Page 110 of The Bad Brother
Cade makes that noise again. “Colt’ll be there in the next fifteen minutes. I’ll be there in less than ten.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
Fuck.
They’re less than 100 yards away now. Jamming my phone into my back pocket, I watch the road on the other side of the parking lot.
Come on, Peach, get your ass here before I?—
A gunshot rings out, the faint pop of it muffled, the sound of it catapulting me across the porch and down the stairs, seconds before Sloane’s little red compact shoots into view, the passenger side door hanging open.
My boots barely hit the parking lot before the front of Sloane’s car hammers into the 100 year oak across the road.
I shout out a curse, suddenly moving at a dead run, eyes zeroed in on the car in front of me, its front end accordioned, wrapped around the tree it slammed into, almostevery airbag deployed, making it impossible to see inside the car.
Please. Please let her be okay. Please?—
“Jensen.”
I hear someone scream my name and turn to find River standing in the middle of the road, no less than twenty-five yards from where Sloane wrecked her car, face bone white. Limbs visibly shaking, a look of absolute horror on her face. This is how her parents died.
“Where’s Ethan?” I bellow without breaking my stride. I’m crossing the road now, swinging wide around the tree to get to the driver’s side. “Riv, where’s?—”
“In the back,” River shouts at my back, nasty road rash covering her legs, blood oozing from her knees. More of it oozing down the side of her neck. “She told me to jump. She was supposed to jump. She said?—”
“Colt’s on his way,” I shout at her, rounding the front of the car and the tree its wrapped around, engine hissing and ticking so loud it nearly drowns out the blood rushing in my ears. “Go inside. Call 911 and then wait for him.”
“But—”
“Now, goddamn it.”
Not bothering to make sure River does what she’s told, I keep moving, my focus zeroed in on Sloane.
Please, God, let her be alive.
I’ve never asked you for anything. Not even for Tank.
I’m asking for this.
Finally making it to the driver’s side of the car, I reach for the door handle and yank it open, the crunched metal squeal of it deafening in the still morningair, and my stomach drops. There’s blood—bright red smeared across the stark white of the airbag.
Please.
Pulling the knife from my boot, I stab the partially deflated airbag, rather than fight with it, before jamming it back in. Ripping it out of the steering wheel, I toss it aside so I can assess the damage.
Blood.
Sloane’s entire face is covered in blood, stark white under the red river of it. Arms limp. Hand loosely wrapped around her stun gun.
Remembering what River said, I flick a quick look at the backseat. Ethan is out cold, a nasty burn still sizzling on his forearm. As much as I want to drag him from the car and break his neck, I leave him where he is and focus on Sloane.
“Sloane...” I whisper it, teetering on the edge. Heart thumping almost painfully in my chest, I reach for her only to stop myself because there’s too much blood and I don’t know what to do. Where I can touch her without hurting her even more. “Baby, what did you do?”
When she lets out a soft, plaintive croak in response, I almost pass out in relief. “Jen...”
“I’m here,” I tell her frantically, hands hovering above her arms. “How bad is it? Can you move? I don’t know?—”
“River...” She tries to lift her hand only to let it drop back into her lap on a painful wince. “Where’s Riv?—”
