Fake Fiancée(51)

I’ll bring sushi, I added, my hands gripping the phone tightly.





Okay.


I sat back, relieved I’d get to be alone with her, yet part of me still fumed at our first loss of the season—all my fault. I’d thrown two interceptions—freshman year shit. I scratched my gruff and leaned my head back on the vinyl of the bus seat.

I’d like to blame it on my twitchy ankle I’d gotten from the library a few weeks ago, but the athletic coaches had checked me out that day, put some ice on it, and it had been good. They told me to keep it easy for the rest of the week, so Coach had me sit out a few hard practices. The result had me feeling rusty, and today it had showed.

“Mate. Chill. We lost. We still have Appalachian State next week. Easy peasy,” Tate said from across the aisle.

I raised my head up. “I let us down. That guy came out of nowhere and snatched it . . .” Whatever.

“It was double coverage, dude,” Ryn said from the seat in front of me.

“Don’t sweat it. Next week. We got this.” Tate’s eyes went to my leg. “No more injuries, okay—even if you are rescuing a girl.”

Yeah, yeah. He was asking the impossible.

When she was around, I couldn’t think straight.

“Go ahead and be a hero anytime you want,” Felix called from the very back of the bus. Of course the team had heard about the rescue when I’d had to explain my ankle. “I’ll play next week.”

I flipped him off.

“Easy,” Tate said softly. “Don’t give the wanker the satisfaction of knowing he makes you mad.”

Coach sent us I have my eyes on you glares, and I tried to shake off the tension, which was way more than just a loss. I’d been on edge since the library, ready to jump at anyone’s throat.

God. I was tired. I leaned my head back against the seat and slipped in my ear buds, putting in some old-school Beastie Boys. Thoughts of Sunny niggled at me, pricking at my memories, and within minutes, I was out.

I dreamed.

My mom was dead, lying on a sterile hospital bed. Her lashes rested lightly on her cheeks and part of me expected her to open them and send me her usual smile.

“You don’t have to stay,” the doctor murmured. He put a tentative hand on my shoulder, and I shook it off.

I picked her hand up as tears pricked at my eyes.

“The aneurysm was in her brain—there wasn’t anything you could do,” he murmured as if reading my thoughts. “Her death was instant.”

I nodded. Yeah. They’d gone over it with me—again and again. It was just so sudden. I wanted to yell at the doctor—tell him that it wasn’t fair—that she was all I had—but I held back, all of seventeen going on ancient.

I tucked her hand under the covers, touched her cheek lightly, and then walked out the door.

I had to get out of there.

I exited the hospital and found my Harley. The bike was new, and she’d insisted I drive it up for our vacation while she followed in her Mercedes. I’d parked it in a fire lane when I’d followed the ambulance. Fuck them. Let them try to tow me. I’d fucking . . .

I stopped, squeezing my eyes shut as I sat down on the concrete curb next to the road, exhausted. She fought to be happy for so long and right when she’d gotten there . . .

Someone walked past me, whispering, and I realized I had to get further away.

I got on my bike and rode out of the parking lot with nothing but my backpack and wallet.

I drove and drove until I had no clue where I was.

Needing to piss, I drove down a rural gravel road to a shoreline that overlooked a huge lake.

I wanted to throw rocks in it, scream at it. So I did. I yelled obscenities and rammed my fist into my palm. I cursed at God for taking her.

Toeing my shoes off, I laid down on the rocks, letting them dig into my backside. I didn’t care. At least it was something.

My heart ached.

I wanted my mom back . . .

I wanted Sunday morning waffles.

I wanted her to hug me right before a game.

A sob tore at my throat. Fuck. Not again with the crying shit.

A convertible Mustang sped by on the bridge above me, swerved, and hit the guardrail.

I sat up.

A grinding noise shattered the eerie silence as the rail gave way and the car soared into the lake.

I didn’t stop to think. Off came the clothes. I snatched my knife from my backpack, and in seconds I was in the water and swimming to where I could just barely see the top of the car.

Down I swam, putting all my grief into saving a life. If I could do this . . . there was fucking hope left in the world. I cut a hole and grabbed a hand that came through. I tugged the person out.

Once on the shore, I checked for vitals—no breathing but I had a pulse—and did CPR.

Beautiful relief hit me when she came to, her face deathly pale.

Strings of long hair wrapped around her neck and shoulders, and I moved them out of the way, noticing that even wet, her hair was blond. When dry, it must be nearly white. Her face was delicate, with a small nose and full lips. Lying in my arms, she didn’t look real.

How old was she?

My fingers brushed her shoulders and she trembled at the touch.

I wanted to ask her name—but I didn’t.

I didn’t have to.

Luminous gray eyes peered up at me.