by Ella James
I never lift my gaze off the road, but seconds later, as I max around 220, I’m aware of blue lights—somewhere. Blue lights in the rear view.
FUCK!
I hit the brakes.
Uma slaps my arm and shrieks, “GO!”
I don’t even look at her. I’ve already been cuffed and hauled into the station twice this year—once for possession of a brick of marijuana another “girlfriend” left in my car, another time for driving home from a New Year’s party baked and drunk. I’ve been talked to by the heads of studios, cussed out by my agent. I’m done with that shit.
It takes me a few seconds to slow down safely, and in those seconds, the cop speeds up, thinking I’m running. He doesn’t back off even as we pull off the asphalt, into a sea of little desert rocks.
I’m rolling up the window as I skid off the road, because Uma is screeching and hissing like a pissed off cat. “Fuck you, Cal! I’ve got a bunch of blow in my purse!” She grabs my arm. “Hal, please, drive! Drive!”
“Hell no. You think they wouldn’t catch us?”
“Then we’ve got to do this coke!” She sticks her face into an almost-full baggie and starts taking deep, fast breaths. I’m looking into my mirrors as she starts to sob. She whirls in her chair and tosses it to Guy. “Finish it off! Please, Guy! Please!”
He holds the baggie up. “There’s too much of it.”
Brody grabs the bag from Guy and stashes it between his legs. “I don’t give a damn about a drug charge. It’ll help me.” His band is Southern rock, despite him being a second-generation Californian.
I look in the side mirror again and try to slow my heartbeat. Put on my apathetic face. Uma is still screeching about the coke.
“They’re not gonna search us for drugs,” Brody is saying.
“When you’ve got a car like this, it’s normal to drive it fast. No drugs needed,” Guy adds.
Fucking Uma.
I look up at the sky. I can see the stars better now. I suddenly wish I was alone—or with a girl I like. Someone sweet for once. I could use a little sweet.
Like always, the cop takes fucking forever. His flashlight streams ahead of him. Only when he reaches my window, I’m surprised to see that he’s a she. She’s got shoulder-length blonde hair, a nice enough face, and that’s all I know, because a second later, her flashlight that goes straight into my eyes. “Mr. Condor. I’ve run your plates and am having your records pulled. I’ll need license and registration, please.”
It’s kind of weird that she found out who I was before I handed over my ID, but I guess she ran the plate. Not everybody has a Lamborghini after all. She probably wanted to find out what kind of rich prick she was dealing with. I dig for my registration in the glove box, then slide my license out of my wallet.
A few more seconds with that fucking light in my face, and finally, she steps back. “I’ve got a K-9 unit coming, so stay put.”
I roll up my window, and Uma sinks her nails into my arm. “Oh my God! I’ll lose my contracts! Mom will kill me!”
“I thought she was in rehab,” Guy says.
“That’s the point!”
“Snort! Snort! Snort!” Brody chants. He sounds like he’s joking, but I can’t tell.
He and Guy pass the bag back and forth a time or two, then Uma snatches it away. She’s panting as she tries to snort it.
“Be careful,” Guy says. “You’re spilling it and dogs can smell that shit.”
“I don’t see why…Cal can’t…drive away,” she says between snorting. Her voice sounds weak, like she’s trying not to cry. Her eyes, peering at me over the bag, are huge in her thin face. I think of that sick way my heart pounds when I’ve had too much, and I picture her throwing up ten times a day. Her face red, her eyes streaming.
Shit.
I snatch the bag away.
“Thank you!” she cries. “Do it fast!”
I snort a little right out of the bag, the way the other three have been, before realizing maybe I can eat it. If I’m remember right, it won’t make me that high. After the first few snorts, I’m feeling pretty fucking edgy. Edgy enough that eating it sounds like a fine idea. I prop one end of the baggie in my open mouth and dump it in. I choke a little, and my guys in the back seat start chanting something. My head’s spinning a little, so I’m not sure what.
When I hear a door shut and I know she’s walking back up to my car, I struggle to get a breath.
