When Sparks Fly

“Nah, I can’t make it out; it’s raining too hard.” Her voice has a waver to it, alerting me to the fact that she is most definitely on edge.

I want to take her mind off of the guy tailing her and the bad driving conditions. “What time will you be back tomorrow? I can cook.”

She snorts. “Gonna make me one of your famous grilled cheese sandwiches?”

“I’ll do way better than that. I’ll grill steak and get those double-stuffed potatoes you really like from that place down the street. I’ll do asparagus, even though the stinky pee grosses me out.”

That earns me a chuckle, which means she’s defrosting. There are a few dishes I’ve mastered over the years, and I’ve developed a real knack for grilling. “Can you pick up some of those jumbo garlic shrimp too?”

“For sure. I’ll even get the bacon-wrapped tenderloin.”

“Wow. You must feel pretty damn bad if you’re willing to splurge on the expensive stuff.”

I run a hand through my hair. I need to shower away last night’s bad decisions. “I really am sorry, Ave. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m hazarding a guess your dick was doing the thinking for you.” And the bite is back.

“Yeah, well, this morning when the head on my shoulders cleared, I realized I’d really screwed up.”

“The beer goggles were that thick?” Now she sounds amused.

“Eh, more like I should’ve prioritized my responsibilities better.”

“At least one of us is getting lucky,” she mutters. “Shit. This guy is such an asshole.”

“The one in the white truck?”

“Yeah. What the hell is he doing? Fuck!”

Horns blare and tires screech, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal. There’s a loud bang, and Avery’s shriek makes my entire body break out in a wave of goose bumps.

I shout her name, but there’s so much noise in the background, none of it good, and it scares the living hell out of me. It’s even worse when the metal scraping metal stops and is followed by a painful, terrifying stillness.

“Avery? Babe? You there?” My voice shakes.

I listen carefully and pick up static, horns still blaring, but they seem distant now. And then the softest whimper.

“Ave? You okay? Can you answer me?” I need to call 911, but realize she’s on a freeway, and that means someone else has probably already done that. Besides, I have no idea where exactly she is, and telling emergency services that she’s somewhere between here and Boulder isn’t at all helpful. “I need to call London!” I practically shout into the phone as I jump up off the couch.

I won’t end the call with Avery, not when she’s unresponsive and I have no idea if she’s okay or not. I throw open my door, shove one of my shoes between it and the jamb to keep it from closing, and pound on the one across the hall.

A woman lives there. I wrack my brain for her name. I think she might work in the healthcare field. I always smile and say hi, but she’s in her fifties so I haven’t really spent a whole lot of time chatting her up, since she’s outside of my dating range by about twenty years.

She throws the door open, brows pulled together, frown in place, hair wrapped in a towel, the rest of her covered in a cheetah-print housecoat. Based on her fresh face and lack of makeup, she just got out of the shower.

“Declan?” I had no idea she even knew my name.

“Hey. Hi. Can I borrow your phone? Please.”

She glances at the one I’m holding to my ear.

“It’s an emergency. Avery’s been in an accident and I can’t hang up because I’m on the line with her, with Avery, but I need to call her sister. They track each other on their phones. She’s on the freeway and I need to know where. Please.” The words are stilted and difficult to get out, full of gravel and guilt.

“Oh my God. Of course.” She rushes inside, leaving me standing at the door, unsure if I should follow her in or not.

“Ave, I’m calling London,” I say, even though she hasn’t responded with more than a whimper or a groan so far.

My hands shake, making it tough to pull up London’s contact. I’ve called her a few times over the years, mostly on those rare occasions when Avery accidentally forgets her phone at home and I need to ask her something—like where she put the tongs or if she ate all the bacon again. Fear curls in my stomach like a snake at the possibility that I may never be able to do that again. That the steak I was planning to make for her tomorrow night may never happen. That this phone call could be the very last one I’ll ever have with her. It’s scaring the living hell out of me.