Tires squealed, and the man who was thrown off yelled, but all of it was drowned out by the somewhat eerily upbeat sound of my happy playlist blasting through the speakers.
“Okay. Okay,” I told myself, feeling the need to hear my own voice, thinking it might ground me as I put the car into drive, heading out of the lot. “It’s alright,” I added, trying to take a deep breath that trembled through my chest. “You’re alright.”
For a long couple of minutes, it seemed like I was, too.
Until a crash, a jolt, the sound of crunching metal, my head slamming back against my headrest, the shocked scream that escaped my lips.
The backend of my car fishtailed hard as my hands grabbed the wheel tighter, trying to stop it from spinning.
By the time my foot remembered to hit the brake, I was in the opposite direction, staring down the car that had hit me.
For a moment there, I had been freaked that, in my panic, I had ran a red or skipped a stop sign, had caused an accident on top of it all.
But one glance out my windshield said something else entirely.
Because there were two men in the front seat, both in masks, one holding a white tee to his cheek, steadily soaking through with blood.
“Shit shit shit shit,” I hissed, throwing the car into reverse, slamming on the gas. Praying their damage was worse than mine, I peeled off, taking every other backroad I knew, trying to make sure I wasn’t caught up with.
There was one simple rule to follow when you were being chased while driving, one that everyone knew, that everyone told themselves they would obey should they find themselves in the situation.
Drive to the police station.
It was an easy one to remember, even easier to implement so long as you didn’t live in the boonies.
Drive to the police station.
They could stop anyone after you; they could get you safe; they could get you medical treatment for the screaming headache and the trickle of blood down your cheek.
That was where you were supposed to go.
Yet I drove right past it.
A few streets down.
To a secluded cul-de-sac.
To a familiar driveway.
To a house lit from the inside.
Inviting me in.
Promising its own kind of safety.
I barely remembered to put the car into park, and didn’t even bother cutting the engine or closing the door as I flew out of it, racing up the path, throwing open the front door that I was never so grateful to still find unlocked.
“Lincoln!”
The sound of my own voice was foreign to me. Shrill, ear-splitting, desperate.
I never before truly understood the concept of a sound being ‘blood-curdling’ until I heard it in my own voice as I stood there.
It was seconds, surely, before the thud of feet on the stairs got louder and louder as they descended, but my hyperactive brain felt like it was in slow motion as he finally appeared, eyes huge, mouth hung open in shock.
“Gemma?” he asked, tone a whisper before his head jerked, trying to shake off his surprise, trying to slip into professional mode. “Gem, what happened?” he asked, voice louder, stronger.
Strong enough that I knew I was safe enough to be weak, to fall apart.
Throwing myself into his arms, I did.
“He… He… He was in my apartment. They hit my car,” I added, burying my face in his neck as my body trembled so hard that my legs refused to hold me.
“It’s alright. You’re alright,” he assured me, arms wrapping me up. Tight enough that I couldn’t breathe. But this time, I found comfort in that. “I need more than that, Gem. I know you’re freaked out, but I need more than that. Did they follow you here?”
“I don’t think so. I… I took the backroads.”
“Okay. But we can’t stay here,” he added, giving me a harder squeeze before peeling me away, half holding me up by my arms.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Or if they have a tracker on your car. Or what the hell kind of danger you are in. We need to get you to the office.”
With that, he released me. And I was lucky enough that my legs decided to hold me as he veered away from me, going behind his TV cabinet, nearly knocking the TV on the ground in his haste to grab something behind it.
A gun.
As a rule, I hated guns. I didn’t like what they represented. I didn’t like the ugliness they could bring out in people. I didn’t like the big holes they could put in human bodies.
Yet in that moment, I had never been so thankful that they existed, that one was in the hands of someone trained to use it properly, that he could keep me safe with it.
“Okay. Come on. We’re taking your car,” he added, going to the door, glancing out, before reaching for my hand, seeming to sense there was no way I was going to be able to follow without some help.