“Fuck, man. Are you okay?”
I shove the bag under the seat, and Uma throws her arms around me.
The next still shot I see is the cop leaning into my window. No memory of how the window got rolled back down.
Her voice is tinny, surreal, as she says, “No outstanding warrants. I know your faces, kids. I don’t want you out this way. Drug unit’s still headed out this way, but if you want to go—straight home—I’ll handle that. But no more driving anywhere near that fast.” Her eyes, skimming the entire car, shift to mine. “You’re going to get somebody killed,” she tells me. Then she smiles. “I loved you in Fair Bachelor.”
I nod.
I chew the inside of my cheeks and rub my hands hard against the wheel as she walks back to her car, then, a minute or two later, drives away.
Before her tail lights are even out of sight, Uma starts screeching, “Go! Go, go! Turn around and go back toward town and exit somewhere! We’ve got to get away from that drug cop!”
“Juice her up,” Guy seconds. “Just fly. Get us out of here.”
I’m feeling kind of weird, but he’s right. We need to get out of here before the other cop shows up.
CHAPTER 5
Annabelle
Some people might think it’s dumb to drive alone from La Placita out toward Yucca Valley this late at night, but I don’t care. Tonight was crazy perfect, and I want to relive it in total privacy.
I drop my friends off and zoom down the lonely desert road between Mom’s apartment and Dad’s log cabin. That way, if I happen to run into some creeper or something, there will be a safety net at each end of the road.
I spend a few minutes, just after dropping Alexia off, thinking how I wish Mom and the man I know as Dad had stayed married. Holt was Mom’s second and last marriage, and since they divorced when I was three, he’s been my only Dad. I don’t care if we’re blood relatives. He’s more than earned the title.
I turn the radio up—“Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley—and tap my bright green fingernails on my steering wheel as I pass through Sunnyslope, then Moreno Valley. As the duo sings, I groove my shoulders and swing my hair.
I feel…buoyant.
Stunned.
So fortunate.
And yet…hungry.
I’m not sure I’ll ever rest again, knowing Ricardo is out there and his mouth is not somewhere on my body. Everything I thought he was—everything I wanted him to be— Those thoughts are gone, punched out by who he really is.
I spend some time just grinning as I fly down Highway 60. Somewhere ahead, I see blue lights, and hit the brakes a little as a reflex. If the lights don’t go away in another mile or so, I’m turning around. But they do. The night is dark, my car is quiet, and I can hear his voice inside my head.
“Why don’t you want to fuck me?”
Oh, my.
I’m clenching my thighs together, thinking of his face between them, when a yellow car flies past me, headed back toward Los Angeles. It’s gone in a millisecond, which means it’s moving fast—like, really fast. For some reason, yellow cars always remind me of drug dealers, on account of my junior high friend Gabby having an older brother who dealt drugs and drove a yellow Mustang. For some reason, thinking of Gabby’s crack head brother makes me nervous.
I’m out here all by myself. I probably don’t even have cell phone service. Why was that car going so fast? Probably just speeding for fun, but I’m overtaken by a primal nervousness. As if the yellow car were running away from something. I’m headed toward whatever it was. Headed in the direction of the blue light
s.
I think of lying in my bed, reaching under the covers, imagining my hands are his, and I’m sold. I turn around a second later, and I pick up my speed just a little.
I’m watching the horizon line, barely visible in the faraway glow of Los Angeles lights. I’m thinking about Mom and Bobby, whether they’ll be up. Whether they would believe me if I told them I kissed Cal Friggin’ Hammond tonight.
I’m deep in the land of daydreams and intangible possibilities when I see a spark of light ahead. It starts small, but in milliseconds blooms into an orange fireball. Fear cuts through me, and for a breath of time, I’m unaware of myself—my arms, my legs. During that time…I don’t know. I guess I lose my grip on the wheel.
The next heartbeat, I’m tumbling like blue jeans in a clothes dryer. I open my eyes in time to see the road go upside down. And right-side up. And upside down.
