Dead Rockstar (The Dead Rockstar Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter 7

Walkinginto the library Monday morning, I felt a spring in my step that hadn”t been there in a long time. Holding my mint-mocha in one hand, I fished in my bag and pulled out my cell phone, looking at the screen.

I”d bought Phillip a burner smartphone at Target, shown him how to use it, telling him to call me if there were any issues. So far, he hadn”t, but I”d only been gone from the house for an hour. Jeez, I had it bad.

That morning I”d woken up early, showered and got ready, and made him a full breakfast. After seeing the way he”d eaten at the diner and remembering how skinny he was in those damned boxer briefs, I decided he needed to be fed, well and often. When he”d come into the kitchen an hour later, he”d raised an eyebrow. “Get yourself a coffee,” I said, gesturing to the pot. “Just brewed it.”

He poured himself a cup, black, and regarded the table with a look of awe. “Do you do this every morning?”

“Ha. No. I don”t ever do this, actually. I”m not a breakfast person,” I said with a laugh. “This is all for you. I can”t have you starving to death just two days after you”ve come back to life.”

“Jesus, pancakes.” He moaned. “I”d forgotten pancakes.”

“Sorry there”s no bacon,” I said. “Or eggs. Pancakes, tofu scramble, and fresh fruit it is.”

He smiled. “Are you going to hit me if I tell you I”ve never been a breakfast person either?”

I laughed. “Nah. Just save it for your lunch. I”m about to go to work.”

He drank two cups of strong black coffee, tucked heartily into breakfast, and walked me to the doorway as I left for work. “I might write a song,” he said, looking over at Tess” old bass.

My heart leapt at the thought of him sitting in my house, drinking my coffee, writing a song. Maybe it”d be about me? Our little practice session came to mind, and I felt the blood rush to various places. Get a grip, you pathetic loser.

I sat down at my desk, booted up the library computer, rummaged in my purse for my reading glasses, and busied myself signing in books from the overnight drop-off. Jean wasn”t in yet and the library was quiet. I re-shelved the returned items then opened a program to check for overdue books. I wondered what Phillip was doing right now. Writing a song? Showering? The thought of that tall, chiseled body standing in my shower...

Stop, stop, stop. I was having a hard time thinking of anything else but him, even for a moment. The night before I”d lain awake half the night, just thinking about him in the next room, his long, athletic legs tucked under him. That beautiful black hair on the pillow, the rosebud mouth pursed. He was so beautiful. Maybe asking to go along with him on this trip was a bad idea, because just being around him was driving me totally insane. And it had barely been two days.

My phone dinged and I jumped, scrambling to pull it out of my pocket, eager to see what Phillip needed. But it wasn”t Phillip. A text from my dad – the first I”d heard from him in what seemed like forever – made me grimace. “Was wondering if you were coming home for Thanksgiving this year,” he had typed. “Dee and Shay and I would love to have you.”

I made a gesture at the phone and placed it face down on my desk, not bothering to respond. Talking to my parents took a kind of mental energy that needed to be built up, prepared for. And when my dad started chattering about his new family and his fancy, happy little beach house in PCB, well, it was hard for me to keep my decorum, even when he was making the effort to include me. It was weird, being thirtysomething years old and having a baby sister. Shay. The cutesy nickname rolled around in my head as I tried to shake off the jealousy I felt. I didn’t begrudge my baby sister her life; she was a sweet, dear little thing, what little I knew of her. Dee was okay, too – I secretly thought she was a bit dim, but she was nice enough, if a bit shallow. I was glad my dad had finally cleaned things up and could offer her something better. But it didn’t mean I’d forgotten everything from my own childhood, either.

I sighed. I”d respond to Dad later, if I bothered to at all. I was grateful for the invitation, but I doubted I’d take it. Even if I could let go of my angsty feelings long enough to have Thanksgiving with Dad and his family, it wasn’t worth the all-out war it would cause when Mom found out. God knew where she was – it had been even longer since I”d talked to her. I assumed she was doing fine; like any good narcissist she always knew how to land on her feet. I wondered if her last stint at rehab had stuck or if she was off the wagon again. Red wine had been her drink, too.

