83 Nightmare on Lombard Street

**Date = 1 August**
**Place = San Francisco (Lombard Street)**

**POV - Aria**

As we cross the street, I think to myself — it’s the kind of day that tricks you into thinking life has finally settled — sun warm on our backs, laughter bouncing off Lombard’s crooked turns, the city is shining, the dresses are perfect, and for once, nothing hurts — yet.

“Let’s go join the boys and have a wonderful dinner together,” Haley suggests. “What do you girls think?” I’m in. Not for the food, but because, for some reason, I miss my man all of a sudden.

“I can do with some grub,” Mel agrees. “I’m literally starving.”

Ahead, Jackson is standing with River still clinging to him like a baby koala, the tiny person in black between them and the man who looks a lot like Marco, as if stuck in the same position.

The rest of the guards are scattered around like it’s some invisible manhunt no one told me about. One’s eyeballing the sky like he expects a sniper to parachute in from a passing seagull, another keeps checking car mirrors like the Toyota Corolla three streets down is plotting our downfall, and two are circling the Jeep like sharks with OCD.

Eyes skim windows, shadows, passing strangers. Fingers drum against holsters, throats shift under radios. It’s quiet, but not peaceful — every gesture says they’re waiting for trouble to show itself.

Behind us, Lili is piggyback riding on her nanny, her sparkly tutu bouncing with every step. She’s holding onto Briana’s ears like handlebars, grinning wildly.

And just like that, for a heartbeat, it feels like we’re in some dreamy alternate universe where everything is different than it’s supposed to be.

Then some of the guards freeze. Their heads jerk toward the road, eyes wide. The easy air shatters.

“Watch out!” someone shouts.

I notice a flash of yellow to my right — sharp — as if out of thin air. A vehicle. A streak. Barreling at us — too fast, too deliberate.

My body locks. My lungs burn. I know instantly — I can’t stop it.

A scream tears the air apart. Female. High, jagged.

I scream too, but weirdly, I can’t hear myself. My own voice vanishes in the roar, swallowed by the sudden vacuum where sound shouldn’t exist.

Time fractures. Slows. The world stretches like a tendon pulled too tight.

My feet freeze. My brain stalls.

And in the center of it all, I heed Jackson’s face.

Quiet. Stripped bare. Helpless terror carved into every line, every shadow. River is clinging to his neck as if she’s never letting go.

His eyes meet mine. Devastation. A look so raw, so naked cleaves bone from marrow.

Then — movement. A darting shadow, low and fast, black against the light. Small, sharp, deadly. Racing from the sidewalk.

Jackson’s expression cracks into something worse — utter ruin.

In that infinitesimal millisecond between inhale and oblivion, a sudden sucking of teeth, a gasp — my first thought is that we’re going to die.

My arm jerks back instinctively, swiping, desperate to push clear. Finds only air. Empty. Wrong. But my elbow collides with Ava’s chest, shoving her. She stumbles, gasps.

The guards surge, too far, too slow.

The shadow pounces on Mel, vicious and precise — like a leopard crushing its prey.

Her body whips back, but her arm is still connected to mine. I feel her nails biting into skin, dragging me with her, yanking my arm near out of its socket.

The air splits around me, hot, sharp, metallic, tasting like burnt rubber and blood.

And then I’m airborne. Flying backwards.

The yellow blur explodes past — so close I can almost feel the metal against my flesh. The car clips the shadow mid-lunge, dragging it forward in a brutal sweep, right in front of my nose.

CRUNCH.

The sound is obscene.

A hair-raising mixture of scrunching metal, shattering glass, and breaking bones echoes off the surrounding buildings like a scream with no mouth.

Weightless. Unmoored. My arms flail, legs tangle. A kaleidoscope of sky and clouds twists overhead — peaceful, mocking — before the world flips and the pavement surges up to meet me.

Impact.

My vision goes fuzzy. I blink hard, confused and numb.

Shopping bags explode into cascading confetti — jewelry, tiaras, glitter, rhinestones — it all rains down like judgment.

A tiny lacy thong flutters through the air like a broken little bird. My something blue.

