

A silent entreaty follows, my heart scrabbling against ribcage walls, offering the God of my childhood a desperate bargain. Take me instead, Lord. I don’t want to live without her. Mom's the glue that holds us together; Dad’s gone. Without her, what's left?

My own heartbeat pounds in my ears, a metronome to my bargaining thoughts. I can't lose her. Not now, not after everything we've held on through. My prayer dissolves into sobs, as quiet as I can keep them, but they still wrack my frame with their intensity.

"Almost there," the driver says softly, stealing a glance at me in the rearview mirror. I nod, grateful for his urgency and compassion.

Miami Comprehensive Cancer Center looms ahead, its windows glowing like beacons on a stormy night. The cab pulls up to the emergency entrance, and I spill out, feet hitting the pavement before the car has fully stopped. My nurse's instincts are already kicking in, flipping the switch from daughter to healthcare professional.

I burst through the sliding doors and approach the front desk, my voice steady despite the tumult inside me. "Abigail Ricardo's room, please."

“Room 908, Ma’am, in the Ceazer Wing.”

Only God knows what people must think of me looking so disheveled, but I don’t care. I get to the elevator bank panting, desperately willing the elevators to run a little faster, my heart alone powering everything electrical within miles just by its pounding.

Just as I go past the nurse’s station, I hear my name called.

"Tony?"

Dr. Hernandez, wearing the weary armor of an already very long shift, strides toward me, a clipboard in hand. He doesn’t waste time with niceties. He knows me from when he treated my Mom before, and he knows better than to sugarcoat the facts for another medical professional.

"Acute abdominal hemorrhaging," he starts without preamble, his words clinical but not unkind. "We suspect a ruptured pseudocyst or possibly a breached vessel near the pancreatic head. Her BP's tanking, and she's showing signs of severe hypovolemic shock."

My mouth dries up, translating the jargon instantly. Internal bleeding. Rapid blood loss. It's the kind of catastrophic event that turns a chronic battle into an acute emergency, the kind that offers no time for goodbyes.

"Have you started vasopressors?" I ask, my tone composed even as my insides quake.

"Noradrenaline's running, but she's not responding well," he replies, concern etching deeper lines into his face. "We're prepping for an exploratory laparotomy, but you know as well as I do . . . "

His voice trails off, and the unsaid words hang heavy between us.

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