That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(9)

A happy smile, full of anticipation, spreads across my face.

This is where it all begins, the new chapter in my life.

New town.

New house.

New job.

New—

“Holy hell!” I scream as a giant—and I mean giant—brown moose gallops into the middle of the road. “Moose attack!”

Hysterically, I swerve my tiny car off to the side, avoiding the Godzilla of all deer, and careen down an embankment, plowing through wild grasses and flowers.

“I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I close my eyes, my body jostling up and down from the hilly terrain, my hands gripped like a vise on the steering wheel.

Who knew the new chapter in my life would end so abruptly?

No to be continued . . .

No happily ever after.

Instead, I’m going to die, thanks to a suicidal moose!

“Damn . . . you . . . moose,” I say on each bump of my car as I feel the vehicle catch a surge of air and fly before coming to a halting, crunching stop. My head slams into the steering wheel.

Ooof.

My car wheezes; a poof of air whirls in my face right before the airbag detonates.

No, detonates is much too generous a word, since the bag has expanded to barely full size, and about five seconds too late.

I blink a few times, my head already starting to throb as a trickle of wetness begins to stain its way down into my eye. I try to gain my bearings, struggling against the flashes of my previous accident.

The sound of the car crunching.

The scent of air-conditioning fluid.

The flashing lights.

The taste of blood in my mouth.

My breathing becomes labored, my lungs begging for air, fresh air, the constraints of my car closing in on me . . .

Wait.

No!

It’s okay. You’re okay, Ren.

Your legs don’t hurt. Your arms are intact, and all limbs are moving.

This is not like last time, not even a little.

I take a calming breath through my nose and out my mouth.

Through my nose and out my mouth.

I’m okay.

I check the rearview mirror and spot a small cut above my eye where my head hit the steering wheel. I try to wipe up the blood with my hand, but it’s no use; the cut is a gusher.

Without a stock of napkins in my new car, I have no choice but to utilize the only other source of absorbent material available. I quickly take off my T-shirt, revealing my new black bralette—stupid impulse purchase—and ball up the fabric right above my eye, applying pressure.

Okay, I just need to take some deep breaths, let the initial adrenaline wear off for a few minutes.

Deep breaths in and out. In and out. Everything is going to be okay.

Once I find that I’m calm and ready to face the damages, I grab my phone and purse and go to open my car door—only to find it’s stuck.

“What the. . . ?” I pull the lever and push again, but it doesn’t move.

Looking out the window for the first time, past the T-shirt hanging over half of my face, I focus and take in a very tall tree blocking my door.

“Oh crap, that’s not good,” I huff. “Thank God for two doors.” I turn toward the passenger-side door and blow the sleeve off my face just in time to see an identical tree blocking in the passenger side as well.

Like a ping-pong ball, my head bounces back and forth between the two doors, taking in my only two exits. I’m completely blocked off.

Crap.

The car hisses.

Steam billows out from under the hood.

Something is dripping. Is something dripping? I swear I can hear something dripping.

Oh God.

Okay, remember when I said I was calm and collected?

Not anymore.

Nope, pure hysteria consumes me in a nanosecond as I fumble for my phone and dial 911.

Shirt pressed to my forehead, my bra on display for the wildlife to see, I bounce my foot up and down, waiting for someone to answer.

On the second ring, a voice comes on the phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m going to die!” I scream into the phone, spit shooting out of my mouth, hands flying to the roof of my car. I’ve morphed into a frenzied, neurotic person on the verge of a mental breakdown—oh God, I’ve become my mother.





CHAPTER THREE





GRIFFIN


I sit on the edge of my seat, ready to pounce out of the truck, the suspenders connected to my pants pulling on my shoulders with every hill and pothole the truck runs over.

The break from a very busy day at the Lobster Landing is needed, but after listening to the recorded 911 call, I’m feeling a little anxious. The call was choppy, but from what we could hear, a woman was about to die in her car on the side of Route 1 near mile marker 183, just outside of town.

I’ve been a volunteer firefighter for years now, and even though I’ve been trained in everything under the sun and I’ve seen more tragedy than I’d prefer, I still get a stomach full of nerves every time I’m sent out on a call. The uncertainty of what we’re going to be driving up to—that doesn’t go away.

And whenever a car is involved, I always think the worst.

“Are you ready?” Greg, one of my fellow firefighters, asks. “Keep your eyes peeled.”