faster. If anything it seems to be moving slower. A string of expletives that would make my father blush rush out of my mouth as I lean forward in my seat. “ Come on! ”
The car behind is still right on my tail. Through a brief break in the rain, I can see it a little clearer for a moment—a black, sleek thing, low to the ground. Looks like a sports car. I’m gonna be killed by someone driving a freaking hairdresser’s car. Seriously?
Car horns blare as I rip past them, trying to shake the guy off, but it’s no good. One mile, and then two, and he’s still right on me, stuck like gum. I have to do something. I have to do something. Ihavetodosomething!
Fumbling, I reach for my purse on the passenger seat. My cell is in the small pocket at the side where I always keep it, close at hand. Thank god it’s not buried underneath all the crap inside. I hit the number 1 and then the green call button.
It rings. Nothing. Rings…
“Hello?”
Relief breaks out in a cold sweat across my shoulders. “Oh, thank fuck.”
“Romera, is that you?” Oliver. Dr. Oliver Massey, who jokingly stored his cell number as speed dial number one when I first got my phone, because he knew I didn’t know how the hell to change it. Fuck. I should have changed it to the emergency services. I should hang up and dial 911. I should—
“Sloane? Hey, are you there?”
Hearing his voice makes my heartbeat slow a little. Oh, fuck it. “Oliver? Oliver, yes, it’s me. Listen. I need you to do me a favor. I need you to come down to the lobby and come outside. I think—I think I’m being follow—”
Another almighty crash rocks the car. This time I do lose the back end. Panic means my reaction times are slowed, even though my body is trying to counteract that by pumping me full of adrenalin.
I’m suddenly spun one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the wrong way down the freeway, and I’ve slammed on the breaks. Cars tear past me, swerving, inches away from the hood.
“Shit, shit, shit.” My body won’t work. I’m fumbling for the keys, trying to turn the engine over, but I just can’t seem to make it happen. My hands feel like rubber gloves filled with ice water, completely numb and boneless.
I finally do it, finally get the car started, just in time to look up and see another set of headlights, headed straight for me. I know the face I make—I’ve seen countless people in the movies wearing it, just before their car is involved in a horrific collision that generally smears them across the sidewalk. This car’s too close to swerve. I freeze; I wait. I see the other driver—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. I see the look of panic in his eyes as he realizes what’s about to happen, too.
And then he hits me.
The car twists around, and for a moment it feels like I’m trapped in a bumper car. Except this is a bumper car on crack. My body is rag-dolled sideways; my shoulder hits the driver door. I register an unpleasant crunch come from my arm— please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken —and the world becomes black and white and red as night and headlight and taillight take over. Around and around, it feels as though the car’s never going to stop. I close my eyes, shield my head as broken glass rains down on me. I breathe; I pull in breath after breath, my ribs flaring with pain, my heartbeat slamming in my ears.
And then I realize that it’s over.
The Volvo is still the right way up. My vision wavers as I try and focus on my surroundings—the car that hit me is crumpled against the barrier. There are already people out of their vehicles and running toward both my car and the other guy’s. Black shapes flicker in my vision as a hand reaches inside the car and unclips my seatbelt.
“Are you alright? Miss? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”
My ears are ringing. Firm hands help me out of the car. The rain is coming down harder now, slamming into the roadway, rising back up again like flowers
The car behind is still right on my tail. Through a brief break in the rain, I can see it a little clearer for a moment—a black, sleek thing, low to the ground. Looks like a sports car. I’m gonna be killed by someone driving a freaking hairdresser’s car. Seriously?
Car horns blare as I rip past them, trying to shake the guy off, but it’s no good. One mile, and then two, and he’s still right on me, stuck like gum. I have to do something. I have to do something. Ihavetodosomething!
Fumbling, I reach for my purse on the passenger seat. My cell is in the small pocket at the side where I always keep it, close at hand. Thank god it’s not buried underneath all the crap inside. I hit the number 1 and then the green call button.
It rings. Nothing. Rings…
“Hello?”
Relief breaks out in a cold sweat across my shoulders. “Oh, thank fuck.”
“Romera, is that you?” Oliver. Dr. Oliver Massey, who jokingly stored his cell number as speed dial number one when I first got my phone, because he knew I didn’t know how the hell to change it. Fuck. I should have changed it to the emergency services. I should hang up and dial 911. I should—
“Sloane? Hey, are you there?”
Hearing his voice makes my heartbeat slow a little. Oh, fuck it. “Oliver? Oliver, yes, it’s me. Listen. I need you to do me a favor. I need you to come down to the lobby and come outside. I think—I think I’m being follow—”
Another almighty crash rocks the car. This time I do lose the back end. Panic means my reaction times are slowed, even though my body is trying to counteract that by pumping me full of adrenalin.
I’m suddenly spun one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the wrong way down the freeway, and I’ve slammed on the breaks. Cars tear past me, swerving, inches away from the hood.
“Shit, shit, shit.” My body won’t work. I’m fumbling for the keys, trying to turn the engine over, but I just can’t seem to make it happen. My hands feel like rubber gloves filled with ice water, completely numb and boneless.
I finally do it, finally get the car started, just in time to look up and see another set of headlights, headed straight for me. I know the face I make—I’ve seen countless people in the movies wearing it, just before their car is involved in a horrific collision that generally smears them across the sidewalk. This car’s too close to swerve. I freeze; I wait. I see the other driver—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. I see the look of panic in his eyes as he realizes what’s about to happen, too.
And then he hits me.
The car twists around, and for a moment it feels like I’m trapped in a bumper car. Except this is a bumper car on crack. My body is rag-dolled sideways; my shoulder hits the driver door. I register an unpleasant crunch come from my arm— please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken —and the world becomes black and white and red as night and headlight and taillight take over. Around and around, it feels as though the car’s never going to stop. I close my eyes, shield my head as broken glass rains down on me. I breathe; I pull in breath after breath, my ribs flaring with pain, my heartbeat slamming in my ears.
And then I realize that it’s over.
The Volvo is still the right way up. My vision wavers as I try and focus on my surroundings—the car that hit me is crumpled against the barrier. There are already people out of their vehicles and running toward both my car and the other guy’s. Black shapes flicker in my vision as a hand reaches inside the car and unclips my seatbelt.
“Are you alright? Miss? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”
My ears are ringing. Firm hands help me out of the car. The rain is coming down harder now, slamming into the roadway, rising back up again like flowers
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