Last First Kiss

By

Lori Leger

Copyright © 2011 by Lori H. Leger

http://www.lorilegerauthor.com

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Lori H. Leger.

Cover art by Kim Killion of Hot Damn Designs

Dedication

To Mike: thanks for everything, babe.

To the girls in my life: Mom, Kitty, Shelley, June, Sherri, Arlene, Jessica, Stephanie, Nova, Trish, and Anaice...love you all. To my co-workers, the
other
Designing Women, Barbara (my own personal cheering section), Cat, Joan, and Tina…thanks for reading my stories, especially the horrible early versions. To Angie and Tammy, whose enthusiastic praise gave me hope. To Jess F. and Pat M.—feel like I’ve know you two forever. Margaret S. M., sorry I wasn’t there for you, and Gina, because you’ve been my friend forever. To all my ‘special’ Angels.

To the ladies in the old L.A. Bitch Club, Karen J., (the first to tell me to stop whining about my life and do something to change it), Cindy, Henrietta, Cathy H., Angela, and Sharla, I don’t see you gals nearly enough. To
all
my children, and finally, to those we’ve lost…Dad, Gordon, Karen, Beau, Mr. Fred, Ms. Lucy, Carl, Fred, Russie, Claudia T., Marlene, Gail, Dale, Dana, and Gary H.

CHAPTER 1

Early January

Jackson Broussard crawled out through the gaping hole left by his blown out windshield. He struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain that shot through his left knee. He stood in place to get his bearings, a lone observer standing in the midst of chaos. Within moments the shriek of sirens joined the wails and cries of other survivors.

He tensed as a fire truck’s air horn jarred his traumatized senses, and then gasped and coughed, regretting the deep breath he’d taken. He choked on the acrid smell of burning rubber, and something else, a putrid odor that burned as it settled at the back of his throat. He fought the urge to vomit as he watched in horror, while inky fingers of smoke billowed skyward.

Jackson cringed at a woman’s sudden hysterical screaming, not wanting to think about what she’d seen that made her lose control. Cries and moans of others joined in, collaborating to form a chorus of misery and death. The accident involved more vehicles than he could see or count. Male and female, young and old...Death would have no sympathy for the innocent.

It took him another five minutes to find Chloe, his wife, where she’d landed after being ejected from his truck. Her face was a bloody mass of bones and shredded tissue, her thin body bent and broken beyond repair.

He fought back another wave of nausea, knowing one seat belt could have made the difference between life and...this. As usual, she’d refused.
Nobody
told Chloe what to do, law enforcement, or otherwise.

Should he believe she was gone? Or was it just another one of her cruel tricks to try and humiliate him? He studied her broken body again...no, there would be no coming back from this one. He wondered...Would death bring her the peace she obviously lacked in her lifetime?

Jackson rose on shaky legs, allowing his mind to drift back to the moments before the accident. In typical Chloe fashion, she’d spent the last moments of her life berating him, screaming because his single act of kindness toward others had inconvenienced her. He squinted against the pain in his head, the soreness of his chest. What had he done to piss her off? Fighting off the dizziness, the sudden urge to pass out, he struggled with a missing piece of the puzzle, knowing how important it was.

Frustrated, he put both hands to his head, and willed himself to
think...
to retrace the events that lead to this moment:
The stadium’s malfunctioning traffic light after the benefit concert ending at one p.m., him allowing several cars to turn in front of him, how he’d stopped to let one more vehicle pull out in front of him...the black Expedition and its occupants, and the last action, the catalyst for Chloe’s steady stream of jibes that had escalated into increasingly ugly accusations.

He swung around, total recall causing his chest to tighten in panic. “Oh God, where are they?”

Jackson spotted the SUV lodged against the guardrail and uttered a silent prayer as he staggered over. His heart hammered in his chest when he saw his friend in the driver’s seat, then sank to his stomach at the unnatural tilt of his head. He reached through the shattered window, searching for a pulse, and found none. “Toby,” he groaned, despair stunning him for a moment as he realized his friend was gone.

“Giselle...” he whispered, making his way around to the passenger side. His heart plummeted at the blood pooled around the gouge on her forehead, until he saw the rise and fall of her chest as she labored to breathe. He ripped a piece from his already torn shirt to wipe the area clean, and allowed himself to relax once he saw the bleeding had nearly stopped. He thought of the couple’s two young daughters. What would happen to them if they lost both of their parents? “Oh, God, she has to be okay,” he spoke in a tortured whisper. “Help...she needs help,” he croaked, stepping away to find someone.

He staggered back to Chloe’s body, swaying unsteadily as he struggled to remain on his feet. He fought the blackness closing in on him, determined to remain conscious until he made sure someone helped Giselle. Finally, two EMT’s ran to him.