I hear a crunching sound as the passenger’s side hits something, and my head slams into the driver’s side window as the car rocks, then settles upright. Smoke pours from the vents. Thick and black—it’s choking me.
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
My brain spins, trying and failing to comprehend how I went from driving down a deserted highway to wrecking my new car. I look down at my hands. I can’t see them. That’s because the airbag came out.
My adrenaline rush begins to fade, and I worry I’m going to be sick.
I fumble with the seatbelt, and I start to cry because there’s smoke everywhere, and my upholstery is fabric. It’s ruined now. Baby Blue is ruined.
The yellow car! For some reason, my brain chooses this moment to synthesize: the yellow car must have wrecked and caused the fireball.
Oh, God.
I don’t know how I get my door open, but I do. I get the driver’s side door open and half-fall out. When I get my feet planted on the tilting ground, I realize the dampness on my forehead is blood.
I look on down the flat, straight road, and all the air leaves my lungs. The yellow car is upside down, no longer a car at all but just a burning shell. A bunch of stuff litters the road around it.
Oh my God, that stuff is PEOPLE.
People and pieces of the car.
As if the sound has just been switched on, I can suddenly hear groaning. Screaming.
I look around, hoping for—what? Help? It’s just the night and me, so I start running. Like in a nightmare, I can’t move fast enough. My legs aren’t working right. I come upon the first body, and I can’t tell if it’s a girl or boy. There’s blood all in the face, and the head…
Long hair. Girl. I drop down to my knees. My hands hover over her, because I’m not sure what to do. She’s making a horrible gurgling sound. Oh God. Shit. Fuck. Do I pick her up and try to help her?
I need to call 9-1-1!
I run back to my car, and it’s hard to move because I’m so, so cold. The sky is so big all around me, so dark. It’s cold. I’m shivering. I look in cup holders, in the floor, for my phone and call 9-1-1, even though I’m not sure if that works on cell phones.
Someone answers!
“Oh my God, there’s been a really bad wreck on highway 60 west—I mean east—of Moreno Valley! Send someone now! It’s really bad!”
“Try to stay calm. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine! It’s the people in the other car!”
“Were you involved in a wreck? Stay on the line with me.”
“We’re on Highway 60. We need a helicopter! Now!”
My voice echoes in my head as I drop my phone and run back toward the girl. I can tell before I get up close to her that it’s not good. She’s gone completely silent. I can’t see her chest rising and falling, so I move on numb legs toward the next body on the road. It’s long, sprawled face-down. The face is pale, but that’s all I can tell because he has a badly bleeding head. “Can you hear me?” I sink into a crouch and reach for his arm, but after a second staring, I can tell for sure: This chest is not moving. At all.
“Oh no! Oh God! Oh God!”
I dash down the road, past the car and the debris, and a few dozen yards later, lying in the rocks, I find another large, male body. Pale hair, bloody chest and legs. This one is shaking violently, so still alive.
I drop to my knees beside him. My arms go out to touch him, but I’m not sure what would hurt and what would help. “Help is on its way,” I say in a high-pitched voice. “It’s okay, they’ll be here soon!”
He stares up at the sky, eyes never sliding over to me.
I look frantically around. Is this everyone? How many people could fit into a car like that?
I touch his arm. “You’re not alone. I’m here.” Still, he doesn’t look at me. I think he can’t. Something about that scares me almost more than the bodies of his friends.
Should I check the car?
I should check it.
I hope up, run over to the twisted pile of glass and metal that is the car. I look around it, sandals crunching on glass. Almost every window is broken. There’s a door missing.
I peer inside, and as I do, I hear a groan.
“Oh my God!” It’s coming from the car!
I rush around to the other side of the car, and that’s when I realize: the other side is mostly gone. The person groaning is just kind of hanging from his seat-belt. Half of his chair is burned away.
He’s curled down on himself, chin to chest, shoulders hunched, so I can’t tell anything except he’s got dark hair and dark pants. His arms hang limply at his sides. His face looks very, very pale.
Icy cold seeps through me. “Don’t be dead! Please don’t be dead!”
