113
I didn’t get up.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even fucking breathe for a second, my body sprawled on the asphalt, chest heaving, ribs aching like they’d been split open with a crowbar. The cold bite of the road was seeping through my clothes, into my skin, into my bones, but I didn’t care. I just lay there, eyes burning, throat raw, hands scraped up from the gravel, waiting. Because if I moved too fast—if I let myself hope for even a second—that car might just take off again, and I couldn’t take that kind of rejection anymore.
The music was still pounding, bass rattling so hard it felt like it was vibrating against my skull, shaking my ribs from the inside. The unmistakable, dragging wail of Chino Moreno’s voice bleeding through the speakers like it was pouring right out of my own damn soul.
"I watched you change… into a fly…"
I closed my eyes.
"I looked away… you were on fire…"
Of fucking course.
If there was ever a song to soundtrack my entire goddamn life, it was Change (In the House of Flies) playing at full fucking volume from whatever lunatic had almost turned me into roadkill.
I should’ve known better than to think this meant anything.
I should’ve just stayed down.
And then, over the music, cutting through the thick, distorted guitars and Chino’s agonized crooning like a blade, came the voice.
“What the fuck, you crazy bitch?! Are you trying to make me kill someone with my car for the third time?!”
The accent was thick, words snapping together, rolling in a way that made it hard to tell if she was actually mad or just like this all the time.
I opened my eyes, blinking against the glare of the headlights, and lifted my head just enough to see her.
She was hanging halfway out the driver’s side window, platinum blonde hair falling into her face, a thick, healthy strand of fringe slipping over one eye. Her skin was pale, smooth, glowing even in the dim, flickering street lights, and her eyes—blue, bored, half-lidded like she’d just woken up from a nap she didn’t give a shit about—fixed on me with a look that was more annoyed than anything else.
She was stunning. In the kind of way that made you certain she’d been on the run since birth.
And she was looking at me like I’d just pissed on her windshield.
She sighed, shaking her head as she slammed the car into park, the music still blasting so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
“Merda,” she muttered, rubbing a hand down her face before jabbing a finger toward me. “You are insane, you know that? You could be dead, capisci? Dead! And then who’s gotta clean up the mess? Me!”
I pushed myself up on my elbows, wincing as my ribs protested, but before I could say a single word, she suddenly narrowed her eyes at me, squinting like she was trying to place me. And then—
"Wait a second," she called, pointing again. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the crazy bitch all over the news! The most wanted in New York right now for—what was it?—breaking out of the police station? Killing cops?”
My breath stalled in my throat.
But she didn’t look horrified.
Didn’t look scared or pissed or like she was about to throw the car into drive and speed the fuck away.
No.
She looked impressed.
Actually, genuinely, impressed.
Like she’d just run into her favorite underground boxer in the middle of the street and not a goddamn fugitive.
A slow smirk pulled at her mouth as she leaned further out the window, voice still raised over the music.
“Damn,” she muttered, shaking her head, looking me up and down like she’d just stumbled on a fucking unicorn. “You got balls, tesoro.”
And then she jerked her chin toward the passenger side door.
“Well? Get in.”
No questions asked. No hesitation. She just offered me, a fucking fugitive, into her fucking car.
I should’ve said no. Should’ve at least hesitated. Should’ve taken a second to process that this woman, this lunatic with a race car and a mouth like she’d been raised in a bar fight, had just invited me into her world without a single thought. It was too easy. Too fucking easy.
People didn’t do that.
Not unless they wanted something. Not unless they were worse than whatever the hell they were picking up off the street.
I hesitated.
For just a second.
Because what if this was some sick game? What if she was one of those fucked-up people who liked to pick up strays just to see how much damage she could do before she got bored? What if I got in and she smiled and told me to buckle up because we were going to go for a real ride? What if she was worse than the cops, worse than the men hunting me, worse than—
She sighed. Loud. Dramatic. Like I was wasting her time.
"Are you getting in, or do you wanna freeze your fucking ass off on the pavement?"
I swallowed hard and moved.
The second I pulled the door open, the smell hit me like a goddamn freight train. It was thick, heady, clinging to the air in a way that felt like it had been there for years. Weed. Maybe. Or at least something like it. Or maybe it was just the overpowering stench of whatever perfume had been doused over it to try and cover it up. Something musky, something floral, something that burned the back of my throat and made my head feel just a little bit lighter the second I inhaled.
I slid in fast, slamming the door shut behind me before I could second-guess myself again. The seat was low, plush, warm from the heat pumping through the vents, leather creaking as I shifted.
The interior was insane.
Black leather everything, stitched up in a way that looked custom-made, polished so clean it practically glowed under the dim street lights outside. The dashboard was a fucking spaceship, every button and screen and dial lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. The steering wheel was stitched with a thick red stripe down the middle, something about it sparking a memory so deep in my brain it took me a second to place it. A Ferrari.
Jesus Christ.
A Ferrari F8 Tributo.
I wasn’t a car person, but I’d lived with Dominic long enough to know exactly what the hell I was looking at. I could still remember the way he used to go on and on about how it was the perfect balance of power and aerodynamics, how it could hit 211 mph like it was taking a Sunday drive.
I also remembered how, even when we were scraping by in that disgusting shoe box of an apartment in New York, he somehow always managed to have just enough cash to rent one for a weekend.
Priorities.
The girl was already moving, shifting into drive, foot pressing down like she meant it. The car lurched forward, pressing me back into the seat as the music blared so loud I swore my ribs vibrated.
I blinked fast, trying to adjust, trying to make sense of what the fuck I had just gotten myself into. My eyes flicked to the backseat, scanning over piles of shit thrown haphazardly across the leather—jackets, cigarette cartons, empty energy drink cans, a duffel bag that looked like it had been through a war.
And then I saw it.
At first, I thought—
I thought it was a strap-on.
Just sitting there, plain as day, flopped over like it had been used and tossed aside.
I squinted.
Jesus Christ.
I squinted harder.
And—no. No, it was a goddamn gear shift. Just sitting there, an extra one, like she carried spares in case hers broke mid-race or some shit. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding, dragging my hands down my face, pressing my palms into my stinging eyes.
I could still feel the cold clinging to my clothes, my skin, my bones. The heat was on, blasting through the vents, but it wasn’t enough. Not when my body was still recovering from the last few hours, from the wind, from the desperation, from throwing myself into the road like a fucking lunatic.
I shivered hard, arms curling around myself, hands gripping at my sleeves, trying to soak up whatever warmth I could.
The girl noticed.
She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, hands loose on the wheel, one wrist rolling as she let it rest at the top, looking like she’d done this a million times before. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, black, heavy, something designer—Balenciaga stitched across the front in deep red, the fabric looking so goddamn soft I wanted to bury myself in it.
But underneath, I could see hints of something else.
A silk camisole. Black lace edging.
Thigh-high boots, gleaming under the faint lights from the dash.
She dressed like a woman who knew exactly how rich she was but still didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought.
She grinned, tilting her head slightly toward me as she let one hand slip off the wheel to turn the music down just slightly.
"Cold, tesoro?"
Her voice was smooth, smug, like she already knew the answer.
I didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
I just watched as she exhaled slow, like she was thinking, before she reached down, grabbed something from the center console, and tossed it into my lap.
A pack of cigarettes.
"Smoke warms you up," she said, smirking, eyes flicking back to the road as she sped up, the car eating the highway like it was starving. "Or so they say."
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