Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,135
here.
No.
I’m not about to let that happen.
I’m not about to let him watch another person he cares about die.
Not now. And definitely not here.
“It won’t work.” My voice shakes, despite my best efforts. “There’s a flaw in your perfect plan, Brett.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“I’m not going to drive off the fucking bridge.”
“Of course not.” He laughs again. “That would be ridiculous.”
A little bit of tension slips out of me.
Maybe, I can reason with him.
Maybe, I can delay until Chase gets here.
Maybe, I can still make it out of this alive.
“That’s why my associate is there,” Brett adds. “To help you along.”
My heart clenches in my chest. I hear the sound of the line going dead as Brett disconnects the call, but I can’t focus on that. Because The Hulk suddenly has my seatbelt in his massive hand, and he’s squeezing with all his might, until the veins are popping in his forearms. I flinch back from his proximity, watching beads of sweat break out on his forehead in utter confusion.
What the hell?
By the time realization hits, it’s too late. He’s bent the metal tongue of my seatbelt out of shape, jamming the buckles so they can’t be undone. I watch in horror as he presses the release button and tugs, smirking when the warped latch doesn’t release.
I’m trapped.
I tug on the belt, but it’s so tight around my chest I can barely breathe, let alone move.
“You don’t have to do this,” I plead with him, watching as he cracks his window slightly, shrugs out of his suit jacket, and calmly tucks his gun back into his holster.
“Please,” I beg. “I’ll pay you. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
He looks over at me for a single moment, and what I see in his eyes makes my heart fail.
Because it’s nothing.
Nothing.
Not an ounce of sympathy, not a fragment of humanity, not a shred of understanding.
He’s empty, inside.
His eyes don’t leave mine as he reaches over, grabs my right knee with one beefy fist, and jams it down onto the gas pedal with so much force, I’ve got no chance in hell at resisting him.
The car lurches forward, toward the bridge, and I try to swerve, but his other hand has latched onto the wheel, keeping us on a steady course for disaster. I hear the moment we cross onto the bridge — the sound of the tires, spinning over uneven boards — and I feel my stomach fly into my throat when the Hulk pulls sharply on the wheel, sending us careening toward the barrier.
Toward the water.
I don’t have time to think how insane it is that this is my second car crash of the day, because suddenly, we’ve hit. The wood railing snaps like a toothpick when our car crashes against it, through it, and then we’re flying.
No.
We’re falling.
I don’t scream, when we hit the water. I can’t — all the breath is stolen from my lungs on impact. We land so hard, my teeth clack together in my skull and my head whips forward with such force, I’m surprised my neck doesn’t break. There are sounds — rushing water, the sputtering engine — but I barely hear them. My eyes are wide, watching the water creep up over the hood as we slowly slip beneath the surface.
The Hulk has already undone his seatbelt and rolled down his window the rest of the way. Water is spilling over, filling the passenger side so rapidly, the entire car will be full in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at me, as he maneuvers his huge frame against the stream of water, out through the open window. I hear the sound of his feet, pushing against the metal door as he swims off.
And then I’m alone.
“Wait!” I gasp, feeling water ascending up past my knees, my stomach, my chest. “Please!”
But he’s gone.
I barely manage to pull in a last breath before the weight of water wins out in one great, final torrent that fills the car to the ceiling. The world goes dark as I sink slowly toward the bottom, the weak evening sunlight barely filtering through the murky depths. I wonder vaguely how deep it is, here — if I’ll still be alive, when I hit the bottom.
I want to scream, but I know I can’t waste my air, so I thrash against my seatbelt, instead.