Chapter Twenty-Nine
Roadside Assistance
Emmie
Not a slow, graceful death—no warning lights, no sputtering. Just… nothing. One second I’m driving, the next I’m coasting to the curb with a dead engine and a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I try the ignition. Click. Click. Nothing.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Come on.”
Nothing.
I check my phone. 8% battery. Perfect.
I call Sadie. Straight to voicemail. She’s probably on a shift.
I try Gavin next. It rings four times, then goes to voicemail. He’s probably on a date. Or ignoring me. Both are equally likely.
My thumb hovers over Crew’s name.
Things have been… weird. We still live together, still share the same kitchen and the same hallway and the same air.
But we don’t talk. Not really. Polite nods in the morning.
Careful distance whenever we’re in the same room, which isn’t all that often.
Two people pretending they don’t notice each other, pretending it doesn’t hurt.
I shouldn’t call him. We’re not together. He made that clear.
But it’s dark, and this neighborhood makes my skin prickle, and my phone is about to die.
I text him instead. Maybe he won’t see it. My car broke down. Corner of Lawton and 4th. Tried Sadie and Gavin. No answer. Sorry.
I stare at the screen, watching the battery tick down to 7%. Then 6%.
Headlights wash over my car.
A blue Nissan pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, and a guy leans out—thirties, baseball cap, smile that’s a little too wide.
“Need some help, sweetheart?”
“No, I’m good.” I keep my voice light. Casual. “Someone’s already on their way.”
“You sure?” He’s already opening his door, stepping out. “I could take a look. Or give you a ride somewhere.”
“Really, I’m fine. I think my boyfriend’s coming.”
The word scrapes against my throat.
The guy doesn’t leave. He leans against his car, arms crossed, watching me.
“I’ll wait with you then. Keep you safe.”
Something cold crawls up my spine.
I look down at my phone and type fast, hands shaking slightly:
Guy stopped to “help.” Won’t leave. Creepy. Blue Nissan, Texas plates, KRV-something. Just in case.
The response is immediate.
WTF
Then, Do NOT get in that car.
Then, I’m 12 minutes out.
I clutch the phone like a lifeline. The guy is still standing there, still watching, still smiling that too-wide smile.
“Boyfriend coming?” he asks.
“Any minute now.”
“Funny. You’ve been sitting here a while.”
My heart pounds. Still 6% battery.
I keep my eyes on the road, willing headlights to appear. The seconds tick by tortuously.
Then—finally—the rumble of an engine. Headlights cutting through the dark.
Crew’s truck screeches to a stop behind the Nissan.
He’s out before the engine dies, and I’ve never seen him move like this. Controlled. Coiled. Dangerous. This isn’t the Crew who leaves Post-it notes on the coffee maker and argues with Murphy about personal space.
This is Agent Jensen. Holy shit.
The guy takes one look at him—6’3”, shoulders like a wall, a look in his eyes that promises violence—and suddenly remembers somewhere else he needs to be.
“We’re good here,” Crew says.
It’s not a question.
The Nissan peels away so fast the tires squeal.
And then Crew turns to me, and he’s furious.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. He was just—”
“Blue Nissan. License plate. You were sending me evidence.” His voice is tight. Barely controlled. “Like you were about to be murdered.”
“I was being smart—”
“I was twelve minutes away and couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.”
I stare at him.
He’s breathing hard. Jaw locked. Hands clenched at his sides. And for a second—just a second—I see something underneath the anger. Something raw.
“Crew—”
“Get in the truck.”
The drive home is silent. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He hasn’t looked at me once.
“You’re angry,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to drag you into—”
“That’s not why I’m angry.”
I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t. Cool. Great, then. Good talk.
When we pull into the parking garage, he cuts the engine but doesn’t move. Neither do I. We just sit there, the silence thick enough to choke on.
“Twelve minutes,” he finally says. His voice is rough. Quiet. “That’s how long it took me to get there. Twelve minutes where anything could’ve happened, and I was just… driving.”
My chest aches. I want to reach for him. Touch his arm. Tell him I’m okay, that nothing happened, that I’m right here.
But we’re not together anymore. He made sure of that.
“Crew…”
He gets out of the truck before I can finish.
Inside the apartment, Murphy greets us at the door with an indignant meow, winding between our legs like he’s trying to trip us both.
Crew steps around him without a word and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the tap run. A glass fill.
I stand in the hallway, not sure where to go. My room feels too far away. The living room feels too open. Everything feels wrong.
Murphy meows again, louder this time, and head-butts my ankle.
“Yeah,” I whisper, bending down to scratch behind his ears. “I don’t know what to do either.”
From the kitchen, silence. Then the clink of a glass being set down.
I wait for footsteps. For his door to close. For the signal that this conversation—whatever it was—is over.
Instead, I hear his voice. Quiet. Tired.
“Chicken’s in the fridge. If you didn’t eat.”
A plain, unseasoned, meal-prepped chicken breast. God bless this man.
My throat tightens. “Thanks, Crew.”
He has no idea how to say I’m glad you’re safe. But I hear it anyway.
More silence. Then footsteps. His bedroom door closes with a soft click.
Murphy meows.
I sink down onto the floor, back against the wall, and pull the cat into my lap. He tolerates it for approximately four seconds before squirming free, but those four seconds are enough.
I think about Crew, driving in the dark, probably breaking every speed limit, probably white-knuckling the wheel the whole way—for me.
We’re not together. He made that clear.
But he still came.
I don’t know what to do with that.