She’d been begging me for years to come see her for Thanksgiving and Christmas, to stay with her for a few days, and I never did, because I knew how it would go. The pair of us, wine-drunk and sad, either crying over her dusty records, tallying up points over our terrible ex-spouses (she would always win; there was no competition with Mom where she didn’t emerge victorious), or worse: a screaming match. “You look down on me now,” she’d accused me once when I’d made excuses not to come. “Because I’m still here.” Whether she meant it literally, as in still in the trailer park, or metaphorically, as in, still an alcoholic, I never asked, because it didn’t matter.

I didn’t look down on her. Really, I didn’t. After all, I lived in a mobile home, didn’t I? I drank like a fish, especially now that Tess was gone. The life we’d had together turned out to be eerily similar to my own parents’. I didn’t have a leg of judgment to stand on, with either of them, since I’d repeated every bad example they’d ever shown me. The truth was far sadder. It was just too painful to be near her, near either of them.

I didn’t want to think about Mom right now.

I didn”t care to think about either of my parents. I preferred to think about Phillip Deville, a vision in black, sitting on my couch, just waiting for me to come home. I banished thoughts of my parents and with a dreamy smile, resumed working.

In a wistful haze, I sent off a few emails to patrons with overdue books, warning them of late fees and fines, threw away a bunch of old magazines to make way for the newly donated pile, and helped an elderly customer use Google. When I returned to my desk, my phone was buzzing. When I saw “unknown caller,” my heart skipped a beat. I wasn”t supposed to use my cell phone for calls at work, but just this once...

“Hello?”

“Fucking motherfucker.”

“Huh?”

“Stormy?”

“Phillip?”

“How in the Christ you people make phone calls by tapping a little screen I will never know.” His voice was loud in my ear; he was yelling. “I have been trying to call you for thirty minutes.” I heard a loud thump and another, “Fuck! Please don”t be cracked, please don”t be cracked-”

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I”m ok!” he boomed.

“Stop yelling, Phillip,” I said, stifling my laughter. “You don”t have be so loud. Jesus, didn”t you talk on the phone back in the dark ages?”

“Yeah, real phones, the kind where you press a button, and-” I heard a thunk and a stream of loud cuss words. “Goddamit. You there?”

“I”m here.” I giggled. “All thumbs today?”

“It”s just a damn glass rectangle, there”s no receiver. I keep dropping it-” There was a rustling, then he was back. “Every time I tried to call, the phone would shut off. I rebooted it like you showed me, then I”d try again, I”d dial, and it would happen again.”

“Perhaps I should get you a phone more suited to your generation,” I said, suppressing a guffaw. “Like a rotary phone, or better yet, one that dials in to an operator who can connect you to Aunt Bea?”

“Well, that”s just mean,” he said coolly, then I heard another thunk, followed by a stream of expletives.

“What”s going on?” I asked, still holding back laughter. “I mean, why did you call? Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said, still talking too loudly. “I just wanted to say hi. You know, check in. I guess I missed your voice. And I wanted to try out this cell phone. Now that I have, I kind of want to stomp it with my sixteens.”

“Don”t stomp the phone, Phillip.” My heart soared. He wanted to hear my voice. I looked over at the lone library patron to make sure they weren”t listening in. “Did you write the song?”

“I got the melody down. You”re out of paper though. What kind of librarian doesn”t have any paper?” he said. “I thought I”d use your computer but every time I turned it on it just turned off. It”s broken, I guess?”

“No,” I said. That was weird. “It was working fine yesterday. And anyway, I do have paper. Second drawer in the nightstand by my bed. You can go grab some if you want.”

“I”ll do it while I”ve got you on the phone.” I could hear him walking through the house. “Ok, first drawer of the nightstand...” I heard a drawer slide open.

“No, Phillip, the SECOND drawer! Don”t open the first-”

It was too late. I heard muffled laughter and bit down hard on my lower lip. “Oh. Sorry.” A quiet laugh, then, “I found the paper.”

Fuck.

“We will never speak of what is in the top drawer, okay? If you mention it to me, I”ll kill you all over again.”

