Sloane Archer Gets What She Deserves

Chapter 1

SLOANE

The champagne was a mistake. The first two glasses were survival — you don't get through your cousin's wedding sober when your mother keeps making comments about how wonderful it is that someone in this family has their life together.

The third was because I'd just watched my boyfriend of six months disappear behind the winery building with one of the bridesmaids, and when you see something like that, you have two choices.

You either cry or you drink. I chose drink.

The fourth was while I was waiting for them to come back, trying to decide whether I was going to make a scene or be dignified about it.

They took their time. The fifth was when I'd stopped caring about being dignified.

That was two hours ago. Maybe three, I'm not entirely sure. Time works differently when you've just screamed at a man in front of three hundred people.

I shouldn't be driving but I'm fine. I'm a good driver and the road is empty. I'll be home in three and a half hours, maybe less if I push it, and then I can wash this night off me and forget I ever went to Napa.

God, I should have listened. Every single person in my life warned me about Tyler.

My sister said he was a walking red flag.

My best friend said he had the moral compass of a timeshare salesman.

Even my father, who never comments on anything that doesn't involve a balance sheet, took me aside at Christmas and said, "Sloane, I'm not sure about this one.

" And I told all of them that they didn't know him like I did. That he was different with me.

I press harder on the accelerator and the engine responds.

This car is one of the few things in my life that has never let me down.

A yellow Porsche 718 Boxster. Convertible.

My father bought it for my twenty-third birthday, which he missed because he was in Singapore.

It's a guilt car, but I've never held that against it.

The speedometer creeps past ninety and I ease off slightly.

The smooth highway has given way to something rougher, and the headlights pick up cracks and patches in the asphalt.

I passed through Coalinga a while back. Or maybe I went around it, I'm not sure.

I've never paid attention to the Central Valley before.

It's the part you fly over on your way to San Francisco, or the blur outside the window when you're scrolling on your phone and someone else is driving.

There's a sign on the right side of the road, green and reflective.

Welcome to Duster. Population 1,947

Despite my mood, I laugh. Duster. Who names a town Duster?

Who lives in a town called Duster? I try to picture it — a main street with a gas station and a church and probably a diner where everybody knows everybody and nothing ever happens.

Where Friday night is a big deal because someone got a new truck.

The kind of place I would rather die than end up in.

The road narrows and there are no streetlights now, just my headlights cutting a path through the dark. Fields on one side, a farm on the other.

I reach for my phone on the passenger seat, curious to see if Tyler has had the decency to at least send me an apology.

He hasn't. He's probably in bed with the bridesmaid by now, telling her the same things he told me.

You're different. I've never felt this way.

You make me want to be better. The complete Tyler Ashworth starter pack.

The pothole comes out of nowhere and my right front tire hits it so hard that the whole car lurches.

The steering wheel yanks to the side and I grab it with both hands but I'm overcorrecting, pulling too far left, and then I'm off the road completely and there's a fence in the headlights, coming at me fast. I slam on the brakes but it's too late.

The impact is loud and jarring as the airbag explodes in my face and everything goes white.

For a moment, I don't move. My ears are ringing. There's powder on my face from the airbag, my nose hurts, and I can taste blood. I'm shaking, breathing hard.

I'm not hurt, I think. I check — hands, arms, face, neck. Everything moves. Only a nosebleed. I take off my seatbelt and push the airbag aside. There's a strange noise.

I've driven through a fence and into the side of a wooden building. Some sort of shed or outbuilding. The left side of it is smashed open where my car went through, and the headlight — only one of them is still working — illuminates splintered wood and scattered debris.

And then the noises grow louder.

Snuffling, grunting. Shapes appear in the gap I've made —low, moving — escaping through the broken wall. They snort as they go, and it takes me several seconds to understand what I'm looking at.

Pigs. I've just released an entire building full of pigs.

They're trotting across the dirt in front of my car, some heading for the farmhouse, others fanning out into the night. A big one stops right in front of my hood and looks at me before waddling off.

A security light snaps on, flooding the area with white light. And then another light comes on in the house at the end of the long driveway.

Fuck. Someone's woken up.

My heart is hammering. Someone is about to see me, and I've been drinking, and this is — this is very, very bad.

I try the engine. The car still works. It moves when I put it in reverse, slowly, scraping against something, and I pull back from the building and turn the wheel while the one remaining headlight sweeps across the damage.

It's bad. The whole side of the outbuilding is caved in. The fence is gone — just posts and splinters and a gap wide enough for livestock to walk through. Which they are doing, right now, freely and enthusiastically.

The front door opens and a figure steps out.

The right thing to do is to get out and say, I'm so sorry, I hit a pothole, I lost control. Are the animals okay? Let me help fix this. Take responsibility. But I already have a DUI to my name and I can't risk losing my license again.

Struggling to think straight, I put the car in drive. The Porsche limps back onto the road and I drive. This night was already the worst night of my life and I've just made it so much worse.

Miles pass on the dark road and I'm driving much slower now.

Finally, my pulse starts to come down. Nobody saw my face and whoever came out of that house couldn't have seen my license plate from such a distance.

I'll find out whose property it was and send them a check tomorrow. Money always fixes things.

A police car comes from the opposite direction. I see it approaching and grip the wheel tighter. My whole body goes rigid.

Please don't stop. Just keep driving. It passes me, and I exhale.

Then the brake lights come on.

In my mirror I watch the patrol car slow, stop, and make a U-turn. Of course. I'm driving through the middle of nowhere at one in the morning with one headlight.

The blue and red lights come on, and the siren gives a single short whoop. My stomach drops so fast I think I might be sick. I pull over and the police car pulls up behind me, the headlights blinding in my mirrors.

A door opens. Boots on gravel. A flashlight beam sweeps across my car and the officer appears at my window. He's middle-aged with a round face and a neatly trimmed mustache. The flashlight beam moves from the damage to me.

"Evening, ma'am. Looks like you've had some trouble tonight. Are you hurt?"

"Hello, officer. I hit a pothole," I say in a shaky voice. "The road was — I hit a pothole. A big one." I touch my nose. "But I'm fine. Just a little nosebleed."

He nods, then shines the flashlight along the front of the car. "You're missing a headlight there. Can't have you driving around like that — it's not safe, and it's not legal either."

"Of course. I'll get it fixed first thing in the morning, I promise."

"I appreciate that, ma'am, but that's some serious damage for a pothole." He moves the flashlight beam back to my face. "Have you been drinking tonight?"

For one wild, desperate second, I think about saying no and smiling and hoping he'll believe me and let me go.

"I had a glass at a wedding," I lie. "Just one, earlier this evening. Hours ago."

"I see." He holds out his hand. "License and registration, please."

I dig through the glovebox, find the registration, and pass it over with my license. He carries them back to the patrol car. The wait is unbearable. When he comes back, he hands them through the window.

"Says here you have a prior DUI, Ms. Archer. I'm going to ask you to step out of the vehicle, please."

My legs are unsteady when I slide out and stand.

"I need you to take a breathalyzer test," he says, holding out the device. I look at it and I think about my high-profile parents, Tyler Ashworth, the pigs scattering into the darkness, and the figure on the porch. If only I could turn back time.

I blow.

The officer reads the number. He doesn't show it to me and he doesn't have to. I can see it on his face — the slight shift, the confirmation of what he already knew.

"Ma'am, I'm placing you under arrest for driving under the influence. You have the right to remain silent."

The rest comes in fragments. My rights. Cold metal against my wrists. The click of handcuffs. The back seat of the patrol car. My Porsche sitting on the side of the road, broken and empty.

I'm fucked. Well and truly fucked.