Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(48)

We’re picking up speed now, and when I shift to peek at the speedometer, it creeps up incrementally second by second. A hazard light glows red just beside it.

“Jas,” I breathe out. “What’s wrong?” My chest is tight, and without even knowing what’s going on, my right hand reaches up to grab the roof handle.

“You’re buckled in, right, Sunny?” Jasper bites out, not once looking my way.

My eyes drop to both of our seat belts. “Yes,” fear bleeds into my voice.

“Sloane. Relax. I’m going to keep you safe, okay? Tell me you understand that.”

I’m nodding rapidly at him, but no words spring from my lips. They’re clamped shut too tightly.

“Talk to me, Sunny. Who found you that night when you got lost in the woods playing capture the flag?”

We’re just going faster and faster.

“You did.”

“Who bandaged your feet?”

“You,” I whimper, watching the speedometer creep up.

“Who broke you out of that fucking sham of a wedding?” he growls, tone dropping, like this is the time to be mad about that. When we’re both about to die.

“You, Jas. You. Always you.” My hand grips the front of the seat so hard I feel like I might rip the leather.

“The brakes that connect to the trailer are malfunctioning. I can only slow us down so much.”

I gasp. But Jasper is stoic. Pale but stoic. Eyes fixed on the road.

He lays hard on the horn when we come up too fast behind a car, urging them to move over. A harsh breath escapes him when they signal and switch lanes.

“There’s a runaway lane up ahead that I’m going to use, but it’s going to be bumpy. I want you to hang on as hard as you can and just breathe—trust me. You’re brave. You’ve got this.” I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or himself. “You got that? Do you trust me?” His voice is loud now, sharp, so unlike the soft, mumbled tones I’m used to from him.

“Yes, of course. I trust you.”

He looks my way quickly and nods.

The next few moments pass in the heaviest silence of white knuckles and held breath. There’s an almost ethereal quality to the moment. Like I’m watching a slow-motion video of us cruising to our deaths.

When the lane appears through the heavy snowfall, jutting sharply up the side of the mountain, I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

It’s so steep.

I know that’s the point, but it doesn’t stop the abject terror from blooming in my chest.

My eyes clamp shut when we ram into the gravel roadway. The impact jolts the truck and jostles my body as Jasper maneuvers us to safety. Or at least I hope he does. I can’t look, but I haven’t felt us flip or crash, so that’s a win.

Within seconds we aren’t moving anymore. The truck stops on the sharp incline, and with one steady hand, Jasper jams the emergency brake into place before wrapping it back around the wheel in a death grip.

The entire episode lasted mere moments, but it felt like hours. My entire body is vibrating, my chest thumping so hard with the heavy beat of my heart that it feels like it actually rattles my vision.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Holy shit. You okay?” I whisper-shout all my favorite bad words, letting go of the handle and laying a shaking hand flat on my chest.

After a few seconds, no response comes, so I turn to peer at Jasper. His hands are squeezed tight, and his entire body looks made of stone. He’s a statue, so still I can barely see him breathe.

“Jasper?”

His strong nose is pointed straight forward, and his skin is the color of crisp, white printer paper, like all the blood has left his body.

“Jas.” I touch him tentatively and squeeze his shoulder, but he doesn’t respond. Suddenly I’m less scared about our situation and more scared for him. “You’re freaking me out.”

His jaw flexes and he swallows, but his eyes stay trained out the windshield, the wind howling as the tall, dark pines sway and white snow swirls around us.

He’s in shock, that much I can gather. And while I’m no psychologist, I imagine this event was a little too close to the day we were just talking about.

The day it all fell apart.

Because the man beside me looks traumatized.

Without thinking, I unbuckle myself and make a few quick moves. I pry his hand from the wheel and crawl onto his lap, straddling his legs and trying to get him to look at me rather than at the windshield like he’s frozen in time—another time.

My hands flatten on his shoulders, and I give him a little shake. “Jasper. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t move, and panic nips at all my edges. I gently remove his hat, tossing it onto the passenger seat. It’s too hard to see him from beneath the brim, and deep down, I know that’s the whole point of why he always wears it.

He’s constantly trying to blend into the background, but even when he’s hiding, I see him.

I slide my palms over the tops of his shoulders and up the sides of his sturdy neck until my fingers weave themselves into the hair at the back of his skull. Spearmint and eucalyptus. The scent bowls me over every time. It’s a shot of electricity to my senses. I realize that if he’s washing his face with that bodywash he probably uses it as shampoo too.

The tips of my fingers move of their own accord, massaging the base of his skull. Am I taking freedoms I might not usually? Definitely. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and this whole petrified-wood-on-the-side-of-a-mountain act has got me stressed.