I’m so desperate to leave that I don’t even argue. I sit in the damn thing. Wes shoulders the duffel bag and pushes metoward the elevators. Freedom is near! He must feel the same way, because when we get to the main floor, he pushes me at a jog, following the signs toward the parking garage.
When the electric doors part for us, the cold air takes my breath away. I’m not wearing a jacket.
“Sorry,” Wes says, squeezing my shoulder. “He should be right…there!”
A Hummer pulls toward us with Blake Riley grinning from behind the wheel. “Why isn’t Blake in Tampa?” I ask.
“Knee injury. He’s gonna miss…oh, fuck.”
I’m just processing Blake’s crappy news, so it takes me a second to register the sound of feet pounding across the asphalt.
“Ryan Wesley!” a voice calls. “Tell us how you two are doing!” Then flashbulbs begin to illuminate the concrete walls of the parking garage. “Over here, Wesley!”
“Ignore them, babe,” Wes says tightly. He yanks open the back door of the Hummer, then turns to offer me a hand.
“If you help me right now I willend you,” I threaten.
He lifts his hands quickly, like a busted perp, and I push to my feet unassisted. It’s only a couple of steps and I’m sliding onto the leather seat of Blake’s machomobile.
Wes ditches the wheelchair and climbs in beside me. He yanks the door closed as reporters swarm the car windows. One of those assholes actually puts the lens up to Blake’s tinted window and lights up the interior with his flash.
There’s a growl from the front seat, and then Blake eases the car forward a few feet, which does the trick. Nobody wants his feet run over. Blake accelerates as Wes lets out a big sigh. “Jesus.”
It’s quiet in the car for a couple of minutes as Blakemaneuvers us back onto Toronto’s busy streets. “How you feeling, J-Bomb?”
“Fine,” I say, but then I start coughing like a TB patient.
Wes is tense and silent beside me, scrolling through what looks like a lifetime of text messages. “Oh!” he says suddenly. “Phew.”
“What?” I ask between coughs. A little good news would be nice right now.
He holds up his phone to show me a text from my mom:Your schedule says Nashville and then Carolina. So we’re sending you Jess on the red eye. She arrives in the morning.
“Wait,” I gasp, willing my throat to relax. “What?”
“Jess is coming to take care of you because I’m going out of town. Man, I could kiss your mom. Too bad she doesn’t get here until tomorrow, though.”
“I don’t need Jess. I don’t needanyone,” I correct. Christ. My sister will just hog the TV remote and nag me.
But Wes tucks his phone away and relaxes against the seat. “Too late. Looks like they bought a ticket.”
He sounds ridiculously relieved, so I swallow my objections. “Thanks for picking me up,” I rasp to Blake in the front seat.
“No problemo! I like driving the getaway car like a gangster. Do you think I’d make a good gangster?” He clears his throat and does a poor imitation of the Godfather movie. “Luca Brasi sleeps with the dishes.”
“It’sfishes, champ,” I point out.
“Nah!” Blake snorts. “Can’t be. That’s not grammatical.” He takes a corner really fast, which means that Wes and I get tossed a little toward my side of the car.
Wes clamps an arm against my chest the way you do forlittle kids who aren’t buckled in. If everyone would just leave me alone, I’d be fine. I really would.
“Dunno if I’d put a horse’s head in some dude’s bed, though,” Blake muses from the front. “Kinda messy.”
I beat my head back against the seat and wonder how it all came to this.
NINETEEN
JAMIE
