Wrong Chance Read Free

dollar-store sunglasses and put her foot on the accelerator. The sleek automobile followed the command without effort. When Jazz turned into the airport’s arrival-and-pickup section, the foulness in her core turned sour. Cashmaire, her best friend of eleven years, the only soul who knew what had happened to her July 22, 2001, was nothing close to a “spur of the moment” woman.
    Cashmaire’s typical Type A personality didn’t allow for any spontaneity. Her meticulous planning was downright anal. So this unplanned visit absolutely scared the heebie-jeebies out of Jazz. And what had Cashmaire meant by she was in trouble? As Jazz eased the car to a stop, she prayed that everything was alright.
    As usual, another unanswered prayer; it was no fucking surprise, though. Jazz knew her petition had been rejected when she looked through the throng of travelers and internalized the pitiful look etched in Cashmaire’s face. Jazz sighed and shook her head. She wished she could write a formal grievance to God for neglecting His responsibilities as far as her prayer requests were concerned. This God relationship was totally unfair. He was nothing but a damn control freak.
    Cashmaire’s beautiful manila complexion was minus its ever-present luster. That gave Jazz the creeps. Cashmaire’s body language didn’t sing, didn’t demand the spotlight like normal. Something had Cashmaire spooked.
    Jazz tapped the horn, then she reached across the seat to open the passenger’s door as her friend reluctantly approached. Cashmaire eased into the seat and burst into tears. Jazz couldn’t help but notice that Cashmaire was still the prettiest woman she’d ever seen, even when she was sad and mascara-stained tears ran down her face.
    I can handle whatever this is, Jazz thought.

FOUR
    N ot many blocks away from Howard University, Chance Fox hit a joint he’d scored off some street kids as he strolled up North Capitol and rounded the corner onto Seaton Place. He held his breath as the powerful reefer smoke saturated his lungs, then tossed the roach into the wind before it burnt his fingertips again. His wife found reefer burns to be unattractive and she closed her legs every time she saw them. Still, he should have hit the joint once more. He told himself to grab another bag before he caught his flight home.
    A fantastic high was a satisfying self-indulgence after a long and grueling day of protesting against human atrocities on Capitol Hill. He shook his head in disgust as a cold breeze nibbled on his ears and reddened his white cheeks. How could the nitwit policy-makers consider passing bills in support of legalizing gay marriages when God declared same-sex relations forbidden? Didn’t the jerks know that the Lord rained brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah for the same indulgences? Surely the shitheads didn’t think their congressional power was superior to God. Families didn’t come from loins of the same gender. Two patriarchs had no moral right raising an impressionable child in a homosexual family structure as if it were normal and the child wouldn’t be affected. The fucks. And that pissed Chance off, so he protested every chance he got.
    Chance pulled his backpack off and stepped through the door of Liberian Orphanage. Immediately he spotted the reverend chatting it up with an acne-face receptionist bimbo with platinum blonde hair and cheap clothes. He and the reverend made eye contact and smiled. Chance crossed the room and shook the reverend’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Reverend.” Chance removed a football from his backpack, a well-worn copy of The 48 Laws of POWER stuck out the bag. “Where are the little dudes? I wanna toss the pigskin around with them before it gets dark.”
    â€œCome sit with me a moment, son.” The reverend led Chance to a set of soft leather chairs in front of a defunct fireplace. “You reek of marijuana and your