Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,39
be it.
If she didn’t want to see me anymore, she’d just tell me. Her father would let her call if that were the reason. He’d stand right next to her while she did it.
No, she wants to sneak out to see me. That means she loves me still. She wants us to be together.
I tell myself that over and over, so darker thoughts don’t creep in.
Simone and I are meant to be together. I know it.
It wasn’t an accident that I met her that day.
It was fate that threw me out that window. Fate that pulled me into that car. Fate that I drove away with her in the backseat. And fate the moment our eyes met in the mirror.
I’m not a romantic, I never have been. But I have instinct. I know when something’s right.
Simone is mine. All the years before we knew each other, we were two asteroids in space, on two separate paths with a single trajectory. We were always destined to collide.
I check my watch again and again. It’s nine o’clock. Then ten. Then almost eleven. I grab my jacket and my car keys—I can’t risk being late.
My Bronco is parked below street level, in our underground garage.
When I head down there, I hear Nero blasting rap music and the clink of his tools. He’s always working on one or another of our vehicles. We have the ones we use for work, then his own personal projects, the vintage motorcycles and cars that he painstakingly restores from rusted hulks to shining works of art. It’s the only time I see him focused and patient. I wish he could apply that consistency to anything else in his life.
“I need the Bronco,” I tell him over the din of the music.
“It’s up on the lift,” Nero says without looking up. “I’m putting on new tires.”
“How long will that take?”
“I dunno. An hour.”
“What about the Beamer?”
“Papa’s got that one.” He sits up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It leaves a long streak of grease across his skin. “You can take my Camaro. It’s low on gas, though.”
“Don’t we have any?”
We usually keep a couple canisters on hand.
“No,” Nero says.
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “Haven’t refilled lately.”
I swallow my irritation. I’ve got plenty of time to stop at a gas station. And it’s my fault I didn’t check the cars earlier.
I climb into the red Camaro, not bothering to say goodbye to Nero because he’s already back tinkering around under the Mustang.
As I pull up to street level, I think I see the flare of headlights behind me, but they disappear a moment later. Probably a car turning the corner.
I drive over to the gas station on Wells Street.
When I get there, the pumps are dark. It closed at 10:30.
“Fuck!” I shout.
I’m anxious, keyed up. I wanted to get to the park early. I don’t like the idea of Simone being there alone in the dark, waiting for me.
I drive over to Orleans instead, looking for another gas station. The dial is so low that it’s not even on empty—it’s a few millimeters below. Definitely not enough to get to Lincoln Park without filling up.
The streets are dark and mostly empty. Not many other cars around.
Which is why I notice the black SUV following along after me. I take a left on Superior, and the SUV does, too. I can’t see who’s driving, except that there’s definitely two figures in the front seats. Two large figures.
To test my theory, I turn right on Franklin, then slow down.
Sure enough, the SUV turns as well. When they see me creeping along, they take a quick detour on Chicago Ave. I floor the gas, speeding up the road. I want to lose the other car while we’re out of sight of each other. I roar down Chestnut, then back along Orleans, keeping an eye on my rear-view mirror the whole time to see if I’ve lost them.
The gas gauge is as empty as it goes now. I’m running on fumes. Speeding around isn’t helping—I’ve got to find a place to fill up right now, whether I’ve lost the other car or not.
I pull into the gas station, climbing out warily and glancing around on all sides as I swipe my credit card, and open the tank.
I fit the nozzle into the side of the Camaro, still sweeping the dark, empty lot with my eyes, jumpy as a cat.
The tank seems to take ages to fill. I can hear the cold gasoline