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Brandon gently sets me down by the passenger side of the car. I try hiding my wince, but the shard of glass is embedded into my foot with each movement. Brandon catches the wince, of course. He’s someone I’ve never been able to hide my reactions from. He sees everything when it comes to me.
His warm hand circles my neck, bringing my face towards his chest, and whispers, “I’ve got you, baby.”
Normally, I’d be stunned at the moniker. Brandon always refrained from calling me anything other than Ava, unlike my family whose names for me have varied on some form of my name.
Right now, the words are comforting, and I don’t make a comment. I chalk the nickname up to the heat of the moment, given there is still a crazed shooter out there.
Brandon helps me into the passenger seat and bends to arrange all the material of my dress around my legs, like a makeshift blanket. I reach with trembling hands to fasten the seatbelt, but I can’t get the damn thing to click into place.
“Let me,” Brandon says as he stretches over my lap, and his large hands replace my own as he clicks the belt into place. At this angle, his scent is invading, but not cloying. The spicy masculine cologne is a comfort, and I resist the urge to bury my nose into his neck.
The moment is fleeting because the next thing I know, Brandon slams the passenger door closed, rounds the front of the vehicle, and jumps into the driver’s seat. After turning the car on, we speed down Stonybrook Lane, the street I grew up on and will never look at the same way again.
I try taking deep calming breaths. What do experts say? Count to five.
When I reach five, my anxiety returns because the car had been moving at a steady pace and is now picking up speed.
I look out the window and see an exit sign for I-95 ahead. At least I will be home in less than an hour.
Brandon is now darting his gaze between the traffic ahead of us and peering into the rearview mirror. Traffic isn’t the normal insanity as we head closer to Manhattan. Thankfully, most people are home or at their celebrations, like Brandon and I should have been.
After all my protestations about this stalker, they’ve gotten out of control. Is it possible they followed me to my parents’ house and decided they wanted to kill me and my family tonight?
My thoughts are interrupted when Brandon lets out a curse.
“We’re being followed,” he says.
His dark hair has slipped out of its brushed back style, and now some of the longer locks at the top are curtained over his forehead. I actually prefer his hair like this and want to run my hands through it, but I refrain.
This issonot the time for any of that.
“How can you be sure?” I ask.
There are several cars behind us as everyone is moving towards the right lane to head towards New York.
I see Brandon’s lips twist in consternation. “This is what I do, Ava. Trust me. That black pickup has been on us since we left Stonybrook.”
Stonybrookis how Brandon, Asher, and I always referred to my childhood home. Would I ever return to a time when Stonybrook evoked happy memories and not think of tonight’s harrowing ordeal?
“Open the glove box, Ava. Please hand me my gun,” Brandon says.
I glance at Brandon’s profile that’s set in deep consternation as he divides his attention between the road and looking out for whoever is following us.
I wipe my clammy hands onto my dress and open the glove box. The weapon is heavy in my hands. Television gives you the impression that these weapons weigh nothing, based on the casual way they’re held, but there’s so much power in this gun.
“Don’t worry. The safety is on,” Brandon says, taking one hand from the wheel and tucking the gun in his waist.
Once Brandon gets through the exit for New York, I can’t shake the thought of someone tracking us. Will they follow us all the way to my apartment? I can’t voice my concerns to Brandon. I’m too keyed up about whoever shot at us tonight finding me and finishing the job.
Suddenly, the SUV lurches forward and slams my body back against the leather seat.
“Sorry! I’m going to try and lose them,” Brandon says.
I don’t even want to know how fast we’re going, so I keep my gaze from the speedometer. The cars in the other lanes honk as Brandon weaves between them to get away. I look out the side window and see the headlights of the black pickup truck.
The driver is right behind us now!
We pass the sign for New Rochelle, and I try to calm myself, knowing we have made it to New York. I’m closer to home.
