She hesitated.
“Go,” I shouted.
Trembling, she jumped off the bike. Wary and confused, she fumbled up the steps to the gate, punching in the code and rushing inside, looking back at me in terror when she did.
Headlights still glared, but the car hadn’t moved.
It just sat there . . . idling.
But I could feel it.
Something sinister that rode on the dense, suffocating air.
I inched my bike forward, coming closer and closer to the headlights still baring down, my eyes narrowing and trying to get a hold on the make and color.
And if I got lucky enough?
The bastard sitting behind the wheel.
But I could make nothing out, completely blinded when the driver suddenly gunned the accelerator and the car sped forward.
Adrenaline spiked, a vat dumped in my veins.
Instinct took over, and I wrenched the throttle back, angling the handlebars enough that I jumped the curb. The bike bounced as it hit the sidewalk, barely remaining in control.
Flash of a second later, the car blazed by. An inch away. Heat of it racing across my flesh, so close I could almost feel the hatred emanating from within.
Only thing it did was stoke my own.
Malice and disgust.
I flipped the bike around, body jolting as I jumped the curb, hitting the pavement hard. Didn’t let it slow me, I gunned it, throttling it as fast as it would go.
World a blur as I raced to catch up to the asshole driving that car. Not knowing if it was me who was bringing my baggage, the landfill that was my life, or if it was the trouble she’d gotten herself into that was the real danger.
Made me feel deranged.
Recklessly determined to get to whoever was responsible.
To end it.
Fix it.
Eradicate it.
Whatever it took.
Aggression flamed. Hatred burned.
Blood turning to cold, bitter ice.
A war raging within.
For her.
For her.
Problem was, I didn’t know who she was anymore.
My bike rocketed down the street at a dangerous speed, houses and trees whizzing by, and I was barely able to process what was right in front of me.
Nothing except for the taillights that I gained on.
I pushed myself harder. Faster.
Wind whipped, and my heart slammed against my ribs.
Madness whisking me into fury.
The car skidded before it made a sharp right.
Fuck.
I braked hard.
The roaring engine whined, and the rear-wheel locked up and sent the bike skidding into a fishtail.
I fought to gain traction. To get control.
Still, I took the turn too goddamn fast.
Too goddamn sharp.
Tires screeched as they slid on the pavement. Tried to see through the panic, and my foot came down in a bid to keep it from skidding into a full slide. One second before I hit the ground, I caught traction.
Righting it.
Barely managing to straighten it to upright before I gunned it again.
But the car I’d been chasing down was disappearing around a left turn about a quarter of a mile ahead.
I raced to get there, but by the time I made the same turn, the car was gone.
Vanished.
Nowhere.
Refusing to give up, I searched, taking the side streets slow like some kind of deranged motherfucker. Peering into windows of cars, like searching through rubble in a battlefield in the middle of the night.
Wanted to scream that I was coming up empty-handed.
That I’d failed again.
Finally had to concede that there was no chance I was going to stumble across them after I’d been riding aimlessly for the last hour and a cop running his beat had clocked me as suspicious.
Before I made a bigger mess of things, I turned and headed for home.
Home.
Bitter laughter rumbled out, knowing my brain had gone bad.
The taste of this betrayal sour on my tongue.
Venom in my blood.
But it didn’t matter.
I parked my bike in the garage and went through the gate. Instantly, my gaze was pulled to the windows on her wing of the house. Dim lights illuminated the girl who was at one of the easels, a brush in hand.
Heaven.
Eden.
A perfect, tortuous Hell.
Drawn, I moved. No will left.
I punched in the code, and she didn’t even flinch, like she’d felt my approach all along.
“Lost ’em,” I grunted. Sheer defeat.
Sable eyes found me, the quivering at the corner of her mouth telling me everything. “I was worried.”
“I know,” I told her. What the fuck else was I going to say? Knew she’d already gone there. Both of us digging the same grave.
In the shadows, I eased up behind her, needing to seep into her warmth.
Nearly buckled at the knees when I caught sight of the picture she was painting.
Slayed.
Cleaved in two.
“It’s you,” she whispered, agony and affection written in her tone.
Knew she wasn’t talking about the image she was actually painting. Knew it was the first time that she’d been able to pick up her brush to bring her art to life since she’d witnessed the trauma of losing her best friend.
But still, it sliced through me like a double-edged knife.