On My Way To You (Broken Love Duet 2)

I laugh out loud when the girl takes us down a community college street and pulls into a pledge house. I bet that pisses him off all the way to fuck and back. As if to prove it, he squeals his tires after the car cuts into the driveway. I keep following him. He slows down and I’m pretty sure he gets a good look at me, but I don’t really care by this point. I’m about done with this game of cat and mouse.

He suddenly turns down a gravel road, and I know he’s waiting to see if I follow him. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself it’s not Dad’s truck following him.

“Surprise,” I murmur, speeding up and following him.

The thing about Dad’s truck is that the son of a bitch spent a fortune making sure it had power and ridiculous add-ons. Well, not so ridiculous when you take in the gigantic push bar, winch, and the souped-up engine. All those things are going to help me tonight. Mitch’s truck has some of the same stuff but cheaper and not as powerful.

I speed up and quickly catch up with him. Another thing about Mitch’s truck is that the tires are shit. As he pushes down on the accelerator, his tires slip and slide, causing his back end to move all over the place.

When I get close to him, I tap his bumper, causing him to fight for control. I let him straighten back up and then I tap him again—this time a little harder than before. I decide to go around the side of him but as I cross over the line to do that, I see an oncoming car, so I get back behind him. Once it passes, I wait until it’s out of sight, and then speed back up. Mitch had already floored it, but his truck is no match for Dad’s. I catch him and when I do, I cut to the left, getting into the oncoming traffic lane. I get up beside him and make sure he sees me. I smile as he starts yelling. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I answer him easily. I flip him off.

He slams into the side of my truck. I swerve but control it easily. I motion for Mitch to roll the window down. I already have mine down. Mitch doesn’t cooperate, so I slam into him again, making the motion again. He ignores me but slams me so hard that this time I have trouble keeping it on the road. I narrowly miss the guardrail.

“Now, you’ve just pissed me off,” I growl, hitting him back. I don’t give him time to recover. I hit him again and again.

It’s not going to work. I can see that clear enough. I fall back in line behind him. This time, I cut over into the shoulder and try to force him into the guardrail. He swerves like crazy, but I don’t relent. I force him over. Sparks fly as metal hits metal. Mitch and I both are fighting hard as hell to keep our vehicles under control, but I have managed to get him much closer to the edge.

Let’s see how much he enjoys it when it’s him.

The moon is shining bright overhead. It casts an eerie glow over us. I guess what I’m planning wouldn’t be approved by everyone, most likely not by Callie. I probably should have second thoughts, but I can’t even pretend to. Mitch is like a rabid animal that needs to be put down. I’m not letting him breathe the same air as Callie. If I let him go, what happens? They slap him on the wrist. It’s possible they put him in jail, but he’d be out in no time. Mitch can work the system like no one else. They’d suspend his sentence or let him out for good behavior, whatever the fuck they do these days. Then, he’d be out terrorizing Callie again.

I can’t let it happen.

I just can’t.

With that in mind, I swerve harder, pushing him even closer to the edge of the road. His tire blows, the pop ringing out like a damn gun. Mitch fights the wheel, but ultimately, he hits the guard rail. The sound of screeching metal surrounds me as I slow down and come to a stop. Mitch’s truck finally comes to a stop, but it’s clear he’s not driving out of here in the thing. Steam is rising from under the hood. He has a flat and the side I’ve hit is caved in around that tire. The fender’s metal is bent to the point that I’m pretty sure it’s the reason Mitch’s tire bit the dust in the first place.

I pull up just a little. Then, I curl around the truck—right in the middle of the road—until my headlights are facing his truck. The thing isn’t running anymore—whether it’s because he cut it off or because it died, I have no idea and could care less. I turn mine off, too, but leave the lights shining on the bastard. He starts to move behind the wheel. He’s trying to scramble around to get close to the window.