“Yes, ma”am. Or should I say, ”yes boss”, judging from what I-”

“Phillip!” I yelled, and the person on the computer looked up at me, alarmed. “Sorry,” I mouthed before speaking again to Phillip in a hot whisper. “Get out of my room.”

“No need to get bitchy,” he said. “We all gotta get off, don”t we?”

I was going to die of embarrassment. I would just gently keel over and expire right on the library carpet. I could feel my cheeks burn. “I”ve got to go. I have work to do.”

“Nice to see some things haven”t changed since the 90s.”

“Phillip Patrick Deville, I swear to Lucifer-”

He was still laughing. “You middle named me! Okay, fine. It might take me a minute to figure out how to hang up this thing. My fucking fingers can”t seem to-” I didn”t wait for him to finish. I hung up on him, my face uncomfortably hot. I thought back to the pumpkin spice lube Sloan had given me last Christmas as a joke, wondering if he’d seen that, too; I had to giggle a little, imagining explaining the term “basic bitch” to Phillip Deville. Or was I a basic witch?

I was still mulling over how mortified I was as I locked up at 5pm and stepped out of the library. I patted my pockets to make sure I had everything, threw my purse over my shoulder and headed toward the car. Halfway down the ramp, I tripped and almost went sprawling onto the concrete. I grabbed the metal rail and hoisted myself back up, cursing under my breath. My shoe was untied. I bent down, still muttering, tied it quickly, and shifted on my haunches, ready to head back to the car, when something caught my eye.

It was starting toward dusk already, so the natural light wasn”t great, but even before I turned the little rectangular card over, I knew what it would be. A tarot card. A quick flip with my fingers revealed just what I expected. The death card.

I left the card where it lay and sauntered off to my car. Whoever or whatever was trying to rattle me wouldn”t succeed. The one thing I knew was that I wanted to leave with Phillip more than ever.

I camein the house praying that Phillip had forgotten his wayward discovery from earlier, or at least wouldn”t mention it. I had bigger problems to worry about. I”d gone back and forth several times in the car as to whether I should tell him about the tarot cards. The entire situation was fucked up and weird enough as it was without me adding more kooky shit into the mix. I was equal parts pleased and annoyed to find Sloan sitting with him on the couch when I came in.

“I didn”t see your car,” I said to her.

“Hello to you, too,” she said. “Dan”s got it. He dropped me off. He was going to get me a new battery, and then run it by the car wash. Isn”t that sweet? He”s coming back for me in a few.” She certainly was smitten with Dan. If she was happy, I was happy, especially if it meant she was staying away from that Gus guy.

I looked at Phillip, wondering what he”d told her about where we were going and why. He was plucking at the bass, an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “I won”t smoke it,” he said, seeming to read my mind. “It just helps me think. I can”t write without one.”

“So you guys are going on a little road trip,” Sloan stated, meeting my eyes. I tried to reassure her with a glance. “How long for?”

“Not long,” Phillip answered for me, still plucking away. “Just a couple of days.”

“Did Jean give you shit for taking off work?”

“Nah,” I said. “I think she was glad to get rid of me, honestly.” That wasn”t really fair. We got along well, and she was always kind to me, especially after my divorce. But I knew I got on her nerves sometimes - my anxious energy could be a lot to deal with.

“Well, the reason I came by,” Sloan said, rummaging in her pocket for her ChapStick glancing at Phillip and then at me to make sure it was okay to talk in front of him. I nodded and she went on. “I didn”t want to tell you over the phone, especially while you were at work. But...I saw Tess today. And his girlfriend.”

“Oh really?” I was surprised at how okay I felt hearing this. “Roberta?”

“I think that”s the first time I”ve heard you say her name without turning green,” Sloan answered, gliding cherry ChapStick onto her lips. “They came by the Curling Dervish. You just missed them, they were there literally five minutes after you. With money, believe it or not. I told them to fuck off.”

“You didn”t do her hair?”

“Fuck no I didn”t.” She smirked. “I told them I was all booked up.”

