It's a Fugly Life (Fugly #2)(25)
I stepped on the gas and tightened my hands around the steering wheel. My jaw clenched, and I ground my teeth. “You don’t f*cking scare me. Fuck you. You don’t f*cking scare me.” I blinked and released a breath, glancing at the marker—invisible to everyday passers—in my rearview mirror. “Ha! That’s right. Suck it, accident spot!” I laughed and the sound of sirens filled my ears.
Oh shit. The multicolored lights in my mirrors nearly blinded me. I looked at the speedometer. Ninety-eight? Oh no. What had I been thinking? I flipped on my blinker and began moving the car to the right shoulder. I felt like such a dork.
My car now stopped, I reached for my license and lowered my window. “Hello, officer. Would it make a difference if I told you that I almost died right back there seven months ago and got a little carried away, telling my demons to f*ck off?”
The man, with his dark short hair and husky build, gave me a frown.
“Okay, now that I just said that aloud, I get how crazy I sound. I mean, who celebrates surviving a car accident by speeding?” I sighed and handed over my license and rental agreement.
He gave it a glance. “Lily Snow.” He looked down at me. “Wait. You’re the billionaire breaker.”
I held back a groan.
He continued, “My wife really loves her gossip magazines.”
Golly gumps. How awesome for me. “Everyone’s gotta have a vice.”
“Your story really shook her up. I’ve never seen her cry like that.”
“Sorry?”
“When that guy gave the press conference—what was his name?”
“You mean Maxwell Cole?”
The officer snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. When he gave that press conference and told everyone how much he loved you even after you told all of those lies about him.”
I whooshed out a breath. “It was a mistake. A really, really big mistake,” I muttered.
The officer handed back my things. “If it makes you feel any better, a lot of people, my wife included, were extremely upset—all of those horrible things the press said about your looks. And then the accident. Man—” He shook his head. “Everyone thought you were dead. Even I couldn’t look away from the television when they were pulling you out of the wreckage. I’m surprised someone isn’t making a movie about you.”
Seriously. That would be the most boring movie ever.
“So what happened?” the officer asked. “Did you and Maxwell Cole ever get back together? The Inquirer says you did.”
Did this man really expect me to discuss my love life with him—a stranger—on the side of a freeway?
Well, he does have a gun. He was probably used to getting his way.
“It’s for my wife,” he clarified, likely realizing how nosy he sounded.
“I, uh…I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Cole and I parted ways.”
“Oh. Can I see that license again?”
What the hell? Did he just imply that the speeding ticket would be issued because he didn’t like my answer?
Yep. I think he did.
“But…I’m going to see him tomorrow.” I shrugged coyly. “So you never know what might happen.”
The officer thumped his hand on the top of my car and smiled. “You have a good night and drive safely, Miss Snow.” He walked off, muttering, “Can’t wait to tell her. Lucky night.”
Alrighty. That was some weird shit. And honestly, I’d had no clue there were people out there fanning over my and Max’s story. How bizarre.
A movie. Pfft!
I hit the freeway again, and by the time I pulled up to Danny and Calvin’s apartment building, it was well past midnight. I found a spot on the quiet street, turned off the engine, and finally looked at my phone.
Three messages were from my mother panicking about the lights in the store. “Honey? Can you remind me where the switch is? I don’t remember.” She’d been at home cooking dinner for my father when she’d left that gem. “Honey, I haven’t heard back from you yet. Are you alright?” The next few messages were funnier than the last, basically my mother admitting that she could handle finding light switches in the morning, but that I shouldn’t worry. She had “everything under control.”
The next few messages were from my brother begging me to end his misery because my mother had called him twenty times in a panic about running the shop by herself for a few days—“She thinks she’s babysitting nukes! Fucking shit, Lily. Kill me now.”
Then, finally, at the bottom of the list, I saw a message from him. Max. I pressed play, and his voice sounded deep and cold, the heartache palpable.
“Lily, we need to talk.” He stopped speaking, but I could hear his soft breath. “Call me,” he said, almost whispering, like a man praying for his suffering to end.
Dammit. I have to end this. I started the engine up again and pulled out onto the street. I couldn’t let this—his suffering and mine—go on another moment. I would simply need to call Danny along the way and tell her to keep the light on for me. It was going to be a late night.
It took thirty-five minutes to drive to Max’s two-story mansion overlooking Lake Michigan. The home, which reminded me a bit of a modern-day castle with its gray brick and stucco exterior, soaring entryway, and high pitched roof, was as impressive in size and presence as it was intimidating. Yeah, just like its owner.