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Shay

I don’t hear the car coming.

One second I’m walking, lost in my music and my own head, and the next the world lurches sideways.

Porsche 911 Turbo.

Recognition hits me at the same moment as the impact. I go sprawling toward the pavement in front of the vehicle. My hands shoot down to break my fall, pain streaking up my side as my hip slams into the asphalt.

My headphones fly off my ears, the plastic shattering, but that’s not the worst part. Somehow, I’m on the road and the car is still moving toward me.

I’ve been under plenty of cars, and on a good day, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. Nothing compares to the feeling of control, the rightness of knowing every component is doing its part.

But it’s a lot easier to appreciate those things when the car over me isn’t in gear.

My stomach plummets. Ground clearance on a Porsche 911 is about six inches, hardly enough for it to drive clean over me like some Vin Diesel movie stunt. Not without taking a strip of my face and tits with it. I like those parts of my body, at least enough to want to keep both intact.

Instinct has me reaching to grasp my necklace under my jacket, the cool ring attached digging into my flesh. Is this what it was like for my parents? Their final moments before being engulfed in fire and metal—

The burning tang of gasoline fumes cuts through my panic as the Porsche grinds to a halt. My feet are nearly under the front of the car, heat rolling off the engine and scorching my skin.

“What the fuck?!” The exclamation, alarmed and male, comes from someone I can’t see. “Are you—don’t move the car—ah, hell!”

Shoes scuff the asphalt. A moment later, their owner appears over me, haloed by the sun.

I’ve never been religious, but I swear he’s an angel.

Wavy dirty blond hair. Square jaw. Symmetrical face. Full mouth. An unbuttoned dress shirt and jeans that hug his legs to perfection.

Do angels swear? Today they do, I decide as he holds out a hand.

I grab for it, and he pulls me up. My feet find the pavement under me, my legs still shaking.

“Are you hurt?” His concerned gaze drops to my hand.

My palms are studded with gravel from the road mixed with my own blood. They don’t hurt yet thanks to the adrenaline cocktail pounding in my veins.

“It looks worse than it is. You should see the other guy.” My bravado’s returning.

Kind blue eyes search my face. He looks to be my age, maybe a little older, as he bends to grab the pieces of my headphones off the pavement.

“I’m Theo.”

I know. Everyone in this town knows him and his family, plus half the country and a good part of the planet. I start to say the words but stop just in time as I take the headphones with my good hand. “Thanks.”

His handsome face twists with regret, as if he can repair the broken plastic with contrition alone. “I’m sorry about—”

“Theo!” A sharp voice cuts him off.

If Theo’s an angel, the guy leaning out the driver-side window has fallen from grace.

Dark hair falls recklessly across a lean, impatient face. Sunglasses cover his eyes. He’s James Dean in a Porsche.

And he’s pissed.

Well, so am I. “You ever driven a car before?” My shout comes out like a gasp as I spin to face him, my good fist banging on the hood.