“You didn”t have to do that. I know you”ve got to make a living.” I sniffed, wishing they weren”t both looking at me. Phillip”s expression was strange. “How was he?”

“Ugly. Strung out. The usual.”

“Sloan-”

“Fuck him, Stormy. Stop defending him. He showed up with that skank and was asking about you right in front of her. It was just so gross.”

“He was asking about me? What did he ask?”

“What do you think? Wanting to know if you were seeing anybody-” She looked at Phillip, then at me with a wink, “-and I was quick to say YES, you are. And that he”d better leave you the hell alone if he knew what was good for him. I”ll kick his ass myself if I have to. He wanted to know who, and I told him to mind his own fucking beeswax. Asking if you were still driving the truck, how long you”d been seeing your guy, all this weird, nosy stuff. Finally, I got fed up and threw him out. He flipped me off before they finally left.” She looked at Phillip. “Classy guy, her ex.”

Phillip, who had once flipped off Kurt Loder and told him to, “lick my asshole, you fucking corporate stooge” on live TV, clearly realized he had no legs to stand on and resumed plucking the bass with a shrug.

“I wish you wouldn”t have caused a scene,” I said with a sigh.

“There was nobody there but us,” she argued. “Calm down, Church Lady.”

“What was she like?” I asked. “Roberta?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Nice, actually. She”s really pretty, but she looked kinda miserable. Tess was hanging all over her with his tongue hanging out. I think he was doing it to make you jealous, because he knew I”d tell you. I felt kind of sorry for her.” She looked at me. “But only so much. She knew what she was doing, you know?”

I bit my lip. On the one hand, it was heartening to hear that Tess was still asking about me, even if he”d had a girl on his arm while he did it. Did it mean he still cared? That he missed me, that he had regrets? Or was he just being a nosy douchebag? Probably the latter. Still, it was nice to hear, on some level, that maybe he cared. At least a little.

For a moment I allowed myself the fantasy of what it might be like to call him, his voice on the other line eager and friendly, the apology he”d give me, sincere and meaningful. He”d tell me about how he”d changed, how he missed me, how he”d forgotten how much we loved each other but he knew now, he knew, and he wanted to come home...

“Don”t go there,” Phillip said in a low voice, still plucking away. He was playing the opening bars of “I Could Die with You,” one of my favorites from their first album.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You”re thinking he must still care about you on some level if he bothered to ask about you,” he said, pulling the unlit cigarette from his mouth and rolling it around his fingers. “You”re mulling over calling him. But I can tell you, Stormy. I”ve been that guy. It”s about ownership, a piss-on-my-hydrant thing. Don”t take it for love, because it ain”t love.”

Sloan”s eyebrows raised into her hairline.

“Okay, well thanks.” I was embarrassed, and suddenly very close to tears. I didn”t need the two of them ganging up on me. Divorce was hard. What did they expect?

“Divorce is hard,” he said, repeating my thoughts. It was beginning to freak me out, the way he did that.

I decided to change the subject. “Anybody hungry?”

“Yes,” they both said in unison.

“I haven”t been grocery shopping in a while. And if we”re about to leave I don”t see the point in doing it now. Pizza?”

“Let”s get Mazzios,” Sloan agreed.

“I”ll have to go pick it up,” I said. “They don”t deliver out here anymore. I live too far out, I guess it costs them too much in gas.”

“I”ll go with you, if you want to call in the order,” Sloan said. She looked at Phillip. “So what are we thinking, the usual? Just a large vegan meat lovers to share?” He stared at her, eyes wide, as though she”d just insulted his mother.

I laughed. “Right.” I knew he’d be asking me later what in the actual hell a “vegan meat lovers” consisted of, and I relished the thought of what his face would do when I began to explain fake pepperoni and sausage to Mr. Rare-Steak.

I picked up my cell and called in the order, our usual vegan pie and a large triple meat for Phillip. Sloan looked shocked. I”d never done such a thing for anyone before, not even Tess. But Phillip needed his strength, and besides, he hadn”t given me any grief about my lifestyle, and Tess had constantly. It seemed a simple enough concept – you respect me, I”ll respect you. Even if I hoped I never had to see another bloody steak for the rest of my life. Maybe eventually I”d turn Phillip Deville vegan. Ha!

