The Rumors Are True

MISHA SLOWED HER car down. 

Two ladies— the taller one seemed to be in her early thirties and wearing a blouse and pants while the other one seemed to be around nine or ten wearing a shirt and skirt— were walking in front of her, around twenty meters away from her. They were almost promenading at the middle of the street like they were in a park with the child veering towards the middle of the street every now and then, playfully dragging the older one with her. The older one, probably whenever she remembered they were in a street where fast-moving vehicles could suddenly appear, would responsibly pull the child towards the side of the street. But the child, after a while, would then drag her to the center again. The narrow side street they were in only had two lanes, wide enough for two small vehicles going the opposite directions but too narrow for three cars.  All around them were residential houses, and since it was past eleven in the evening, the road was almost abandoned.

Misha was about to overtake the two ladies when a speeding motorcycle with two men on board whizzed past her car and swerved and went straight towards the two ladies.

Misha screamed as the motorcycle hit the older lady. The woman and the motorcycle both tumbled into the ground, but the rider and his companion quickly recovered, with the rider revving its engine up.  Misha stopped her car and desperately looked at the motorcycle’s plate number but before she could clearly see it, the motorcycle scooted away—to escape.

Out of the blue, another vehicle, a black pickup truck, appeared from the opposite direction and crashed into the motorcycle—intentionally. Misha shut her eyes as the motorcycle crashed to the ground, violently throwing off the two men.

She opened her eyes, took a deep breath and thought of alighting from her car to come to the lady’s succor. But she hesitated to move, scared that the action unfolding just outside her vehicle would quickly escalate—like one of the men or both of them pulling out a gun and shooting the man inside his truck, and stray bullets hitting her. But the two men focused on getting their motorcycle up while the driver of the truck was now coming out of his vehicle.

The royal rumble she was expecting didn’t happen as the two men decided to leave their motorbike and scamper away instead despite their advantage in number. They ran past her car while the truck driver moved like he would run after them, but stopped, perhaps realizing that he wouldn’t catch up and instead put out his cell phone from his pants’ pocket and walked towards the motorcycle on the ground. He took photos of it, focusing a few times on the plate number while Misha snapped out of her reverie and remembered to walk towards the two ladies to help.

The older lady was alive, thankfully, but was groaning in pain as she lay on the pavement. The child was crying a she tried to hug her. There wasn’t any blood on the ground, she probably had some fractures.

“Can you stand?” Misha asked the lady.

The lady tried but the little movements she made only aggravated, it seemed, the pain she was feeling.

“Let me, please.”

Misha glanced behind her and saw the driver of the pickup truck approaching them. And her breath hitched as he looked more handsome up close. Misha pulled the crying child away to give the man some space as he talked to the lady and asses her situation. The child, obviously disoriented sat on the ground as she continued to shed tears. Misha thought of carrying the child but she seemed heavy for her so she just sat beside the child and pulled her closer to her and put her arm gently on her shoulder to comfort her.

“Don’t cry,” she told the little girl. “It will be all right.”

And Misha saw her attempting to stop from crying.

 The man eventually bridal carried the injured woman.

“You can bring her to my car,” Misha told the man while pointing at her red Kia Picanto.

“Do you know a hospital nearby?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said and stood up while the little girl rushed beside the man and held the injured lady’s hand.

The man started walking towards his black truck, with the lady in his arms and the little girl following him. “I do,” he said. “I’d take her there. You can come if you want.”

Misha thought of marching towards the pickup but she remembered that her car wasn’t fully-paid and that it really wasn’t safe to leave it in a strange place.

“I will just follow you,” she said loudly at the man who at the time was already getting the lady inside the truck, and then walked back to her car, climbed up the driver’s seat and watched the man take the little girl inside his vehicle.

The lady could be seriously hurt and they needed to focus on her and on the little girl, who was most likely traumatized by what happened, but Misha still couldn’t help but notice that the man was extremely good-looking and was tall, standing around six feet, and had an athletic body. If she’d use one word to describe him, it would be hunk. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’d learn that he was a model or a professional athlete. He now had an idea why the rider and his passenger—who both looked smaller than five feet four— decided it would be better for them to run. And the way he carried that woman effortlessly, he could probably lift the men over his shoulders and then smash them to the ground.

He looked familiar but couldn’t remember where she had seen him. Maybe he really was a model like her, or an actor or a famous athlete. Maybe she had seen her in one of her gigs, treading the catwalk like her. Or maybe he did some TV commercials that were currently airing or ones that recently aired. What she was sure was that he had seen that face before, albeit she didn’t know if she was also familiar to him. She didn’t know why but her heart raced a little faster when their gazes locked, like there was a connection between them. Or was it just because he had expressive, penetrating eyes? Like in the split-second that their eyes locked, he already was able to crawl deep into her heart and soul, and left something there as he sneaked back out.

She wouldn’t exaggerate and say that they were probably soul mates, just a little connection between them, which wasn’t necessarily romantic—but she caught looking at her as he climbed into his truck’s driver’s seat.

She wavered between following or going home when the black truck started moving.

You can come if you want, he said.

There was little enthusiasm in his voice when he said it, like he’d prefer that she didn’t follow as she would just be a nuisance. Or maybe, there was little enthusiasm in his voice because he was worried about the injured lady. Well, she saw some enthusiasm in his eyes when he was looking at her.

But he’s really a Good Samaritan, she thought and remembered how he risked his life when he hit the motorcycle. Few guys would do that, risk your life and your shiny truck for someone you didn’t know. Scratch your friend’s car a little and this friend of yours might strangle you in anger. But this handsome man, he was willing to destroy his truck for a couple of strangers.

Maybe I could also be of help, she decided and continued following the truck. It wasn’t right to burden the man with all the efforts in helping the two ladies.

The truck reached the hospital after five minutes.

Misha alighted from her car and followed the trio to the emergency area of the hospital, with the hunky Good Samaritan still carrying the injured woman.

“Claire, the one injured, already called her family,” the man told Misha while they sat on a bench at the waiting area of the hospital. And even his voice sounded handsome. Alexa, the little girl, sat in between them. “They’re on their way here.”

Two adult women, who seemed strangers to each other, were with them at the area, sitting next to each other on the opposite bench.

“What do you think is her injury?” Misha asked the man.

“I think she fractured her leg,” he answered.

“Do you know them?” she asked, trying to confirm if he really risked his life for a pair of strangers.

“I don’t know them, this is the first time I met them,” he replied as he put his cell phone out of his pocket and tinkered with it. “I got photos of the license plate of the motorcycle. I’ll give this to her family so they can report it to the police.” He showed her the photo of the motorcycle’s plate number. “And I also sent someone at the scene of the crime.”

“Did they hit her intentionally?” she asked.

“No, I think they’re drunk and lost control of the motorcycle,” he surmised. “I will send them to jail.”

And he uttered those words like he was so sure of it.

She stared at him while he looked at his phone, not really sure if she wanted to be in awe or annoyed with those powerful words. She knew how hard it was to send someone in jail in this country. Was she talking to a VIP?  Someone who was more powerful than a judge?