“The studio. Otherwise, nowhere.”
His nostrils flare, and he casts his gaze around us. “No way you’d be bringing me to the studio with you. Start for your parent’s place.”
“Seriously?”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“No, but how the hell are we going to get back from out there?”
“Just go. We’ll figure it out.”
The drive is silent, the car cold, the fan kicking out air that’s barely above freezing.
Mile after mile passes, the car slowly heating.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I say, not liking the silence. I’m wound too tight for it. Until I get back to Clara, until I know she’s safe, I can’t handle where my mind is going without distraction.
“She’s smart. Smart enough to get herself out of there. Eventually.”
“Like you did?”
“I never got out. My leash was just long enough to give me an illusion of freedom. Nothing more.” He scans the space behind us, then curses. “Take the next clover exit, no signals.”
“We have a tail?”
“I think so. They were following from in front for a while. Now they’re behind. Knowing my dad, they’ll be switching out drivers to make it harder to spot as soon as they can get a car out this way.”
“At least they’re twenty-plus minutes out.”
“Shit luck that your family is out this way, too.”
“You picked the destination.”
“Fuck you.”
His heart isn’t in his insults, so I let it be. I don’t want to give him grace, not after what he did to Clara, but he’s also been a friend for nearly four years. He’s given me space when I neededit and called me out on my shit when I needed that, too. I don’t know how to get over this, the anger toward him squeezing a tight knot in my gut, but I don’t like this beaten, deflated version of the asshole, either.
Trips has always been larger than life, one of the few people I’ve met whose bravado and desire to be something bigger than the sum of his parts matches my own. And looking at him now, he’s nothing but a sad lump built of failure and pain.
“What are we going to do about your hand?” I ask, cutting across two lanes and spiraling up to the cross street, Trips twisting to watch if we’re followed.
The headlights slice across the blacktop to follow us. We have our tail.
Hopefully, we’re the only ones dealing with this.
“It’ll be fine,” he grumbles as I spiral back down to the interstate to head in the opposite direction.
“Yeah, right. That’s why it’s the size of a volleyball.”
“Bigger problems right now, Walker. Don’t get back on the exit. We know they’re following.”
I zoom onto the highway, uncertain what to do next. “We need Jansen. How do we lose a tail?”
“We need traffic. Or a bunch of tight turns. Maybe a well-timed train.”
“So, we’re fucked on a Sunday night?”
“Probably.”
