right.
I sit up straight, tilt away the rear-view mirror and its blinding reflection, and wait for retaliation. In my peripheral vision, I see a figure approaching the side of the car. A masculine frame that’s big and bulky.
I square my shoulders against the threat. I won’t let him daunt me. If I want to see Tobias again, I need to get over my outburst and become smarter than the unpredictable person I’ve been.
When a shadow creeps over the side of my face I drag in a breath and wait for Hunter’s demand to get out of his car. Or a growled order from Luca.
I don’t get either.
There’s only an ominous tap, tap, tap against the glass.
If they expect me to apologize they’ve got another thing coming. I don’t care if I stole a car.
I jerk my head toward the window, glaring, only to be met with shadowed eyes staring back at me from beneath a thick ski mask. The tap, tap, tap repeats, the noise coming from the barrel of a gun against the glass.
Oh, God.
All the air escapes my lungs on a heave.
Everything stops.
Time.
Movement.
My heart.
I plant my foot on the accelerator, the car roaring to life without movement.
Oh, shit.
I fight to put the gearstick in drive as a mighty boom thunders beside me. A circle of splintered glass appears on my window, the integrity still intact.
Holy fuck. He’s shooting at me. At bulletproof glass.
I shove the gearstick into place and slam my foot harder, my hands shaking as the wheels spin. I escape in what feels like slow motion, the tink, tink, tinks of sound against the car frame continuous until the back of the vehicle jostles, a tire seeming to take a bullet.
“Please, please, please let me get out of here.”
I keep my head low and speed through the night. I turn left. Turn right. Turn left. I become more lost in the labyrinth of streets until I finally reach a busy road and get stuck in traffic, heading God knows where, fleeing God knows who.
I wind down my window, unable to see through the bullet impacts, and hyperventilate.
I never should’ve left the house.
I never should’ve left Luca. Now all I can think about is returning to him, to his protection, but I don’t know how.
I have no phone. And the arduous jostle from the back of the vehicle is getting worse.
If I pull over the shooter could find me. If I don’t stop I have no clue what will happen to the car.
A siren squeals behind me. Blue and red illuminate the interior. The police.
For a second, there’s relief. Sweet, overwhelming relief.
Then reality hits like a nightmare.
I don’t have a license or identification. As far as the authorities are concerned, I’m dead. A ghost. And I want to stay that way.
“Oh, my goddamn shit, please help me get out of this.” My pulse pounds everywhere—throat, wrists, temples. I break out in a cold sweat, my fear of yet another imprisonment making it impossible to breathe.
I don’t want to go back to a cage. I can’t attempt a high-speed escape, either. Not on three functioning tires. I wouldn’t even know how with four solid treads and a record-breaking sports car.
I reluctantly pull over, the police car mimicking my movements, a male officer lazily climbing from his vehicle.
I can imagine what he’s seeing—the flat tire, the dents left from bullets.
“Evenin’, ma’am.” He stops next to my window, one hand calmly resting at his side, the other placed on his holster. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
I squint against the brightness of his flashlight, unable to speak.
“Ma’am, did you hear me? I asked if you knew why I pulled you over.”
I swipe at my nose to dislodge the building tingle and shake my head. “No, sir.”
“Do you realize you only have three tires?” He leans forward to glance inside the car, his gaze trekking over the passenger seat to the floor.
“I-I-I—” I shake my head frantically and puff out an exhale. “I-I’m sorry. I knew I had a problem. I just thought I could make it to a gas station.”
“Driving on the rim is going to cause some pretty major damage. You know that, right?”
I keep shaking my head. “I’m not good with cars.”
“I gathered.” He raises his hand from the holstered gun, holding his palm out to me. “License and registration please.”
Bile creeps up my throat, the burning acid bringing tears to my eyes. “That’s a funny story.” I chuckle, the sound far from humorous. “I had