Sighing deeply, I lean forward, shoving my left leg in first. It fits. Barely. Gripping the car roof, I squeeze inside, freezing as pain shoots through my ribs like lightning.
“You okay?” Her gentle voice makes the pain worse.
“Fine,” I growl, not needing her concern right now. It only complicates things. I force myself in, knees jammed against the dashboard, head brushing the ceiling, feeling like a giant in a dollhouse.
She’s watching me with soft, worried eyes.
“Drive,” I order in a sharp tone.
“You need to buckle up.” She nods at the seatbelt behind me.
“I don’t.”
“You do,” she insists, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I can’t. The belt will crush my ribs.”
“Sorry.” She winces as her face pales. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Not now,” I cut her off. Not when I’m half alive and still pissed she showed up tonight. Spying on me, risking her life to join a fucking sex club. “Drive.”
She stares for a moment, then jams the key into the ignition. I forget some cars still need keys, and a relic like this one sure does.
She leans back and rummages through a bag hidden behind her seat, pulling out a white cloth that she pushes into my hands. “Take this. You’re bleeding all over Betty.”
I take it and press it against the cut on my brow. Cuts in this location bleed like motherfuckers, and if you get this during a fight, say goodbye to your vision.
Thirty seconds into the drive, I wish we’d taken my car. I’m one breath from passing out from pain or muscle cramps. My legs are folded like origami, and I hope I can get out without looking like a stuck cricket, embarrassing myself further.
The engine sputters pathetically every few minutes while city lights blur past the cracked windshield. At one particularly loud groan, I wince, expecting Betty to give its last breath. But no, it lurches forward, Bea picking up speed like she’s outrunning wolves while the car rattles over uneven pavement.
“Trying to finish what the guy in the ring started?” I snap, gripping the seat as the car jerks and my pain flares anew.
She sighs, frustrated, but doesn’t slow; her hands are still tight on the wheel. “It’s not that bad. Relax.”
It’s bad. Very fucking bad. If I weren’t crammed in, I’d be flying around like a pinball. The suspension is shot, and every bump feels like a hammer to my bruises.
Rather than die in this Fiat, I reach for the seatbelt. Another sharp turn presses my side into the car door, and I suppress a groan, wrestling the belt on. It squishes my bruised ribs, and I grit my teeth, sweat beading on my forehead. I’ll pass out from pain soon, and nothing could be more embarrassing than fainting in front of her from a boo-boo.
I try to block out the pain, but every turn, every pothole sends another jolt. Of pain and anger. Why her? Why tonight? The warehouse was packed with rough types—fighters nursing grudges, bidders with deep pockets and deeper secrets. She could have been collateral in some petty rivalry.
What was she thinking? Of all nights to follow me, she picks tonight, when I was on edge from the call, and the fight was supposed to be my outlet. The ring is my escape, where I control the chaos. But she shattered that, her wide eyes meeting mine mid-punch, distracting me at the worst moment.
Any other night, I’d have kept a cooler head, maybe even laughed it off later. But not now, not with her safety on the line.
“Jesus, Bea,” I start, gripping the overhead handle. “Can you slow down? This isn’t a race.”
She doesn’t. If anything, she speeds up, staring ahead, fuming, her jaw set in a stubborn line. That defiant look that makes me want to—what? Kiss her? Throttle her? Pull over and shake some sense into her, then pull her close and?—
No. That’s dangerous territory.
This isn’t good. She’s under my skin, and I can’t afford distractions. Not with the Newside project on the line, family expectations, and this secret life I’ve built to cope.
The car hits a pothole, and pain shoots through my side like open fire. I grit my teeth, trying to focus on it instead of how herlips press together when she’s pissed, or how she pushes her hair back, frustrated, the strands catching the passing streetlights. She’s beautiful in her anger, fierce and unyielding, and it only fuels my confusion.
This drive’s given me two things: extra bruises and the decision that Bea needs a driver. She absolutely cannot be trusted behind a wheel—too reckless, too impulsive, just like her decision to tail me tonight. And when we get to her place, I’m confronting her about this spying bullshit and the sex club membership—whether I’m ready for her answers or not. Because if I don’t, this tension between us might explode in ways neither of us can handle.
28
