Chapter 7
Wobbling on Shaggy's shoulders, I caught my breath. Memories flashed in my brain. Two guys in ski masks. A dark sedan. A knife at my throat. Concrete at my back. A gloved hand mashed across my mouth.
Had it really been only just a few hours ago? Unsteadily, I reached a hand to my throat. That knife, it hadn't even been real. But it sure had felt real. My fear, that was more real than anything – until a rescuer had shot out of the darkness to change everything.
Lawton.
If I closed my eyes, I could still see his face, a shadowed profile of unrestrained fury as he beat the living crap out of the guy who'd been on top of me. If Lawton's brother hadn't pulled him off, well, let's just say the guy's odds of survival weren't looking too good.
Now, staring at that all-too-familiar vehicle, my legs felt rubbery. It couldn't be the same car. It just couldn't. And yet, something in my gut told me it was, in spite of the car's new and oddly profane paint job.
Below me, Shaggy called out. "The hood – what does it say?"
I looked around. It wasn't exactly a crowd-friendly phrase. I glanced at the guy closest to us. It was that older guy who'd been standing at the bar. My mouth opened, but no words came out.
"Oh for Pete's sake," the older guy said, "just spit it out, will ya?"
"Fine." I shot him a look. "A*shole patrol."
His bushy eyebrows lowered. "Well, you don't have to get all personal about it."
I rolled my eyes. "Not you. The car."
Below me, Shaggy called out, "Oh man, sweet! That's what I thought. You got the video, right?"
Dutifully, I turned back to the car. I held up the phone and pressed play.
"Make sure you catch everything!" Shaggy called out. "The hood, the doors, whatever you can get!"
But I couldn't. Because I wasn't even looking at the car. Not anymore. I was looking at a face in the crowd. I knew that face. I knew it so well that my heart ached.
My mouth went dry, and I forgot to breathe. The face looked haunted, with hollow eyes and a grim mouth.
Like some kind of pathetic sponge, I soaked up the sight of him. He wore a dark hoodie with the hood thrown back, revealing that tousled hair, those chiseled features, and the barest hint of the tattoos that decorated his amazing body.
It was Lawton, the guy I loved. And the guy I hated.
He wasn't looking at the car either.
He was looking at me.