While hiding in the long grass on the side of the road, I brace my stance and hold my revolver in front of my body. Approximately twenty heart-thrashing seconds later, the dark blue sedan pulls down the deserted street and parks a few spaces behind Brandon’s car.
A cold breeze flicks the ends of my hair up as I sprint to the blue sedan with my gun pointed at the driver’s side front window. My heart is beating wildly against my chest, and my thighs are quaking. My shakiness is from the adrenaline surging through my veins, not fear.
The blue sedan’s engine kicking over and a car door opening resonates through the soundless street. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Brandon standing next to me. He also has his pistol aimed at the vehicle. The shrill of Brandon’s voice commanding the driver to switch off his ignition overtakes the shrieking of my pulse in my ears.
Ignoring our requests, the driver of the sedan reverses and attempts to complete a three-point turn. Overcome with anger, and no longer able to contain the adrenaline surging through my body, I aim my gun at the back right tire. My pistol recoiling is nearly deafening in the quietness of the crisp winter day. A triumphant smirk etches on my mouth when the back tire blows out, and the vehicle’s three-point maneuver crawls to a snail’s pace. Once I shoot out the left back tire, the assailant’s getaway vehicle halts in the middle of the road.
In silence, Brandon and I cautiously approach the stationary car. The patters of our feet on the asphalt is the only sound heard in the eerily quiet morning. Once I reach a close but safe distance from the car, I spread my feet further apart to strengthen my posture before adjusting my pistol, so the barrel faces the driver’s side window.
“Slowly wind down your window and throw your keys onto the roadside,” I instruct, my voice surprisingly firm for how fast my heart is hammering my ribs. “Or the next time I shoot, I won’t aim for a tire.”
Time stands still when the heavily tinted driver’s side window slides down. A vibrant-colored, tattooed arm with a set of keys dangling from its index finger pops out of the opening a short time later. With a swift flick of the wrist, the keys plummet onto the asphalt, mere feet from the driver’s side door.
Brandon’s eyes lift to mine in silent questioning. When I nod, we scurry to the vehicle. My pulse surges through my body, and my hands slick with sweat. I have to keep re-attaching the grip of my gun to ensure I don’t drop it.
My heart stops beating when the familiar drawl of, “Hey, Isabelle,” sounds through my ears. Hugo smiles as his mischief-filled eyes dart between Brandon and me.
After sucking in a nerve-riddled breath that rattles my ribcage, I lower my gun so it is no longer aimed at Hugo’s chest. Brandon’s stance remains solid with his feet planted at the same width as his shoulders, the barrel of his gun still facing Hugo’s chest.
Sensing Brandon’s hesitance, Hugo cranks his neck, and his blue eyes glare at Brandon. “You better point that gun somewhere else before someoneaccidentallygets hurt,” Hugo suggests. “And it won’t be me who ends up injured.” His voice is a threatening snarl.
Brandon’s eyes narrow to a squint as a relentless tick forms in his freshly shaven jawline. Stretching out my hand, I touch Brandon’s forearm. His muscles bunch from my unexpected touch. Shifting my gaze to stare into his eyes, I plea for him to lower his weapon. The gleam that generally clusters in Brandon’s eyes returns before he holsters his gun into the waistband of his trousers.
I turn my infuriating gaze back to Hugo. “Why are you following me?” My voice is groggy and rough since I can no longer contain my uncontrollable anger.
Hugo’s eyes flick from shooting daggers at Brandon to me. Although his eyes are narrowed into thin slits, they're also clouded with genuine remorse. “It’s my job, Izzy,” he informs me, his voice conveying his regret.
The crisp dew-filled air burns my nostrils when I gasp in a sharp breath. “You never got fired, did you?”
Hugo’s broad smile slackens as his shoulders lift into a hesitant shrug. “Isaac did take a swing at me, and he may have said a few things he didn’t mean, but no, I never got fired.”
“You son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath.
My fists curl into tight balls as my chin trembles.
Hugo’s full lips tug higher. “It’s all that gray, Izzy.”
“What about the intense stare down between you and Isaac at the record company last week?” My voice conveys my utter confusion.
Hugo’s lips curve into a broad grin. “Isaacprefersme to watch you from a distance,” he says, grinning. “Come on, Izzy, you know what Isaac is like when it comes to any man getting close to you.”
Through squinted eyes, I glare evilly at Hugo. Brandon watches the exchange between Hugo and me. His brows are pulled together, and his head is bouncing back and forth between us.
“Yeah, she does know what Isaac is like. That is why she needs to get as far away from him as possible.”
Hugo’s eyes snap to Brandon. “You can’t fight fate, Blondie,” he declares before winking cockily.
My eyes viciously dart back to Hugo. He said that to me last week when he was pretending to be my friend. “So for the past week, the whole,I’m your friend, Izzy,was that part of your job description or you fighting for fate?”
I knew I hesitated for a reason when I introduced Hugo to Brandon yesterday. I should have trusted my intuition. It’s never steered me wrong before.
“I’m still your frien—”
“Don’t even go there, Hugo. You arenoteven close to being my friend,” I interrupt through gritted teeth.
Hugo has a rough exterior, but the regular cheeky sparkle in his blue eyes dampened from my harsh words. “Everything I said the past week was true, Izzy,” Hugo insists, his tone low. “Whether you want to believe it or not, I'm your friend. Everything I’ve been doing is to help you.”
Out of the blue, the ring of a cell phone startles me so much my heart leaps into my chest, and I jump into the air.
