Page 91 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

“Didn’t you hear me banging on your door? I’ve been calling your phone.” She’s angry with me.

“I left it inside. What’s wrong?” I sit up, alert at the tension in her voice.

“Get your purse. Something’s happened to Dex.”

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jeanie

High-Speed Beef vs. Dexter’s Midnight Run

“One minute, the boys and I were at the VIP party having fun, and in the next, the little misfits disappeared. Then Freddie left a cryptic message on my phone saying something about Dex and the ER. And now I can’t get through to anyone, not even the hospital,” Mom says.

I glance at my phone and find several missed calls. They’re from Mom, Freddie, and an unknown number.

“What else did Freddie say?” I ask as we rush down the hall.

“Something about being unconscious and a dance club.”

My heart drops through my stomach and my insides collapse. In all his rage over Roman and me, did Dex finally flip out and go full-on mutiny?

My thoughts race to the worst possible scenario. I think of the times I teased Dex about not being rebellious enough. I thought the joke was harmless. He’s too good a kid. Then I consider the changes he’s made this week. He’s really come out of his shell.

What have I done?

Mom and I race through the lobby to the exit.

“How can I help you, miss?” the doorman asks.

“Taxi? RideShare? We need to get to the hospital,” I say quickly.

“On any other night, it wouldn’t be a problem, but with the Wine Festival . . .” He gestures to several groups of people standing around, glaring at their phones. “They’ve been trying the RideShare app for an hour. I’ve got a guy on Collins Avenue waving at taxis, but no one’s biting.”

“What should we do?” Panicked, I turn to Mom.

Her unsure expression mirrors mine.

“I know!” An alternate plan strikes like lightning. Before Mom can respond, I take off running.

“I’ll catch up,” Mom calls out as she teeters behind me on heels.

In the hotel’s parking lot, the Beefmobile sits under a beam of light like an illuminated billboard. I find the hide-a-key and race to the door. My hands shake as I try to match the key with the keyhole.

Scrambling inside, I click my seat belt and turn the ignition. The Beef roars to life like a spectacle on wheels. Exterior lights kick on. Interior disco lights flash. On the roof, speakers play the shop’s commercial jingle on a loop like an ice cream truck.

Mom climbs into the passenger side and slams her door. “Go!” she yells.

Gripping the wheel tightly, I press the gas. The Beef lurches, driving over the median, taking out several large bushes. Horns honk as I cut off the flow of traffic on the main street and then perform a very tight U-turn.

Mom screams and holds the ceiling as the Beef tips on two wheels for a terrifying moment before dropping back on all four tires with a crushing blow. My foot slams the accelerator, and rubber burns in our wake.

In this frantic moment, there are no speed limits, etiquette for horn usage, stop signs, laws about weaving, or improper ways to flip the bird to other drivers. That’s Mom’s specialty.

When we reach the hospital drop-off, I drive over the curb and slam on the brake. I kick open my door and jump down onto the sidewalk while the Beef is still running.

“I’ll park it,” Mom says as she moves over to the driver’s seat.

I’m already pushing through the revolving door when she backs out.