In the truck,Sloan had a million questions, as I had known she would.

“So what”s his real name?”

“Phillip,” I said, not wanting to get into a spiral of lies. They were too hard to keep up with.

“Come on, that can”t really be his name.”

“It really is.”

“I guess that”s not an uncommon name. But it seems a little too on the nose,” she said. “And you guys met at a show?”

“I never said that,” I replied. “You just assumed.”

“So where, then?”

“You won”t believe me even if I tell you.” I had planned to lie, to let Sloan assume whatever she wanted, because it”d be easier, and safer, too. But I”d stopped myself. I was rattled. I needed Sloan as my sounding board, and anyway, we never lied to each other. She”d be able to read right through it, and besides, all that had happened made me feel crazy, and I wanted to tell someone. Even if she didn”t believe me. “Anyway, I tried to once already, and you didn”t believe me.”

“Try me now,” she said.

“OK, fine. The other night, when I told you I was going to do the spell, I did it. I got drunk and I read the spell and lit some sage and other shit, and well...something happened.”

“The power went out,” she said. “You told me.”

“Not just that. I recorded the whole thing, and it just magically disappeared off my phone, remember? The power went out, but other stuff has happened too.” I swallowed. “But the most important thing is that he showed up.”

“Who did?”

“Phillip,” I said. “Sloan, I know you”re going to tell me I”m fucking insane and try to drive me to the hospital to have me committed, but I”m telling you the truth. The guy in my house right now is Phillip Deville. THE Phillip Deville. He”s not some impersonator or singer for a cover band, it”s not a big joke or a huge coincidence. He looks so much like Phillip Deville because he IS him. He showed up at my house two nights ago because I summoned him.”

“You summoned Phillip Deville with a spell,” she said slowly, as though talking to a confused child. “You uh…brought him back.”

“Yes. I know it sounds fucking crazy-”

“You think?” she asked. “Have you gone completely loopy? This shit with Tess has rotted out your brain. First of all, you have told me how many gazillion times that you don”t even believe in that crap-”

“I know, but-”

“And putting aside that fact, Phillip Deville has been dead for over twenty years. I remember when he died. You came into math class in 9th grade with your blue mascara running down your cheeks, hysterical. You cried for weeks.”

“I know.”

“People don”t come back from the dead, Stormy,” she said. She looked kind of mad. “They just don”t. You can”t expect me to believe this. This is some kind of crazy...I don”t even know. You”re cracking up. This is...like some next level delusional shit. Trying to pretend this impersonator guy or whatever he is is real? I mean, I like him – he seems cool, and I”m glad you”re moving on. God knows you need to get laid. But I think you should see someone. A professional.”

“Look, I know how it seems. How it looks,” I said, trying to stay calm. We were almost at Mazzios. “But think about it. Isn”t it kind of eerie how much he looks like Phillip Deville? And what about your car? We both know that battery was dead as fuck. He put a hand on it and your car came on without you even having to turn the ignition. Explain that!”

“He wiggled a wire,” she said.

“I was watching him,” I said. “He didn”t wiggle any wire. He literally just put his hand on the battery for a second.”

“This is stupid,” Sloan said. “If you want to have a fling with a guy who looks like your favorite dead rock star, fine by me. But why all this theatrical shit? Why the big show, trying to convince me?”

“I”m not making this up.”

“Fuck you. Stop it, right now. This isn”t funny, Stormy, I”m worried.”

“There”s no reason to worry. I”m telling you the truth.”

“The fuck you are.”

“Don”t get angry, Sloan-”

She put up a hand to silence me. “Don”t pull that shit with me, Stormy Spooner. I am angry. I am.” I knew better than to argue with that tone of voice. Sloan in a rage was a thing to behold. I sighed and turned my face back toward the road. I could see Sloan reapplying her ChapStick out of the corner of my eye, her face a black cloud.

