Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
I blinked at her. “Clayton Barris?”
“Yes. Always skulking, always whispering. One of those types who never looks you in the eye.” She made a disapproving noise in her throat. “Colin used to bring him around when he was in college. He's like a stray dog that bites.”
My brain stuttered. I couldn't quite wrap my head around her tone—like she was talking about teenage friendships gone bad instead of the man I mentally classified as Maddox’s personal henchman. There was no other word for him. The guy was six foot four, built like a bulldozer, and had all the charm of a prison shiv.
But Gladys spoke like she was reading lines out of a diary from 1973. Maybe it was how she coped. Or perhaps that’s just how mothers worked—clinging to the versions of their children before the world turned them cruel.
“Anyway,” she continued, “we’ll lose him. I’ve still got a few tricks left.”
Then she floored it. Literally.
The car jolted as she slammed the gas pedal down, and I let out a noise that might’ve been a squeak or a very polite scream as we shot down the interstate, weaving between lanes like we were trying out for a demolition derby.
My hand slammed against the door and stayed there, white-knuckled, while my other hand gripped the edge of the seat for dear life.
“I really should go get new glasses,” she muttered. “These are scratched all to hell. Everything looks like it’s wearing a foggy sweater.”
“Please let me drive,” I squealed, my voice coming out higher than I'd intended.
Gladys snorted. “And give Barris a chance to swipe me while we’re switching seats? I don’t think so.”
“I have a head injury,” I argued, trying to breathe through the pounding in my skull. “I should be asleep right now, not living through a high-speed chase with a woman whose lenses are held together with tape.”
“You should be resting, yes, not driving,” she agreed serenely. “You just sit there and stay alive. I’ve got this.”
And she meant it. The way she said it was as if she were trying to mother me. As terrifying as the whole thing was, there was a strange kind of comfort in it. A warped, adrenaline-soaked comfort, but still.
It made me think of my own mom and how I barely talked to her anymore. Not because I didn’t love her but because I couldn’t stomach the man she married. My stepfather had always made me feel like a burden in my own home, so I'd stopped trying to fit in.
Growing up, I’d spent most of my childhood at Sasha’s house instead of my own. It was the kind of home that felt safe the moment you walked through the door—warm, a little chaotic, and filled with the kind of love that didn’t come with conditions. Her two dads had treated me like I was one of their own, never once making me feel like I had to earn my place at the table or prove I was worthy of affection.
They were my sanctuary. My calm in the storm. My safe place.
And if I made it out of this—if I actually lived through this ride from hell—I was going to tell them everything. How much I loved them. How grateful I was. How they’d saved me without ever knowing how badly I needed it.
A horn blared behind us, long and angry, cutting through the chaos of rushing cars and roaring engines. My heart was already pounding from the stress of the last few minutes, but now it thudded so hard against my ribs it made my already throbbing head feel like it was about to split open. Every beat sent a fresh wave of pain behind my eyes, but I couldn’t focus on that, not with the way Gladys suddenly leaned forward and grinned like a woman half her age.
“Here we go,” she cheered, that grin stretching wider with a spark of something feral behind it.
Before I could process what she meant, she yanked the wheel sharply to the right. The tires screamed against the asphalt in protest as we veered wildly off the interstate, the entire vehicle tilting just enough to make my stomach lurch. We barreled onto an exit ramp at the last possible second, narrowly avoiding a concrete barrier that loomed far too close to my window. My breath caught in my throat as I clutched the door with both hands, my nails digging into the armrest like it could anchor me to safety.
Behind us, the black SUV that had been tailing us sped right past the exit. They’d been going too fast, too committed to the chase, and hadn’t anticipated Gladys’s wild turn. The sound of screeching tires tore through the air, followed by a harsh staccato of blaring horns and the shriek of rubber skidding hard across the shoulder. For a moment, I pictured them fishtailing, struggling to correct their course. But they were gone, vanishing behind us in the traffic we’d just escaped.