Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,132
them. Not with the SUV bearing down on us, coming closer and closer with each second, like some deadly game of chicken sure to end with all of us in the hospital. Or worse — the morgue.
“Who is that?” Chrissy shrieks.
“Not sure, but I don’t think they’re on our side!”
“Of course not!” Her voice is laced with pain — the sign of another contraction rolling through her. “That would be too.” Deep breath. “Damn.” Small moan. “Easy.”
Her contractions are coming closer — five minutes apart, maybe less.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I curse under my breath, watching the road rapidly disappear between me and the SUV. When the space shrinks to fifty yards, I start to lay on my horn.
“Get out of my way,” I chant, over and over. “Get out of my way!”
“Move, asshole!” Chrissy shouts, feeling a bit less magnanimous. “This… is… so not… the time… to fuck… with me.”
Each of her words is punctuated by a scream of pain.
I blast the horn again — one long, suspended beeeeeeeeeeeeep — but the SUV doesn’t move to the side of the narrow road. If anything, it starts coming faster.
The Mercedes rams us again from the back, so hard I almost lose control of the car.
Shit.
“Chrissy, hold on.” I swallow. “And hold Winnie.”
“Run the fucker off the road!” Chrissy yells back at me. “And then let me out.” Deep breath. “So I can kill.” Small scream. “That…blonde…bitch!”
Really helpful, Chrissy.
I tug once on my seatbelt, making sure it’s clipped tight, and watch the road dwindle.
Thirty yards.
Twenty-five.
Twenty.
I take a deep breath.
Fifteen yards.
Ten.
Five.
At the last possible second, I swerve the wheel sharply right. I register the SUV flying past us on the left, a familiar Hulk-sized man behind the wheel, but most of my attention is locked on the road in front of me.
Or, lack thereof.
Dirt flies up in a cloud as we spin out, the tires skidding onto the slope of patchy grass beside the road. The wheel is wrenched from my hands as I lose control of the vehicle. The world goes mute; time seems to slide into slow motion as I wait for the inevitable crash.
Somehow, my hands find the wheel again, clamping down in a last ditch effort to bring the car back under control. It’s locked hard over — no matter how hard I try to turn, it doesn’t budge.
I see the fence — a towering, ten-foot wall of graffiti and concrete, lining the roadway. Coming ever closer to my windshield.
I think I scream, but I’m not sure. All I know, in that instant, is that I’m probably going to die.
And, if I die, it’ll be without telling the one man who’s ever scaled the walls of my heart and made himself at home that I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.
Actually, I’m not pretty sure.
I’m sure.
Certifiably, 100%, no-going-back, in love with him.
My last thought, before we slam front-first into the wall with a piercing screech of metal and a shower of sparks, is that I hope, somehow, he knows that.
***
I must’ve passed out for a second, because when I come-to, the dust has settled, somewhat.
My head aches worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. Judging by the pain in my lungs, I figure at least one of my ribs has to be broken — either that, or the airbag hit me hard enough to rearrange my internal organs. My shoulder burns where Ralph’s bullet grazed me, and his earlier blow to my cheekbone pales in comparison to the sharp spike of pain that shoots through my temple as soon as my eyes blink open.
I rub at my chest, hoping it might soothe the ache there. The airbag is already deflating and over the top of it, I see the front of my car is crumpled in like an aluminum soda can. The engine shakes violently — once, twice — and then, with a final wheeze, falls silent. I see smoke drifting up from beneath the hood and pray to god fire isn’t about to follow.
In the sudden quiet, I hear a mewling whimper of pain.
Chrissy.
“Chrissy!” I scream, turning around to face her as my hands search for the release button of my seatbelt. “Chrissy, are you okay?”
My heart pounds madly in my chest as my eyes fly over the backseat.
She’s there — eyes slivered open, her hand on Winnie’s tiny, flailing arm.
He’s alive.
She’s alive.
“Chrissy, talk to me.” My voice cracks. “Tell me you’re all right.”