Moments later, I pulled into the parking lot and into a space right in front of the doors. Sloan got out and slammed the door behind her. I sat there for a few moments, taking in some deep breaths, then followed. She might want to slap me right now, but I didn”t want her to have to pay for the pizza. She was broke. We rarely ever fought, and I hadn”t seen her so angry at me in a long time. For the second time that day I felt like crying. I had the sense that whatever I”d done, whatever magic had happened in my living room, I”d unleashed something much bigger than myself. Much bigger than even Phillip Deville. There were forces at work here, and I hadn”t the first idea how to control them. Until I did learn, they were going to wreak havoc all over my personal life.

It was hard to believe, I knew, but couldn”t Sloan see right in front of her? It was obvious that the man was Phillip – the resemblance was too uncanny. There were plenty of guys around going for that look, but none of them were six five and full of rock-hard muscles or had green eyes the color of gems. I supposed that when a thing seems too preposterous, you find a way to explain it away, to dismiss it. That was what Sloan was doing. But I knew a way to convince her. When we got back with the pizzas, I”d have Phillip sing for her. He could do one of his most familiar songs and once she heard that unmistakable razor-velvet voice, she”d know I was telling the truth.

Once she was back in the car, though, still treating me to stony silence, I soon forgot all about having Phillip play for her.

I pulled out into the highway, the fragrance of hot pizza making my mouth water. I opened my mouth to say something to Sloan, to make her smile – I really couldn”t handle it when people were angry at me – but my words died in my throat as I saw a car pull out of the parking lot right behind us. It was a burgundy colored Mazda, old and beat up, and just the sight of it filled me with dread. I couldn”t make out the two figures inside the car, but both were wearing ball caps pulled down over their eyes. As they followed me down the street, I knew that they were up to no good. A shiver went up my back, and I instinctively crouched down in my seat, as if that would be any help.

They were following me. Whoever they were, I wouldn”t lead them to Phillip. I passed the turn off for my road and went further into town, toward the library. Sloan turned to look at me. “Where are you going?” she asked.

I replied in a low voice, “I”m being followed.”

She gave me an incredulous look. “Why on earth would somebody follow you? Girl, you are seriously losing it.”

“Look in the mirror,” I said. “That car. They”re following us. Watch.”

I veered right suddenly, turning onto a side street at a hard angle, and the car immediately followed. “They aren”t even trying to hide it, see?”

“You”re crazy,” she said, but she looked nervous.

“I”m going to try to lose them,” I said.

“You”re not going to do that in the middle of town. You need to get out on the open road, and then just gun it.”

I did as I was told. I turned again, watching the burgundy car in the rearview turn with me, and headed toward a rural street that didn”t have much but farm houses on it. It was pitch dark on this stretch of road, and I usually avoided it because of deer that always seemed to jump out in front of me at night, especially in the fall. I hoped none were in the road tonight.

I passed a few houses, and once I was out of the line of sight, passing by nothing but coastal farmland and trees, I stepped down on the gas. My little truck was a piece of crap, but it still had plenty of get up and go. I floored it and we shot forward, racing around a curve, gaining speed. For a moment there was only darkness behind me, and I felt my heartrate start to slow. Then after a second or two their headlights became visible. I hadn”t lost them yet. “Fuck.”

“What the fuck is going on today?” Sloan said, her irritation giving way to fear. I knew she was worried now. “Go faster, Storm.”

“This road is so twisty, I”m afraid-”

“Just go,” she said. She was gripping the seat with both hands.

I gunned it harder, and we sped around another curve. The lights were still behind me, but further away. They didn”t know these roads like I did, evidently. I sped around another curve, then another, going faster and faster, and then finally it appeared that I”d lost them. There was a four-way stop up ahead, but I barely paused, instead veering left and driving straight through. I hoped they”d assume I”d gone right, which led to Jekyll Island, rather than back the way I”d come. I couldn”t see the hint of headlights in the rearview, and the road was dark and deserted.

“Don”t slow down,” Sloan said. “They could still be behind us. I doubt they turned around.”

