Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Please don’t die. I grip the steering wheel of Chrissy’s old Chevy as I take a curve too fast.
I haven’t even turned the lights on yet.
And the engine doesn’t sound right. Neither do the brakes. The whole thing shudders and groans as I cross the double-yellow.
“God, if you’re up there, I need a guardian angel right now!” I blink through the tears that are fighting to get free.
Not now. I can’t afford to break down. I also can’t afford to think too far ahead. Right now, getting away from the Palace, and not being tailed is all my brain can handle.
Every two seconds I check the mirrors.
Pitch dark road stretches out behind me. Not even a sliver of moon. Which is why it’s hard as hell to drive.
After obsessively watching the rearview for ten seconds, I finally turn on the lights.
Gritting my teeth, I hit the brake to take a turn—one no one would expect me to take because it’s not the most direct road to civilization.
I scream when the pedal goes to the floor. “Oh god!”
It’s too late. The car bounces hard. Heaves into the air and I lose all sense of which way is up until everything comes to a slamming stop. Upside down.
“No!”
I choke on airbag dust, fighting for breath. The reality crashing into me just as hard as the impact from the car wreck.
Dammit. I have to get out of here!
“Oh god,” I groan. The seatbelt is cutting into my chest. My hands are shaking as I try to get free. Everything hurts, my ears are ringing.
Doesn’t matter. I have to get out and run. But first I have to get out of this seatbelt.
Grunting, growling, I try to relieve the pressure so I can unclip it.
“Come on. Come on!”
Finally I wedge my shoe against the dash, lifting myself enough to get the button to release.
Okay. This is working. I’m almost out.
With my heart screaming inside my ribs, I crawl out the shattered window across the pellets of glass.
Ouch. Ouch.
Just call me a pincushion.
My robe snags on the crumpled door, refusing to release when I tug it.
Christ. I can’t win tonight. I shed the Pussy Palace robe—the one crappy item they give you when you start working—leaving it in the wreckage.
Bad idea. They’ll know this was me for sure, but I have more important things to do.
Like run.
But when I stand up, the world tilts. Whoa.
Not stable. It doesn’t help I still have on my dancing shoes.
Holding onto the bottom of the car—which is now in the air—I jerk at the buckle on my left shoe.
A low growling sound makes me stop.
What is that?
I turn, scanning the shadows at the edge of the road. Tall pines stretch up until they disappear into the inky night.
Below, scrubby bushes hug the bases of the trees. The perfect place for wild animals to be stalking their prey.
“Please don’t let it be a werewolf. I can’t take any more bullshit tonight,” I mutter, going back to work on my shoe.
But I hear it again. Louder this time.
Only my brain starts to fire alarms. That’s not an animal. It’s a motorcycle.
“Oh god,” I wheeze, jerking at the strap on my shoe, wincing at the pain shooting through my knees from all the cuts.
The noise grows and grows.
I have to run now, or they’re going to find me.
Less than twenty-seconds later a single headlight slices across my face.
I freeze.
Oh god. Oh god. Whoever it was must have been doing over a hundred miles an hour because I know motorcycles. Grew up around that sound.
They were flying.
Makes sense, some part of my brain says. They were chasing me. My father will not let this go.
Shielding my eyes, I work frantically at the buckle again, cursing under my breath.
The Harley engine cuts out, but the light stays on me, a gigantic shadow crossing the path.
One shoe finally gives. Thank god.
The other…
“Jesus,” a deep male voice whip-cracks across the space. “You’re fucking bleeding.”
I’m also panting, like I’m about to pass out. It’s a very real possibility.
“Stay back!” I shout with my lungs burning, my heart leaping, and my vision filling with spots.
True panic takes hold like I’ve never felt before, my fight or flight reflex shutting down all other function.
Like I’ve been shot out of a gun, I take off for the woods. As fast as one can with a bare foot and one seven-inch heel with plastic fish floating in the bottom.
But he’s on me within ten feet. A gigantic arm bands around my waist, lifting me clean off the ground. “Quit fighting, it will only make me hurt you,” he grits out next to my ear.