71. Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-One
Mac
I’ve never stolen a set of keys so damn fast in my life.
The bowl they were in rattles as the door slams behind me and I’m on the garage level before I can take a full breath.
Come over.
Yes. All the way yes.
I click the unlock button on the fob until the car it belongs to beeps—Leo’s Audi—and I’m diving into the driver’s side at the same time Peach runs after me.
I’m laughing my ass off as I shift to drive and the momentum is shutting Peach’s door for him.
“Where’s the fucking fire, Mac? Holy shit.”
My pants.
Snickering, I bank the exit with a turn that leaves burnt rubber behind me and squeal right passed a line of vans and beater cars trying their best to blend in. They don’t mingle at all, and I don’t know why the paparazzi even try anymore. We know they’re there. They get what they get. Anna, the band’s media specialist, handles the rest.
Which is why I’m not at all surprised when headlights fill the rearview mirror a little too close.
“Circle the block,” Peach mumbles and passes me a pair of aviators from the glove box.
“Yup,” I murmur and swallow back the burn of disappointment.
I will not let this temper my mood.
Having the tailgater doesn’t change the fact that not only did I fall asleep with Jordan last night, he also asked me out on a date this morning.
A fuckin’ date!
The man that I have loved for nearly a decade … is waiting for me.
Come over.
I take the sharp left across traffic without a signal and nearly clip a parked car in the process. The street narrows and I have to swerve around some jackass opening their car door streetside while I’m flying past.
When I glance at the rearview and catch the thrown-up hands, I shake my head.
Only to have to swallow back a wave of dread that rolls over me.
“Take the next left.”
I shake my head.
“They’re back, Peach.”
“Shit.”
The bodyguard turns between the seats to look behind us and jerks out to grab the back of my seat when I take the crest of a cross street too fast.
“Go right,” he demands. “Right now.”
I tap the brakes.
Turn the wheel.
The car goes right and keeps going right until we’re losing traction and spinning and it’s the flash of blinding LED headlights that have me pulling the wheel and slamming the gas.
I’ll always choose you .
I jerk at the reminder of Jordan’s words and tap the brakes too soon.
Come over .
There’s a crunch and we jolt forward.
What if?
My foot is on the brake, nearly standing on the pedal, but it does nothing to stop the momentum of both cars from skidding into oncoming traffic.
What if I don’t make it?
“Mac! Watch out! ”