A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)(46)

Bruno Mars comes on the radio and I start singing along. Music therapy was mandatory at the Island, so I spent a lot of time listening to “prescribed” music and assigning it emotional meaning. The whole practice was stupid and devoid of any real authenticity. We all told the counselors what we thought they wanted to hear.

Tara’s little swim runs through my mind slowly, the image of events rolling like an old filmstrip being manually viewed. Revenge tastes sweet, sure, but what did I gain from all that? She’s wet, pissed, and out some clothes and personal items from her purse.

But now she’s angry and on the warpath. I’m her target.

I should feel something at that realization, right? I don’t.

No cold dread.

No hot fear.

I’m neutral. Warm and boring.

Seriously—what could Tara do to me now that she hasn’t already done? How could she hurt me any more?

Humming is good for the soul. As the road stretches out before me, I speed up just a little, careful to stay within five miles of the speed limit. Mom and Daddy have taught me to follow the law. There’s nothing worse than a lawmaker’s child being caught breaking it.

Hah.

Actually, there is something worse. But let’s not go there.

Driving for a few minutes puts me into that mildly hypnotic state you get when you listen to music and travel on a route you know by heart. I’m soaked and feeling gross and I know there will be hell to pay when Mom and Daddy find out what happened with Tara, but I’m strangely feeling mellow.

Maybe it’s because I finally got to do something.

The car feels a little out of control as I take a curve, so I press on the brakes. Nothing happens. While it’s been four years since I last drove, I do have my foot on the correct pedal, so I push the brake harder.

Nothing.

I pull lightly on the steering wheel and lift up, so that my full weight is grinding in to the brake pedal. Nothing happens. The road dips down slightly and becomes curvier as the oceanside cliffs become steeper.

What the hell is going on?

Forty-seven miles an hour. I’m seven miles over the speed limit now, but gaining speed fast. Pumping over and over, trying to get some kind of brakes to kick in, I start to feel a sense of unreality.

My skin feels like rubber. My mouth goes dry. My stomach roils and that hot fudge sundae is about to come up.

Fifty-six miles an hour.

Bracing myself, I look at the emergency brake. I’ve never had to use it before, but I remember in driver’s ed classes how our instructors told us that in a true emergency, grab and yank. I can’t close my eyes and do it, so with every fiber of my being braced for the sudden shock of the car halting, I pull it.

Nothing.

Oh, no.

My phone rings. I take one hand off the steering wheel and fish for the phone in my purse.

“What the f*ck are you doing?” Drew says.

I press speakerphone and toss the phone on the passenger seat just as the car swerves horribly to the right. I hit gravel on the shoulder and feel the back of the car start to go off the road. A hard yank left and I careen into the other lane. Thank God no one’s driving in the opposite direction, or I’d have just hit them head on.

“My brakes don’t work!” I scream. I don’t see the phone any more.

“What?” Drew’s voice is coming from the floor of the passenger’s seat. “What are you doing, Lindsay?”

“MY BRAKES DON’T WORK!” I shriek.

Sixty-two miles an hour.

All I can do is grip the steering wheel, one hand at ten o’clock, one at two o’clock like they taught in driver’s ed, and navigate the curling road, trying to stay in the lines. We’re pitching down, the incline increasing, and I can’t slow down.

My stomach starts to spasm. I’m about to throw up. If I throw up, I’ll close my eyes, and if that happens, I’m dead.

“LINDSAY!” Drew’s voice pierces the air. The engine is revving high as we accelerate, and it’s hard to hear him. “CAN YOU HEAR ME!”

“YES!” I scream back.

“LOOK TO YOUR LEFT.”

I turn just enough to see his black SUV next to me. He rolls down the passenger window. He’s looking straight ahead, weaving with the road, staying parallel to me.

My bladder fills and feels like a flower about to blossom. I start retching.

“STAY CALM!” He’s in stereo now. I can hear him to my left, outside, and from the car floor where my phone must be. “I’M GOING IN FRONT OF YOU. DO AS I SAY. JUST STAY ON THE ROAD AND IN THE LINES. WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT SPEED?”

HOOOOOOOONNNNNKKKKKK!!!!!

I look at the road and see a giant semi-trailer coming right at Drew.

Drew’s SUV disappears like he’s teleported it, the semi coming within inches of my car, my rearview mirror filling with the dark, ominous presence of Drew’s windshield. Somehow, he pulled back just in time for the semi to go past.

I start hyperventilating.

“LINDSAY? YOU WITH ME?” he shouts, pulling back next to me again.

I can’t breathe. Can’t talk. Can’t think. Can’t anything.

“LINDSAY! I WILL SAVE YOU.”

He pulls up, going faster than me. I’m driving at seventy-three miles an hour now on a road meant for forty mph.

“I’M HERE!” I shout.