I ease the car to the curb, throw it in park. My hands shake when I pull them off the wheel.
She’s out of the car before I can say anything, circling around to my side. She yanks open the door.
“Move over,” she orders.
“What?”
“You heard me.Move.Over.”
I stare at her. This slip of a girl with a gun she knows how to use and zero fear in her eyes.
Something stirs in my chest. Something dangerous.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask again.
“Someone who doesn’t want to die next to you. Now move.”
I should shoot her. Leave her on the curb and drive away.
But I don’t.
I slide into the passenger seat, every muscle screaming. She takes the wheel, checks the mirrors, and pulls back onto the road like she does this every day.
“Where am I taking you?” she asks.
“My safe house. it’s just a mile up ahead.”
I point at the upcoming street. “Turn left there.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Just takes the turn smooth and controlled, like she’s been driving getaway cars her whole life.
My eyes want to close. I blink hard, force myself to focus. Can’t pass out. Not yet. Definitely not in front of her.
“You’re shaking,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. It’s not getting more convincing.”
I press my hand against my ribs, feel the wet warmth spreading there.Fuck.The road rash is bad, but there might be something worse underneath. A bullet wound maybe. Hard to tell right now.
She glances at me, and for a split second, something shifts in her expression. Not quite concern, but not indifference either.
“Which house?” she asks.
“Gray one. End of the block.”
She pulls up to the curb, kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. My ears are still ringing from gunfire.
I reach for the door handle, but my hand won’t cooperate. Fingers slipping, strength draining fast.
“Here.” She’s out and around to my side before I can protest.
When she opens the door, I nearly fall out. She catches me—or tries to. I’m twice her size, but she braces herself, gets a shoulder under my arm.
“Christ, you’re heavy,” she mutters.
“Thanks.”