“I think we lost them-” I started to say, then suddenly the headlights were behind me again. I sped up, zooming downhill, toward a bridge up ahead. I knew this area; below the bridge was a creek, connecting to Turtle River. It was pretty shallow, but I didn”t want to be speeding over the rickety little two-lane bridge in the dark. I instinctively touched the brake. As I did, the headlights got closer and closer – they were bearing down on us. I could hear the Mazda”s old engine rumbling loudly behind me.

“They”re going to rear end us!” Sloan screamed, and I braced my shoulders, waiting for the impact.

But the car didn”t rear end us. Instead, it got closer and closer, then moved into the center of the road to pass. As the car came up beside me, I looked over, unable to help myself, catching a glimpse of a younger looking man with a hat pulled down low over his eyes. As he passed on my left, the driver suddenly rammed the car into my side of the truck, hard. I”d lost a lot of speed but was still going fast enough to fly off the road. There was no ditch to break our fall, so we propelled forward, down the hill and toward the creek, the old truck screeching as I hit the brakes, trying desperately to stop before impact, Sloan and I both screaming.

As we careened toward the water, I felt a jolt and then heard a loud, metallic smack. The front left of my car had hit one of the huge concrete girders that held up the bridge, my head slamming into the steering wheel and my leg jamming into the dash. I let out a cry of pain. I sat there for a beat, trying to catch my breath, my leg throbbing, and peered out the window to see if the attack was over. The burgundy car gunned its engine and kept going, over the bridge, up the hill, and into the night without slowing.

I sat there, stunned, reeling from the shock and the pain in my head and leg, and felt something wet on my face.

Sloan”s voice was quietly shocked in the darkness. “Stormy, are you okay?”

“I think so,” I said in a shaky voice. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It shook my neck pretty hard. I”ll probably have whiplash in the morning. But I”m fine.”

“I hit my head,” I said, raising a hand to feel the goose egg forming on my forehead. My vision felt blurred; I wasn”t sure if it was a blood pressure thing or from hitting my head. “And my leg is killing me. It got jammed up against the dash.”

“I”ll call 911,” she said, reaching for her phone.

“No.” I reached out a hand to stop her. “Don”t.”

“Why not?” she said. “Somebody just ran us off the fucking road. We”ve had an accident. And you”re hurt! You need an EMT!”

I couldn”t explain why I didn”t want her to call them, only that I didn”t. Luckily, she cussed and threw the phone down. “I don”t have a signal anyway. Fuck. You said your leg is messed up? I guess I”d better get out and walk, go find somebody. We need help down here.”

I looked at my own phone, thinking I could try to call Phillip. But mine was dead too. A no-reception area. “Let me try to start the truck,” I said, putting my hand on the key. “It felt like a hard impact, but I bet it”s still drivable.”

“Are you sure that”s safe?”

I shrugged. “This truck has been rumbling along for a decade. It”s solid as they come. Might as well try.”

To my luck, the old pickup started up with no trouble. I patted the dash, grateful that at least one thing Tess had left behind was doing me some good. I hoped and prayed there was no real damage to the truck, other than the banged-up front end. If I could just get home, get to safety, everything would be okay. Damage could be assessed, and so could our injuries. Phillip would help. He”d make it right, somehow. It had only been fifteen minutes since I”d seen him, but suddenly the desire to be near him was so strong it took my breath away.

“If you can scoot over here, we”ll switch places,” Sloan said. “You shouldn”t drive, not if you”re injured. But maybe we should take you to the hospital first, Stormy. Your head looks bad, even in the dark.”

“Home first,” I said. I wanted to see Phillip. Everything else could wait. I scooted over, gingerly, trying to ignore the screaming pain in my leg, and let her take the wheel.

“Can you drive a stick?” I mumbled, pressing my head against the passenger window, suddenly tired.

“What do you think I am, an idiot?” She laughed, then her voice turned serious. “Stormy. Don”t fall asleep.” She put the truck in reverse and maneuvered it away from the concrete bridge with a loud, metallic screech. I opened my mouth to tell her that there was no chance of me sleeping, not now, and probably not later, but I couldn”t seem to find my voice. My head was in turmoil with the chaos and terror of knowing that someone had just caused me to wreck my truck. Who was after me, and why did they seem to want me dead?