I drop down to my knees in the dirt, and he lifts his chin a fraction of an inch.
His lips move for a few seconds before I hear a hoarse sound. He makes the sound again and lifts his head a little more. Long lashes flutter. “Maria,” he rasps.
That’s the name of Cal Hammond’s childhood nanny. What a stupid thought that is right now.
He writhes, his shoulders lifting, head moving a little. “Maria,” he moans. His face is so bloody, I can’t make out much of him. I can’t tell where the blood is coming from. It streams down his neck and chest, coating his waist and jeans.
I’m scared to touch him, but my hand can’t seem to help itself. I touch his right knee, feather light. “Hey, can you hear me?”
“Maria… Please help!” His hand juts out, grabbing my arm. His grip is weak, his fingers sticky with his blood. His eyes, on mine, are wild and—
No.
No, no. Fuck no.
I go very still inside.
My voice cracks. “Cal?”
His gaze grapples with mine, and my heart stops.
It’s him. It’s definitely him.
Cal Hammond.
“Oh my God. Oh fuck. Oh shit. Cal.” It can’t be him. It makes no sense. But every line of his face, every curve of bulky muscle tells me that it is. He’s wearing black jeans and a pink t-shirt, like Cal was at the party.
I drop to my knees and touch his hair, just a tremble of my palm over his warm, damp head. It seems to bring him back into the moment. His hand catches my wrist, his face twists. He isn’t focusing enough to recognize me. I’m ashamed that I notice that.
His chest rises and falls, like it’s a struggle just to draw a breath. “My…shoulder,” he moans.
I look at both his shoulders, but he’s so limp, I can’t tell which one’s hurt. “What do I do?”
He lets his breath out. “Left…one. Push…on it. Push…up.”
I notice belatedly that his left arm is tucked up, and his right one is cradling his left one. “I can’t do that! I don’t know how!”
He shakes his head a little, wincing. “Just…push!”
When my fingers close around his shoulder, heat spreads through me. I’m hesitant at first, but he growls, “Now.” I push hard. He gasps.
The gasp is followed by shallow panting. Followed by a peek of his dark eyes. “Fuck me, a
ngel. You’re an evil one.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m sorry!” My voice shakes. I think I’m crying.
I touch his back. His eyes squeeze shut. His breaths are hisses. I swear to the Virgin, I can feel his pain in my own bones.
He starts shaking so abruptly, at first I think I’m imagining it. But no. The tremors rip through him, and a second later he starts panting.
I come around in front of him. Kneel down, and look into his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Hold onto me.”
I hesitate.
“Hold onto me.” His head snaps up. “One…hand. Just…hold on! I can’t move.” He looks frantically left and right, like he’s just realized he wrecked his car and he’s strapped into the charred driver’s seat. “Please—help me move!”
“I’m scared I’ll hurt you!”
“Tug…on my shoulder.”
He curls over a little, letting out these awful little half-grunt, half-groans, and I wrap my hand around the bicep of the arm I just popped back into place.
“Harder,” he gasps. “Make it…hurt.”
Horrified, I squeeze him harder.
“Use your nails.”
I dig into his arm.
“Harder…or…I’ll pass out.” His voice is sounding garbled, like he’s drunk.
That seems like it would be bad, so I squeeze him harder, hating that I’m hurting him.
“Where’s…Guy?” His eyes find mine. “Where’s…”
“He’s here,” I interrupt. “Your friends are here.”
He must have just remembered them. I whirl around, gazing down the road where they lay. Which one is Guy? Guy Jacobsen. Blond. “He’s still alive!” Last time I checked, he was still alive. I cover my face and start to cry.
“Come…hold onto my back.”
I step quickly to him, feeling guilty for my crying; feeling frenzied for the ambulance. Where is it? Cal is still buckled, and I’m scared to unbuckle him, so I reach my hand between the tattered seat and his back.
“Up,” he murmurs. “Don’ wanna go up. Push me down. Please.” The last word is barely breathed.
“What’s the matter?” It’s such a stupid question. I’m so stupid. I’m so scared.
