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“He’s not dead! Don’t say shit like that!”
“The bank is too steep. You’ll hurt yourself traversing it at night. The police are a few minutes out. When they get here—”
My nostrils flared. “Let—me—go, you asshole!”
I struggled against him as I heard his phone drop to the pavement. He wrapped both arms around me, hoisting me off my feet. I cried out for Clint as my voice left me completely. Tears rushed down my cheeks as I tried prying Michael’s arms from around my waist. He carried me back to the car, away from the bike. Away from the bridge. Away from Clint’s body lying on the edge of the riverbank.
“Clint!” I called breathlessly.
“Come on, Rae. Let’s get in the car. This is a crime scene. The police are only a few minutes out.”
“No, Clint. Please. Don’t do this to me, please.”
“I’m sorry, Rae. I’m so, so sorry.”
Michael set me down onto my feet and pinned me against his car. I bashed my head against the glass, only to feel his hand wrap around it. I sobbed out into the night, gazing up at a nighttime sky I’d come to hate as images of my recurring nightmare continued to bombard me. The squealing of tires. The crunching of metal. That dumbass smell of burnt rubber that still lingered in the fucking air.
I drew in a shuddering breath. “It’s my nightmare come true.”
And when Michael didn’t say anything, I knew he’d been thinking exactly that.
How could this have happened? Things were finally going smoothly. Things were finally going well for me and him. I knew what I wanted. I knew what I needed. I knew what I wanted to do with my life and who I wanted to do it with. I’d found someone who got me. Who understood me. A guy who made me feel on top of the world, and absolutely gorgeous in his arms. I found someone who didn’t only leave his judgment of my life at the door, but he literally understood my life. Understood the judgment that came with my life. I finally had everything I could have ever asked for.
Him.
And now, I felt it all slipping through my fingertips.
Michael kept me pinned. “Do you want me to call Allison?”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
I shook my head harder, trying to give my voice a few minutes to return.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
My eyes whipped open as tears streamed down my face. I glared at Michael, hating him for everything he was suggesting. Oh, he wanted to be here now? After being an absolute shitbag for the past couple of weeks? I could have spat in his face. I could have slapped him right across that dumbass, concerned little furrowed brow of his.
But I settled for shaking my head as I leveled him with a DEFCON-5 stare.
“Fair enough. I deserve that.”
I nodded curtly, trying my hardest not to say anything. Trying my best to save my voice so I could keep calling out for Clint. I had to wake him up. As long as Michael was here, he wouldn’t let me down that bank. Yelling was all I had to get him to wake the fuck up and get back here.
Because he couldn't leave me. Not now.
Not when I finally had all I wanted.
42
Clinton
I felt my head pounding. I felt disoriented. For some reason, I felt water rushing over my legs. And I had no idea why. I sniffed the air, groaning as my head pounded with frustration. I felt something sharp underneath my side, prompting me to move. So many things bombarded my senses as I slowly came out of it.
Came out of what, though?
I swallowed hard, tasting the metallic essence of blood. I smelled smoke. And oil. And dirt. Why did I smell oil? What was going on?
