Page 78

Fifteen rounds of comfort.

27

Darling

Ican’t focus on anything around me, only what’s directly in front of me. My fingers are cramping, turning bone-white where the pressure of my grip is extra hard, throbbing at the surface. My arms lock in place, and I have to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. The terror is settling in the way a first harsh frost does.

Every breath feels borrowed.

The aching lump in my throat grows so large I can barely swallow. No matter how hard I try to force it down, it remains lodged there—I want to sob until my lungs collapse, until there’s nothing left of me. I feel the grief, the fear, the love, and the turmoil tangle together like barbed wire, cutting me open from the inside.

For the first time in a long time, I wish I could talk to my mom. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and now all I want is nothing more than to hear her voice. I miss the rare moments of her hands smoothing my hair as she comforts me. So much time was spent building a wall between us… now I would give anything to be in the same room as her. I hope there’s a day when we can talk, apologize to one another, and mend the severed relationship.

As childish as it sounds, I want my mom.

And Blaire. Christ. She should be here. I can feel her spirit tucked away in the shadows of my mind, sharp-tongued and foul-mouthed as always. She’d probably be calling me a dumbass for falling for a man like Preston, but especially for letting myself fall so suddenly. I think—no, I know—she’d understand too. Blaire would tell me she loved me even though I have such a hard time getting away from rough men.

Preston.

Just thinking his name is enough to calm the hurricane in my head, but set my skin on fire at the same time; he’s my salvation and destruction.

I duck when I hear a shot fired, the back window breaking into a spiderweb, but not smashing through. My eyes are expansive when they meet Preston, scrunched up as much as he can be. I can tell he’s focused by the way he looks around, assessing everything around us. His thick forearm is flexed, veins rippling as he grips the edge of the passenger seat.

He doesn’t speak; there’s nothing to say. From my peripheral, I watch as he hoists himself through the open passenger window, gun steady in his hand. I’m not sure how he does it with such ease, but he fires two shots before he crawls back inside. The loud bangs make my ears ring with a constant high-pitched tone.

With every fleeting glance, I know Preston is drowning in guilt, blaming himself. And I blame him too; maybe a part of me always will, but I’m not some helpless girl anymore. He was right. I’ve made my own decisions along the way, and now I have to live with them.

No more is the girl hiding behind books, waiting for something to save me from my horrors. I’m here, behind the wheel, married and running for my life. Running towards a life, hopefully.

I’m choosing this. Him.

Even as everything is literally exploding around us.

The road curves hard to the right, and I take the bend fast enough that the tires scream and skid beneath us. Preston doesn’t even flinch; he’s turned in his seat, staring out the back window, waiting for their next move.

It doesn’t take long for another shot to ring, wind roaring through the now-shattered glass sprinkled throughout the entire interior. Another loud crack and the sound of the bullet hitting metal. I yelp and instantly duck again. When I do, I accidentally jerk the steering wheel, causing the car to veer scarily close toward the guardrail. Another scream escapes as I struggle to keep the car straight when I correct it. I’m certain we’re going to flip. I have to take a few deep breaths, easing the grenade about to explode behind my sternum.

“Holy shit,” I gasp when I finally gain control again.

Preston moves with that fluid, lethal grace that had me first drawn to him. Before I can even blink, he’s leaning out the window again, body contorted into an impossible angle. His gun is controlled as he aims at them. Once, twice, each shot directed and precise. A third crack, immediately followed by the shriek of metal and tires losing their grip. I look at the mirror just in time to see one of the police cruisers swerve violently to the left, hitting one of their colleagues, before finally slamming into a treeline.

My stomach lurches. Another thing to add to our list of charges.

I shout Preston’s name, but he’s hung out the window again, unable to hear me over the sounds of shots and wind and sirens. I shake my head, too scared to pull my hands off for even a second, trying to force my hair that’s whipping my face to move. The strands are slapping me, then sticking to the streaks of tears that have snuck their way out, blinding me.

Before I have to call his name again, he’s back inside, and his hands are in my hair, fingers working quickly to gather wild strands. He ties them back with the elastic I’d placed around the gear shift. The gesture is so impossibly tender in the middle of violence, it almost makes me fall for him all over again.

He presses a quick kiss to my cheek, soft lips against the damp skin, then hurries back to his side just as another bullet punches the trunk with the sound of thunder.

“I can’t keep driving like this!” I yell. “They’re going to hit the gas tank or the tires—”

“I know.” Quickly, he rolls up the window and settles into his seat again.

The window up muffles some of the sound; the difference feels surreal. He doesn’t say anything to me for a moment, but I can feel what’s radiating off of him. His leg bounces with nervousness, and his fingers drag through his dark locks.

I look at the bridge that’s waiting for us. Long and narrow, spanning the dark water. I know just on the other side is where our future sits. Just minutes away from everything we’ve dreamed of.

My pulse pounds as I press the accelerator harder, and as I do, Preston’s hand finds my arm, gentle and also… feeble.