Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits, #5)(60)

“We’ll cut through here and my car’s on the other side.”

That internal warning system—the one that’s kept me safe for so long—it’s screaming and I pause. My hand drops to my stomach in an attempt to halt the nausea churning inside. PTSD. My instincts are off...

Tommy glances around, but stares heavily over his shoulder, the way we were heading. “You okay?”

I breathe out slowly. No, not at all. “How’d you get hurt?”

His eyebrows crunch together. “What?”

“In the alley, how did you get hurt?”

Tommy’s a lefty and his eyes shift right. He’s about to lie.

“Guy surprised me from behind. It was a cheap shot.”

Shots aren’t cheap if they draw blood. He’s looking away, he rubs his nose and my mind almost hurts as I process why he’d be lying. “But how? I heard a lot of shots and I’m the only one who ended up in the hospital...”

A rustle of grass behind me, my hand goes for my knife. A form in all black, except for blond hair. It’s Eric and he’s walking toward us, hands in the air, that forever egotistical expression on his face.

“Wander across the wrong street, Eric?” I ask relaxing, yet still keeping my hand on the hilt of my blade. Doesn’t frighten me to see Eric. By himself he’s nothing more than an annoying fly. It’s the guys that surround him that are terrifying. “Or did you get lost because you explored further than your mommy allowed?”

Tommy pushes past me, shouldering me behind him, and reaches for his gun behind his back. Going caveman like most men do. “This ain’t your territory.”

“Thought the strip where you tried to take me out was neutral territory, but borders appear to be shifting and so do alliances.” He’s still walking toward us. Each step slow and methodical. “How are you, Abby?”

“What do you want?” Tommy has his gun in his hand now, but it’s still behind his back.

Eric stops, cocks his head and goose bumps form on my arms from the evil smile stretched across his face. Appears I’m not the only one the devil likes to dance with. “I want Abby.”

“Sorry, you aren’t my type.”

Eric’s eyebrows lift. “What type is that?”

I glance to my left, then right, the sensation of the walls closing in suffocating me. “I prefer the athletic type. Big, strong. The type that does homework. Maybe doesn’t send people to put bullets in my body. Crazy shit like that.”

Eric nods at each of my descriptions. “You’re saying you’re picky.”

“High-maintenance—that’s me.”

“Come with me, Abby, and this will be easy.”

I glance behind me then, and three of Eric’s boys are coming up behind us. Damn. I whisper to Tommy, “We have trouble.”

My grip on my switchblade tightens as Tommy assesses how bad we’ve tumbled. His eyes flicker to my hand and I can almost hear his groan that I’m not packing like him.

“You’re going to have to run,” he mutters. “Go for the party and then stay down. The moment you open your mouth this place will be hotter than a war zone.”

Leaving Tommy behind feels wrong, but he’s right—our best chance at survival is only a short run away.

“I just want Abby,” Eric says. “Give her to me, and you can walk.”

“Seriously, Eric, I’m not your type.”

“You run, Abby,” Tommy whispers. “He’s here to finish what he started in the alley.”

Eric’s cold blue eyes meet mine. “Heard that. Where were you taking Abby, Tommy? Because your car is parked by the strip mall.”

Adrenaline mixed with anger courses through me and Tommy’s already explaining, “He’s talking shit. Messing with your mind. Rumors are everywhere on the street on how you’re mentally off your game. Eric’s using that to his advantage.”

“Remember the night the cops busted the street race?” Eric asks.

The entire world zones out, and for a brief few seconds, it’s only me and Eric. I protected him that night. Gave him a place to lie low until the cops were done running the streets. I did it because it was an opportunity to hold something over him. To be owed a favor from an enemy if something should ever explode within Ricky’s organization.

“Come with me now,” he says, never breaking eye contact.

Too many thoughts colliding at one time. No f*cking way Eric’s here to save me...

Eric inclines his head. “Take her.”

“Run.” Tommy whips out his gun, and as if synchronized, Eric does, too. The two of them enter a hideous showdown, but I don’t stay to watch. I do exactly what Tommy says...I run.

Footsteps pound against the ground behind me and I don’t have to look back to know that Eric’s boys are in pursuit. I’m not as fast as I should be. My energy zapped from my current wounds. As hard as my arms are pumping, as quick as my legs are moving it’s not enough.

I round the corner, hoping that will help me gain speed, but a hand grasps my arm. My body jerks back and as I go to strike, my wrist is caught from behind. A shadow in front of me descends, my scream muffled by a hand, and the knife yanked from my fingers. My cell stolen from my back pocket.

Two men, four arms, my struggles aren’t enough. Panic, fear, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I strike out and there’s a muttered curse. From the wetness on my fingers, I’ve struck blood.