Page 122 of The Wild Card

I try Gavin next. It rings four times, then goes to voicemail. He’s probably on a date. Or ignoring me. Both are equally likely.

My thumb hovers over Crew’s name.

Things have been… weird. We still live together, still share the same kitchen and the same hallway and the same air. But we don’t talk. Not really. Polite nods in the morning. Careful distance whenever we’re in the same room, which isn’t all that often. Two people pretending they don’t notice each other, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

I shouldn’t call him. We’re not together. He made that clear.

But it’s dark, and this neighborhood makes my skin prickle, and my phone is about to die.

I text him instead. Maybe he won’t see it. My car broke down. Corner of Lawton and 4th. Tried Sadie and Gavin. No answer. Sorry.

I stare at the screen, watching the battery tick down to 7%. Then 6%.

Headlights wash over my car.

A blue Nissan pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, and a guy leans out—thirties, baseball cap, smile that’s a little too wide.

“Need some help, sweetheart?”

“No, I’m good.” I keep my voice light. Casual. “Someone’s already on their way.”

“You sure?” He’s already opening his door, stepping out. “I could take a look. Or give you a ride somewhere.”

“Really, I’m fine. I think my boyfriend’s coming.”

The word scrapes against my throat.

The guy doesn’t leave. He leans against his car, arms crossed, watching me.

“I’ll wait with you then. Keep you safe.”

Something cold crawls up my spine.

I look down at my phone and type fast, hands shaking slightly:

Guy stopped to “help.” Won’t leave. Creepy. Blue Nissan, Texas plates, KRV-something. Just in case.

The response is immediate.

WTF

Then, Do NOT get in that car.

Then, I’m 12 minutes out.

I clutch the phone like a lifeline. The guy is still standing there, still watching, still smiling that too-wide smile.

“Boyfriend coming?” he asks.

“Any minute now.”

“Funny. You’ve been sitting here a while.”

My heart pounds. Still 6% battery.

I keep my eyes on the road, willing headlights to appear. The seconds tick by tortuously.

Then—finally—the rumble of an engine. Headlights cutting through the dark.