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WANTED BY THE FBI
FOR DRUG CONSPIRACY
REWARD UP TO $25,000
I lose my balance and blink in amazement. Drugs? What drugs? What fucking drugs are they talking about? Your homeboy doesn’t even toke up.
Godfrey.
I’m wanted by the fucking FBI, with my face plastered on billboards, probably all over this side of the state, because of Godfrey.
Life closes in on me.
“Stop the car,” I order Prescott, whose face is paler than chalk. She saw it too.
Pea turns her head from side to side, trying to make sure that it’s safe to slide onto the shoulder of the road. I slam my fist against the console.
“Pull the fuck over, Prescott.”
When she does, I open the passenger door, stumble out of the car, and try to take as much air into my lungs as I can. Everyone’s after me. After us. Me? I know what I’m facing. Life in prison or death. But Pea, she doesn’t deserve this kind of crappy life. We need to get out of this place as soon as possible.
Bending down, my hands over my knees, I draw in deep breaths and feel her hand circling my sweaty back with her comforting touch.
“I love you,” is all she says. I take a few moments before turning around to face her.
If we’re being fair, how come this whole world is so unfair to us?
“This is going to shit,” I grit.
“But it’s still going there with you. Nice journey, if you ask me.” Her smile makes me want to breathe regularly again, so I try. This girl is dealing with a missing brother, loser father, MIA mother and a violent abortion. And she still smiles. For me.
I straighten up and hook my arm over her shoulder, pulling her into my chest.
“Cockburn—” I start.
“I know,” she says, cutting me off. “We can’t afford to stay here. We’re taking Godfrey down tonight, then driving to Vallejo to see Preston and then getting on the first flight to London to deal with Camden. We have enough for tickets, right?”
Preston is not in Vallejo, a guttural scream tickles my throat, ready to jump out, but I just nod. “Plenty.”
“Good. Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re getting out of this.”
“You bet your fucking ass we are.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“I love you.”
“I fucking love you too, Baby Cockburn.”
Nighttime falls on California by the time I see the blues and reds bouncing on and off my rearview mirror. I’m trying to remain calm, tapping on the steering wheel to the tune of “Hotel California” on the radio, but inside, I’m a mess.
The police are asking us to pull over, and there’s no way we can get around that.
Nate is sitting next to me, his face blank, the money neatly rolled and stuffed under his seat, well hidden.
Is this how we’re going to end? After everything we’ve been through? A police car stopping us in the middle of the road?
I slide to the shoulder, resting both hands firmly on the steering wheel after combing my blonde hair and sitting straight like a good schoolgirl. Nate’s jaw is clenched and he is looking ahead, on the road.
He can’t break.
I won’t let him.
Not now, after everything we’ve achieved.
A chubby officer in a dark blue uniform with a flashlight saunters from his SUV straight up to my door. He flashes the light in my face, before arranging his belt on his round stomach.
“License and registration,” he commands, his flashlight traveling to Nate’s face. My heart is beating so fast I’m on the verge of breaking down in tears. Instead, I take out my wallet from my backpack and pluck my real California license, under my legitimate name. Nate might be wanted, but I’m still just a groomed kid from Blackhawk to the unsuspecting world.
Although I know that if the cop recognizes Nate, it’s all over for me. I’m going down with him. Nate knows that, too, because his eyes almost roll out of their sockets in amazement when I hand the officer my driver’s license. His hand twitches next to his thigh, and I hope he’s not going to do anything stupid to try and spare me.
I don’t want to be spared, I want to be his.
“Prescott Burlington-Smyth,” the officer repeats my name, looking at my paperwork. I nod curtly. “I need your companion’s ID, too.”
“Sure. Chris?” I smile sweetly to Christopher Delaware. Reluctantly, he pulls out his passport, and I pass it along. The officer’s brows pinch together.
“No driver’s license?”
“Lost my wallet,” Nate fires. “Waiting for a new one to arrive.”
“Funny.” The officer flips through his passport. “I see no stamps on this thing. Brand new. Planning to go somewhere?”
“Mexico,” Nate answers calmly. “Family vacation.”
“Huh.”
This is going bad, I know, but what can we do? Run away? We will only draw even more unwanted attention. Tapping the steering wheel with my fingers and swallowing loudly, I look exactly like I feel—a fireball of nerves, on the verge of exploding.
