Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

“Hey, so,” I tread lightly, messing with my phone in my palm. “Did you meet everyone at the boys home?”

Micah shrugs. “I met a couple. I guess some were out late, some are gone on jobs and shit. Be back in a week or something.” He scowls. “Why, you not meet any of the girls?”

“No, yeah, I did. All of the ones who were interested in laying eyes on the new girl anyway, the rest stayed in their rooms.” Micah laughs. “I was just... wondering—” About my brother.

We begin rolling across the bridge, but as we do, a car cuts us off, and Micah’s forced to slam on the brakes.

My body flies forward, but the seat belt catches me. Unfortunately, not my drink, and then my entire chest burns with steaming cocoa.

I gasp, pulling at it, and Micah turns to me with wide eyes.

“Shit!” He throws the thing in park, and turns to me, but as my head lifts, I realize the car that cut us off has stopped.

I hit his arm, frowning forward. “Micah...”

“I know, here let me help. I—”

“No. Micah... look.”

His eyes pop up to mine, then snap out the front window.

The car rolls backward, toward us.

Micah tenses. “What the fuck?”

“Go.”

He doesn’t move.

“Micah, go.” The car stops inches in front of us.

Micah quickly throws the thing in reverse, but as the rearview dash cam pops up on the screen, a low curse leaves him.

And shit is right.

Another car is behind us.

“We’re blocked in.”

As if over his initial surprise, Micah throws the thing in drive, his eyes hard on the road. “Not for long.”

He inches forward, his bumper teasing against the car ahead of us, but that car, he backs up, its tires screeching. So, Micah throws it in reverse, and slams into the one behind us.

The front one comes back, hitting against us right as a third car, much larger, flies up beside us.

I scream as it takes out the mirror, getting as close as it possibly can.

My heart begins to pound in my chest, and I try to breathe through it.

Micah guns it, driving the car behind us back, then flies forward at a bit of a curve, effectively driving a small wedge between the two front cars and we manage to slip through, but within seconds, all three are on our ass.

“Shit,” I hiss, the pressure at my temples doubling.

I throw my seat belt off and Micah cuts wide eyes toward me.

“What the hell?” he shouts, gripping my arm when he takes a sharp turn. “Sit down and buckle. If we wreck, you’re out the fucking window.”

“There’re three cars to our one, Micah!” I shout, throwing myself into the back seat. “We’re getting penned in again.”

I reach over the third row, my hand shooting up to grip the handles at the top when Micah swerves again.

With one hand, I yank off the siding and voila!

Emergency road kit.

I dig through it, my hand meeting a cool piece of metal right as the car comes to a screeching halt.

I fly over, hitting my back on the side panel, a crowbar now in my hand.

“You good?!” Micah shouts.

“Yeah.” I tear out the wrench, my eyes wide when I look out the back door. “Oh shit. Micah, they opened the door.”

“Up here too. Fuck!”

I spin around, and sure as hell, two people with masks over their faces climb from the car in front, the drivers of the cars behind us doing and wearing the same.

My vision begins to fog, but I fight through it and spin, holding one of the weapons out for Micah.

He grips it, looking from me quickly and back.

Slowly, they round the car, one on each side of our doors, one at each of the back doors.

They bang wildly on the windows.

Micah tries to hit the gas and fly forward, but the car in front of us must have had another person inside, because they sensed it and rev back at the same time.

The guy beside his door hops back, and Micah sighs. Cutting a quick glance to me.

“Get in the driver’s seat, Brielle. Get the fuck out of here.”

“What—”

He throws his door open and jumps out.

He lifts the weapon, going straight for the guy, but he forgets to watch his back, and is quickly wrapped up and taken to the ground.

“Shit!”

I hop over the seat, locking the door right as another one is slamming his palms against it, tearing at the handle.

The guy’s head tilts like the freak from The Purge, and he slams a hand on the window, but then his arm disappears behind his back, and I blink rapidly, my pulse far too erratic to stop the blood flow to my brain.

His hand flies out, and on reflex, I flinch.

But that hand, it doesn’t hold a gun or knife or whatever I came up with in my head.