Set the Record Straight (Outlaw #2)

Chapter 1 James

James

In horror, my eyes dart to the rearview mirror as an old truck barrels toward my back bumper.

Instinct takes over, and I slam the accelerator, twisting the steering wheel hard to the left.

Gravel spits from my tires as my car lurches forward, but my reaction is too little, too late.

The truck slams into me, and the impact propels my Corvette into the intersection.

Before I can take a breath, an SUV rockets through their green light and clips my left rear quarter panel, sending my car flying.

The world spins.

Metal screams.

Glass shatters.

Then, as quickly as it started, it ends in a bone-jarring crunch against the guardrail.

Holy shit.

My fingers clamp around the steering wheel in a death grip as I mentally take stock of my body, checking for injuries.

When I finally pry my hands free, I flex my fingers and rotate my wrists, grateful everything seems in working order.

I have some small cuts and scratches from flying glass and probably some bumps and bruises from getting thrown around.

I’ll be stiff and sore, sure, but nothing’s broken, and that’s a relief, because as a drummer, I make my living with my hands.

When I push open the car door, it sticks, groaning in protest. Over the past few months, I’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars, and almost as many hours, fixing up this 1969 Corvette Stingray. I rebuilt it piece by piece, and now it’s probably totaled.

The four-lane county highway isn’t busy, which makes the situation even more bizarre. What are the odds of these three vehicles converging on this road at the same time? If I weren’t so cynical, I’d think it was fate. But I am, so I guess it’s probably just bad luck.

The driver of the SUV rushes to my side. He’s young, likely still in high school, and sporting a terrified expression. “Oh my God, are you okay? I’m so sorry, sir. You came out of nowhere and—”

I hold up a hand, silencing him. “I’m fine, kid. You okay?”

My delivery is gruff. I’m not the friendliest person on my best day, so when my latest car restoration project just got destroyed with me in it, I’m a little more sour than usual.

The kid nods, stammering, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I just—I had a green light. I thought you were stopped.”

“Kid, take a breath. It wasn’t your fault. I got rear-ended and pushed out into the intersection.”

As those words leave my mouth, I turn my head to look at the truck, and the driver, who caused the accident.

The truck is old. Not vintage old, like my Corvette, but old as in an ancient rust bucket with more dents and dings than canned goods contaminated with botulism.

The front bumper hangs on by a thread, and shattered glass from the broken headlights litters the ground.

Smoke billows out from under the crumpled hood, emitting an ominous hissing noise.

That’s when I realize the driver is still in the car. Damn, that can’t be good.

“Call 911 and tell them there’s been a wreck,” I holler over my shoulder to the teenager. Jogging to the truck, I wrench open the door to find a young woman hunched over the steering wheel.

“What the hell happened back there?” I bark.

Her eyes shine, but there’s a defiant tilt to her chin, like she’s determined not to shed her tears or show any sign of weakness. But then, her composure cracks, and a single sob breaks free from her throat as tears spill over, leaving wet tracks on her cheeks.

Fuck, I’m such an asshole.

I don’t have a lot of experience with women. Growing up, it was just my dad, my little brother, and me. And as an adult, I’ve chosen to keep my relationships casual and short-term.

Can’t get hurt if you don’t let anyone close to you.

I’m at a loss. How do I deal with the blubbering woman who’s still sitting in her smoking truck?

My eyes dart around the interior. It’s overflowing with stuff.

Like she’s playing a losing game of Tetris, there are boxes stacked on top of one another in the backseat, and the front seat is filled with an assortment of bags, toppled over from the crash, spilling their contents.

Clothing, books, photo albums, knickknacks, pillows, blankets, and snacks. Lots of snacks.

Shit, she must be moving. Hope she didn’t have anything breakable in those boxes.

Wrangling my emotions, I temper my voice, and ask, “Are you hurt?” When she doesn’t respond, I raise my head to the heavens, willing God to grant me patience. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Georgie.”

I furrow my brow in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Georgie. My name is Georgie.” Her piercing blue eyes find mine again, and her lip trembles. “I’m so sorry.” After half a second, she adds, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’m scared.”

The words hit somewhere low in my chest. She looks so damn young, so helpless, and I hate how something in me stirs, protective and urgent.

Her round face is ashen except for the hint of color on her cheeks and her rosy lips. Tears cling to her eyelashes as her worried gaze holds mine.

My voice softens, hoping I can get her to stop the waterworks. “Hey, hey,” I chide. “You need to calm down.”

She hiccups with a glower that isn’t the least bit intimidating. “Don’t ever tell a woman to calm down.”

“Are you hurt, Georgie?”

Her hand flutters to the side of her head, and when she withdraws her hand, it’s smeared with blood. Sweeping her hair off her face, I see a gash and a nasty purple bruise blossoming across her left temple that was hidden by her bangs.

Looking at the car’s interior, I realize the airbags didn’t go off. Or more than likely, this hunk of metal was built well before airbags were a standard safety feature.

Her chin wobbles. “I—I’m okay, I think. Just feeling a little light-headed.”

“Let’s get you out of the truck.”

I push the truck door open as wide as it will go and slip my arm around her waist.

When she stands, I see it. My eyes go wide.

“Shit.”

The baggy sweatshirt hid the swell of her stomach when she was slumped over, but now… now there’s no missing it.

My attempt at keeping the dawning horror out of my voice is unsuccessful when I gasp, “You’re pregnant.”