Page 100 of Midnight Curfew

The cars close in, and we’re going to have to dump the cart in a minute.

Trace’s phone rings, and he answers it, holding it up. “Yeah?”

“They are closing in,” Army says over the speakerphone. “And they have nothing better to do tonight. Got themselves a little frat boy militia that’s practically masturbating at how important they feel, hunting you dipshits down.”

“Yeah, they’re on us,” I chime in.

“Keep them trailing as long as possible,” Army instructs. “When you’re out of road, jump ship.”

“And go where?” Trace blurts out.

“Out of sight,” Army barks, authority lacing his words more and more after he became a police officer. He sounds like Macon now. “One of you is fucking someone that can hide you till morning.”

“I’m not that close to anyone I’m screwing,” I retort.

Trace chuckles.

Iron looks at me. “What about the school?”

I arch a brow. “That’s the first place Callum will look.”

He knows I have keys.

An engine roars behind me, and I glance back, seeing both black sedans charging us. I suck in a breath. They can go a lot faster than us. They’re going to run us off the road.

Milo’s BMW advances, revving on our asses.

“Shit,” Iron grits out.

“We gotta go, man,” Trace tells Army.

He hangs up, Iron looking back at me. “The truck is parked in the alley behind Lucinda’s,” he says.

The dress shop downtown?

“We’ll meet there,” Trace instructs.

Iron starts to slow, horns honking behind us, Jerome’s car swerving toward Milo’s and their lights glaring at us.

“Don’t get caught,” I tell my brothers.

Iron bounds over the curb and onto the sidewalk, all of us leaping from the golf cart as it crashes into some hedges. Milo’s car rams into the back of it, and I hear a growl behind me, “What the fuck are you doing?”

But I’m running before I can tell who Callum’s shouting at.

Are they trying to kill us?

We all race up a driveway. Trace’s favorite little cottage on Willow Glen, whose lawn he used to mow, glows with the gaslight lantern next to the front door. The elderly snowbirds living there won’t be back till November, and we could hide in there. He still has a key.

It’s best to stay on the run, though.

My brothers leap the wooden fence, and I follow, landing on the other side.

“Split up!” Trace yells, and I watch Iron scale the next fence on the other side of the cottage’s pool, while Trace cuts through a tree line, into the neighbor’s yard.

I let them go.

Peering through the slits in the wood panels, I watch Callum—in his car—back out onto the street, his eyes fixed on the direction we ran.