The Lovely Reckless(88)

“Just remember, Marco’s ass is on the line.”

As if I could forget.

Deacon taps on the dash. “Let’s go. We’re on the clock.”

I drive out of the lot. I’m officially a car thief.

A light glows in the guard station up ahead. I take a deep breath. The guard leans out of the open window, looks at me, and waves us through.

“Nice job.” Deacon relaxes. “I knew you were a smart girl. Keep doing what you’re told and we’ll get along just fine.”

I’m done taking orders. Tonight I’m calling the shots, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

I’m going to do the wrong thing for the right reason.

I follow one of the main roads out of the Heights and keep heading east toward the docks while Deacon texts. Anything is better than talking to him.

We’re only a few miles away.

At the intersection, Deacon looks up. “Turn right.”

“You mean left, don’t you?” The dockyards are east. If I turn right, we’ll be headed west.

Deacon narrows his eyes. “I mean take a right.”

“Marco mentioned he takes the cars to the docks.”

“Oh, he did?” Deacon tucks a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Well, Marco is being tailed by the cops. Plans have changed.”

Including mine.

I am trapped in a stolen car with a murderer, and I’m not delivering him to the police anymore, like I thought. Instead, I have no idea where we’re going. My pulse races, and I flash on an image. Deacon pounding on Noah. Bones cracking and blood everywhere.

Don’t panic.

I fight to stay calm. “Do you want me to get on the beltway?”

Maybe we’ll pass a police station or state police barracks.

“No. We’re gonna take Old Bering Highway.” He pauses, giving me time to absorb what he’s saying. “Fly under the radar. You know what I mean.”

If Old Bering was ever a highway, it must’ve been a hundred years ago. The curvy two-lane road runs through the woods—no streetlights or traffic signals. At night, the road is so dark people rarely use it unless they live nearby.

So I know exactly what he means. He wants me to drive out to the middle of nowhere and leave me there or kill me.

The exit is a mile away, maybe less. That’s all the time I have to get out of this situation. I can’t open the door and throw myself out of the car—not when the door opens up instead of out.

I hear Dad’s voice in the back of my mind. Critical life skill: If someone tries to move you from one location to another, odds are they’re planning to kill you or do something a lot worse. Do whatever you can to get away.

The street narrows, and construction signs and sawhorses line the shoulder on the right side.

Do whatever you can to get away.

My only option is a dangerous one, and it involves precision timing, expert driving, and serious guts—which, given my lack of stunt-driving experience, means it’s crazy.

But it’s the only shot I have at getting away from Deacon.

I think about the photo of Noah and me.

Noah, if you’re a guardian angel or something now, I could use some help. Let’s take one more big hill together.

The street inclines, and when I reach the top, a row of orange-and-white construction barrels stretches below me.

The Gullwing crests the hill.

Am I really going to do this?

I jerk the steering wheel to the right.

“What the fuck?” Deacon grabs for the wheel, and I slam my foot down on the gas pedal.

“Bitch!”

He grabs at me, but there’s no time.

The Gullwing crashes into the barrels. I hear the sound of metal scraping, then crunching, and Deacon yelling.…

My body slams against the driver’s-side door.

The back corner of the car hits another barrel, throwing the Gullwing into a tailspin. I try to turn into the spin, but I can’t hang on.

Rubber squeals.

Lights blur and stretch into colored ribbons. The glove box pops open, and a pack of gum whips by me. It’s like I’m trapped on a Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair, seconds away from puking. I squeeze my eyes closed and press my palm against the steering wheel to brace myself.

The car whacks against something hard and flings my body sideways again. The shoulder strap slices into my neck. I brace myself for another impact. It never comes.

The Gullwing is facing the wrong direction on the street.

Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, I struggle to catch my breath.

I’m not dead.

Deacon’s head leans against his chest. He isn’t moving.

Get out. Fast. Call 911.

My ribs and right shoulder ache, and pain shoots up my neck when I lean over to grope for my purse. My hand catches the strap and I drag the bag into my lap. Dumping out the contents, I feel around for my phone while I try to figure out how to open the door at the same time.

Come on. Where’s the handle?

A rush of dizziness hits.

What if I pass out?

I run my hand across the door panel until I find the handle and yank hard. The door opens and I manage to get my legs out of the car.

Leather squeaks and I see a flash in my peripheral vision.

“Where do you think you’re going, bitch?” Deacon grabs for me. His nails rake across my skin. My hand closes around something in my lap, one of the items from my purse. I throw my body forward and hit the ground hard. I tighten my grip on the metal cylinder in my hand.