The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

She’s going to get herself shot if I don’t move it.

My eyes flick past the twisting hands, ignoring the single loud shot that must punch through their roof, straight to the screaming driver—that Remington asshole, I see.

He looks like he’s losing his shit, roaring panicked words in the cramped space, highly distracted.

It won’t take much.

Just a little nudge to make him lose control, lose speed, lose traction.

I swallow hard. It’s a gamble because Shelly could get hurt.

Still, if I don’t get that gun out of her face ASAP...

Hercules growls like an overprotective dog. He knows what’s coming.

He understands.

“Brace,” I whisper.

I wonder if it’ll be my last word as I foot-punch the gas again, tearing out in front of them, and open my window to fire several quick shots at the semi’s hood.

The noise is deafening—and it works.

The semi slows in a singing shriek of tires, careening toward me, out of control—then it’s like the whole rig gets yanked back by some invisible tether.

I stomp my brakes, slowing, watching that serpent of a truck fishtail wildly and go over into what I can only pray is shallower ground than the ditch I was in a minute ago.

I’m right behind them, plodding after the hauler to the edge of a flat farm field where we both roll to a stop.

The force nearly rips my arm out of my socket when I pop the door, leaping into the darkness with my nine millimeter.

My ears are still so tattered from the explosive off-road skid of the semi that it suddenly seems eerily quiet.

Then a loud, clear, panicked scream splits the night.

“Shel!” I snarl, running through a plume of dust to the truck’s window.

It’s still open from Hudson’s failed shooting antics. I leap up on the footboard and reach through the window. The monster trucks are catching up to us now, swarming around the trailer, the chopper beating the air loudly as it hovers overhead.

I have to get inside. Get to her. Before they lash out and kill her.

I’m throwing the door open when a head pops up—not hers.

I don’t hesitate as I swing at Hudson’s shocked red face. His head cracks so hard with my impact it spins in the other direction.

“Get out of the way, Shel!” I shout, grabbing the bracket of the side mirror with one hand and the top of the door with the other. I leap off the running board and hoist myself up with a move I haven’t used since bootcamp. As soon as my hands are on top of the truck and I’m dangling, I swing up, plowing through the open window feet first.

A gunshot barks.

I know I’ve been hit by the sickening, familiar thwack! before I feel it.

The fire, the pain, the bite in my thigh confirms it, but that’s not what catapults my heart into my throat.

It’s Shelly’s earsplitting scream.

25

Pig In Clover (Rachel)