“Sir, are you injured?” one asked him.

He grabbed his head, squeezing his eyes against the sudden pain, then fell on his knees beside Chloe. “My wife is gone...you can’t help her.” He struggled to lift a finger toward the black Expedition. “My friend Toby didn’t make it, but his wife has to live, for their little girls.” He grabbed for the debilitating pain in his head again before collapsing onto the I-210 roadway.

<><><>

He woke trying to scream, jerking away from the image of Chloe’s bloody face filling his mind.

“
It’s okay Mr. Broussard, it’s okay,” the ER nurse spoke in a calm voice.

Jackson blinked once, twice, and again to clear his eyes, and searched the nurse’s face for clues.

She smiled down at him. “You’re at St. Luke’s hospital, and you’ve got a mild concussion but you’ll be all right. How’s the pain?”

He reached slowly for his head and felt. No bandages. He grabbed the nurse’s hand as one particular memory rushed at him. “I need to find someone who was also in the accident.”

“
And I’ll help you do that, Mr. Broussard. Is it a family member? Was there a passenger in the vehicle with you?”

“
No, my wife was with me, and she...didn’t make it,” he said, his voice calm. “There was a black SUV with a couple in it. The driver was my friend and I...his neck...I couldn’t find a pulse. His passenger, his wife, had a cut on her head, but she was breathing. They have two young girls and no other family. I need to see if she’s okay.”

“
I need her name and a description.”

“
Her name is Giselle Granger. She’s tall and slim, about 5’8”, with shoulder length, curly, brown hair and green eyes. She had a big cut on her forehead, right about here.” He touched his own head above his right temple.

“
I’ll check, and be right back. You stay here, Mr. Broussard.”

He grabbed her hand again. “What did they do with my wife? She...” He swallowed the bile as the image of her flashed in his mind again. “She went through the windshield.”

The nurse gave him a look of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Broussard. I’m not sure if they’ve transported her yet. I’ll check on that for you, too. If she’s not already in the morgue, she will be soon, and we will need you to ID her.”

He nodded at the nurse and tried to sit up. “I can do that whenever you need me to, but can you help me find Giselle? She’s a co-worker of mine and her husband was a close friend.”

She nodded. “I’ll go see if I can find her.”

“
Ma’am, did I have a phone on me?” he asked before she could leave.

Jackson pulled his phone from the bag of belongings she handed him and made two calls. First, to his only living relative, his Uncle Bill, asking him to meet him at the hospital. The second call was much harder to make. He knew Toby and Giselle’s girls were staying with another co-worker, and close friend, Carrie Langley. He’d heard the two women making arrangements at the office yesterday. The phone rang several times before Sam, Carrie’s husband, answered the phone.

“
Sam, this is Jackson. Is Carrie around? I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said, struggling to control his emotions.

It wasn’t long before he heard Carrie’s concerned questioning on the line. “Please tell me you weren’t involved in that horrible accident, Jackson. At least fourteen vehicles, it’s all over the news.”

He cleared his throat. “I wish I could, Carrie. God, you don’t know how bad I wish I could. Toby,” he whispered, collecting the nerve to speak the words he hated. “Toby is dead. And Chloe.” He heard her sob one word.

“
Giselle?”

“
I’m waiting to hear,” he said, his voice breaking.

“
Oh, God. This is a nightmare,” she groaned.

“
If it was, we could wake up from it, Carrie. As it is, well, if she...” he swallowed, unwilling to face the thought. “
When
she wakes up, she’s going to need you here.”

“
I’m on my way.”

He stared at the I-Phone, saw
Call Ended
flash across the screen. In his mind, he saw the picture Giselle kept of her girls in her cubicle at the office. He knew the devastating pain of losing a parent. He had lost his on the same night before his fifth birthday. Thank God for his one relative, his dad’s brother, Bill Broussard. He hated to think what would have happened if he hadn’t had Uncle Bill.

The door opened as the nurse entered his room, jarring him from his thoughts.

“
Mr. Broussard, there’s a woman by that description upstairs, but I can’t give you any information other than she seems stable. She’s still unconscious. Do you feel like taking a trip to her room to verify her identity?” She pulled a wheelchair over to the bed.

“
I can walk,” he insisted.

“
I’m sure you can, but you won’t on my shift,” she returned, in a voice that demanded respect.

Jackson sat obediently, and gathered his thoughts on their way to the fifth floor. Before the elevator doors were opened, he heard Giselle’s hysterical pleading. He catapulted out of the wheelchair, limped toward her heartbroken cries, then stood in the doorway. He stared at the woman he’d worked with for five years, barely recognizing her through her tortured facial expressions. His heart ached as her cries rose in volume.