Shoes follow. Skittering across asphalt.

My head rings. High, endless, piercing. Everything bleeds together as I’m trying to make sense of the silhouettes rushing around. Shapes, shadows, figures sprinting, arms reaching. Black-clad men blur into a moving wall. Mouths open, orders barked, but nothing cuts through the shriek in my ears — sharp and high and endless.

One sleek black beast starts moving — tires squealing, jerking forward — not fleeing, but chasing.

“CALL FUCKING 911!!”

The stench hits — burnt rubber, hot metal, iron-sweet blood. Acrid. Suffocating.

My chest lurches like I’ve been punched from the inside as I struggle to breathe. Was I hit by a car?

I blink rapidly, scanning the chaos around me. Faces — unfamiliar, panicked, blurry. My throat is tight, dry, words stuck somewhere behind my ribcage. My body aches in every joint, my muscles screaming in protest. My brain buzzes like a furious beehive trapped in my skull.

Brick drops down beside me, his hands on my arms, his voice coming through the fog like a string tugging me back to the surface.

“Aria, hey, hey — look at me — are you okay?”

I try to answer, but nothing comes out. My eyes flick around, wild, desperate. And then they land on a tiny pink blob nearly swallowed by Briana’s enormous arms.

Lili.

Relief crashes over me, sharp and sweet. Her nanny cradles her like she’s made of glass.

I whip my head to the right. But there’s no pregnant fairy.

“Mel!” my voice rips out, strangled, uneven, like it’s being squeezed from my lungs.

“She’s fine,” someone says, maybe Brick, maybe a guard, maybe God.

I focus back on Lili.

Briana walks briskly, moving back to the boutique with Lili clutched tightly to her chest like a precious porcelain doll. Her head is buried against that tatted neck, her tiny fists clutching Briana’s shirt like a lifeline.

I lift a shaky hand as if to call them back.

“She’s just getting the little one out,” Brick says softly, not meeting my eyes. “It’s not good for her to see …” His tone is heavy, the kind that carries unspoken fear, and his words hang in the air, unfinished.

My stomach twists, a cold, hollow ache gnawing at me as I follow his gaze.

Kiara.

And suddenly the world tilts. My chest tightens. My vision narrows. Everything else — the screaming, the sirens, the smell of rubber and blood — slips away into the edges.

She’s lying on the sidewalk like a broken doll covered in blood. Her hair is tangled, her clothes torn. One leg is twisted the wrong way around, bone sticking out. Her limbs jerk rhythmically, as if a dose of low-voltage electricity is tearing through her veins. Eyes rolled back, jaw clenched tight, her fingers are bent, claws against the pavement, like she’s trying to dig her way out of hell.

Ava is crouched next to her now, working on her, talking to her, urgently, gently — I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her eyes are too wide and too bright.

Near me, a single green stiletto lies tossed aside on the pavement like a forgotten prop in a play gone terribly wrong.

“Aria,” a voice says near me, close and kind. Haley. She’s kneeling, eyes filled with something that looks far too much like fear for my liking. “Are you hurt?”

I stare at her, blinking slowly, like I have to remember how to move my face. I don’t answer. I can’t.

Am I hurt?

The question flutters into my mind like a moth, slow and flickering, and I can’t quite catch it. I look down at my arms — scratched, bruised, smeared with blood. My knee’s scraped raw. Something aches deep in my side, but I don’t know if it’s muscle or heartbreak.

“Are you okay, girl?” she asks again.

I nod. She smiles faintly and moves on to help Ava.

“WHERE IS THE FUCKING AMBULANCE!” It sounds like Enrique.

No. Jackson.

I spin my head wildly, and the motion makes everything blur — like the world’s been shaken inside a snow globe and the glitter hasn’t settled. My eyes dart until they find a huddle of people across the road. Guards in black, one feverishly working on another injured somebody. I recognize him … it’s Miguel … Marco’s older brother. His hands are covered in blood. Jackson — on his knees, pale as ash — is hunched over as if sheer will can keep the soul from slipping free. He’s clutching the person’s leg, like he’s fighting something invisible — as if the soul might slip away if he lets go, like death is something that happens only when you stop holding tight enough.

