In Too Deep(32)

Chapter 21





Melina




When Cam jammed the accelerator to the floor, the sudden increase in speed pushed me back into my seat. I looked over at him, and his face had changed from just a few seconds before. He'd been the relaxed, confident man that had taken me shopping that afternoon. Instead, I saw an intensity that scared me, honestly. He looked, for the first time I'd known him, not only dangerous but worried as well.

Don't lie to yourself, he looked dangerous before, remember? A little voice in my head said. I thought back to our dinner date at the resort, when that bitch intentionally tripped me, her boy toy laughing and taunting me all the while. It was only for an instant, but I swore in that instant that Cam could have taken the guy’s head off without a second's hesitation. At the time it’d been electric, arousing. Although I didn’t let him, I loved that he wanted to stand up for me. Now, with that same look combined with concern in his eyes, it scared the hell out of me.

We rocketed down the Interstate, the other car behind us, and I held on tightly. The road was straight and flat, with little curves or anything that would distract from going as fast as we could. At about a hundred, the truck started to shimmy a little, a vibration that started in the soles of your feet before being carried into your tailbone through the seat underneath you. Still, Cam didn't let up, pushing even harder, his grip on the steering wheel going white-knuckled. Without taking his eyes off the road, he talked to me. “In the glove box, there's a pistol. If something happens, I want you to use it.”

The tone of his voice scared me more than anything else. I'd heard it sometimes in the pharmacy, from cancer patients who've been told their disease was inoperable. It was the sound of a man who was getting ready to die. Cam, what the hell is going on?!

“Melina, just take it,” he said. We passed a semi that blared its air horn, rattling my teeth in my head at how loud it felt even over the screaming engine of Cam's truck. Cam jerked the wheel over and we swerved in front of the semi, jamming on the brakes almost immediately. My seatbelt bit deeply into my chest, and I was sure I was going to have a case of whiplash afterward, but it still wasn't fast enough. The car that had been pursuing us clipped the back of Cam's truck, and suddenly we were spinning, Cam gritting his teeth while I screamed. We hit the dirt, a cloud of dust surrounding us and obliterating everything outside the cab of the truck.

I could hear Cam muttering under his breath, and I was pretty sure he was telling his truck not to flip, but I couldn't be certain. We spun around once and a bit more, the truck coming to a stop with the nose pointed back toward the highway. Cam reached across me and opened the glove box. "Now we find out if they're ours or theirs."

“Huh?” I gasped, confused, scared, and nearly out of my mind.

"The car. If they're ours, they'll drive on, not wanting to be identified. If they're not . . .” Cam pulled out a pistol that looked sleek and deadly, jacking the slide and staring out the window of the truck. "If they're not, we're going to have to fight."

I gaped at him, unsure if I was seeing correctly, or if the combination of fear and pain was causing me to hallucinate. My seatbelt still bit deeply into my chest and I pushed at it, struggling for a moment before remembering something a friend who had been a volunteer firefighter in Ohio taught me. Seat belts work on momentum and pull, kind of like Venetian blinds. As long as the belt pulls slowly in one direction or another, it flows easily. However, once the friction lock kicks in, all the yanking for slack in the world isn't going to do a damn thing. Instead, the trick is to try and give the belt a little bit of slack. Once the tension is off the friction lock should disengage unless the belt's been damaged in some way. Since Cam's truck hadn't flipped, I hoped the belt wasn't damaged.

Exhaling as hard as I could, I sucked in my belly like I was trying to jam myself into jeans that were two sizes too small, and pushed on the belt, feeding it back into the slot on the door post. I actually heard a light chunk as the lock let go, and suddenly the belt was loose and floppy in my hands again, allowing me to unlatch the belt and breathe again. "Fuck."

In the amount of time I'd been struggling with my belt, Cam was already out of the truck, kneeling in the dirt near the nose of his truck, his pistol out and pointing toward the road. The dust had settled some, and I could see nothing of the car that had been pursuing us. I could see the semi we'd passed had stopped, and I could see the driver waddling his way down the breakdown lane toward us. I opened my door and got out, looking around. There was nobody else, except for a car that passed us as I went around the back of the truck. It looked like most our stuff was somehow still in the back, although I guess it wasn't too outlandish considering they were heavy.

Cam got off his knee and lowered his pistol, still keeping it at his side. He turned, and while most of the dangerous look was off of his face, the ghost of it was still there. "Are you all right?"

"What the f*ck was that?" I asked, anger replacing my fear. "What the hell are you involved in?"

"I hoped it wouldn't happen anymore, not after last time and my warning," Cam said, still looking at the approaching truck driver. He seemed to make a decision internally and stepped back, looking at me for the first time. He sighed and looked down. "Remember the other day, along the Rio Grande, when we talked about regrets? This was part of it."