I only see boots. Black boots. Small. A black motorcycle helmet lies discarded and cracked on the road.

The tiny guard Jackson was giving a talking to.

My breath stops in my throat, trapped and heavy. Wasn’t he on the side? How?

Mel is slumped nearby, her legs sprawled in a heap. Guards are crouched around her like a human fortress, but they’re useless. She’s not seeing them. She’s staring. Staring at Jackson. At the boots. At the blood.

Next to her, River is curled against Marco’s chest, her tiny hands digging into his arm like he’s the only anchor in a world gone mad. Her eyes are enormous, glassy, unblinking.

I think she’s in shock.

Honestly, I think we all are.

Brick’s voice breaks the haze. “Can you stand up?”

I laugh.

It bursts out of me like a hiccup — wild, cracked, absolutely inappropriate. My shoulders shake as if I find something hilarious, but there’s nothing funny. Not even close. I’m laughing because if I don’t, I might never stop crying.

Brick just blinks, then lifts a brow like he’s unsure if I’ve fully lost it, or not. Still, he gently takes my arm and helps me to my feet. I stumble — everything’s spinning — but I stay up. Barely. He keeps a hand on me, grounding me. I let him.

In the distance, sirens wail. Closer now. Too close.

They’re coming for us.

I drift toward Mel and drop onto the pavement beside her, my bright sundress pooling in the dirt and dust like nothing matters anymore. Cause it doesn’t.

She’s trembling. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Then she speaks — or maybe breathes.

“Lee … Lee pushed me … out … Kiara …” Her words are broken glass. Her body convulses in a dry sob — no tears, just pain so deep it has nowhere else to go. And I’m sure she hit her head. Possible concussion.

‘Cause … Lee hasn’t been seen since the boat exploded. And I’m not even sure he’s not the one burned to a crisp. But I’m sure he couldn’t have pushed her.

I wrap my arms around her, feeling the bones beneath her skin and the baby between us. I hold her even though I don’t know how to. Even though I want to be the one held.

River lifts her head.

“Sky …” she whispers like it’s a prayer. I’m not sure which gypsy god she’s talking to, but we can use all the help we can get. Her voice is hollow and small, and her little fingers curl tighter into Marco’s shirt. Her cheeks are soaked, her nose pink.

“I need to hold it together,” I whisper to myself, as if saying it out loud will make it easier. I can fall apart later. In a closet. In a bathtub. In the dark. In Enrique’s arms.

But right now … I need to be strong. I swallow, taking back control.

But it seems that once you get emotional control back, you start to hurt. All the bumps and bruises, the scrapes and road burns, start to emerge. Slowly at first, but it soon becomes overwhelming.

It’s like my body ignored it to survive, but now that I’m safe, it turns it back on so that I know I’m hurt. Nothing too major, but it feels like shit.

This is where my anger shows up.

I wince, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. Brick sees it. He doesn’t comment, just moves a little closer, in case.

And now — now that I can feel everything — the rage bubbles up like lava under cracked skin.

“What kind of monster just slams into a group of people and vanishes like a coward?” I hiss. No one answers.

I glance back at Jackson. He looks like a broken hero who can never be fixed again.

He shifts slightly, and I see the little guard’s face. I lose my breath.

LEE!

But not Lee.

Braids spill out across the street like a broken halo. Blood seeps from somewhere, pooling beneath the tiny body. The face is too still. Too pale. Too real. Like an angel slipping away.

Miguel is still working. Frantically. Trying to stop the bleeding. Seems he knows what he’s doing.

Jackson. Still kneeling. Still bent. Still hovering over Lee like the world is ending — like it already ended and no one told him until now.

I’ve never seen him look like that.

Jackson doesn’t do helpless.

Jackson isn’t helpless.

But he is now.

“Is Sky going to be okay?” River whispers, her voice barely audible, like it might vanish with the wind if we don’t catch it fast enough.

I don’t know what to say.

Because truthfully?

We should’ve known the world doesn’t give you a day that perfect without asking for something back.