Can anyone imagine Shiloh West driving a fuckingHonda?
I’d ratherdie.
As my angel revs at my feet, the distinctive roar of her V-10 engine pulls my grin tighter across my face. The valet attendant opens the door, shaking his head with what I assume to be envy as he runs his hand down theside.
“She’s a beaut, MissWest.”
“Of course she is.” Irritated, I brush his hand away from the door. I’m no idiot. I picked the Gallardo for a reason. It ensures that wherever I go, I’ll be seen and heard. Heads will turn, and I’ll be the topic of conversation. Just as I’ve always likedit.
Stumbling slightly, I slip behind the wheel and flash the paparazzi their long-awaited crotch shot. “For the lifestyle section, boys.” Giving a flirty wink, I slam the door and click myseatbelt.
Just as I put it in drive and hit the gas, a god-awful gagging noise comes from the other side of my car. I turn in horror just as Kirkland slaps a hand over her mouth and puffs her cheeksout.
“So, help me God, Kirk. If you puke in my car, I’ll killyou.”
“I’ll be fine.” Dropping her hand, she waves it toward the windshield. “Just drive. I won’t ruin the fun. Ipromise.”
Sure.
If Kirkland pukes in my car, I’ll rip out her red hair and mop the floorboard with it before shoving it down her throat. We’re best friends—well, as much as rivals can be friends. She did steal the recentSports Illustratedcover away from me. Something about my nipples being off-center.
Whatever. I’ve never had any complaints about mynipples.
ScrewSports Illustrated. I just got the cover ofMaxim,anyway. They’ll come crawling back. I’m happy for Kirkland.Really.
Mostly.
The cover still should’ve been mine. I make more money than Kirkland. I’m in higher demand. That cover would’ve been my hat-trick. Three covers in arow.
“Shiloh! Watch thelines!”
With cocaine and alcohol still rushing through my veins, my response to her outburst meets in the middle of my brain with a rush of obnoxiousness and delayed reaction. Slowly turning my head, I catch her gaze and throw my hands up inanger.
“What the fuck, Kirk? Are you seriously yelling at me while I’m trying todrive?”
The way her eyes bulge, I know I’ve made a grave error in judgment. I just don’t know how bad until it’s toolate.
“Car!” It’s the only word Kirkland yells as she reaches across me and grabs the unmanned wheel. With what feels like stretches of blurred minutes, I glance up to see an eighteen-wheeler has veered into our lane and is headed straight for us. The deep horn blows like a boat arriving to harbor and part of me wants to hit my own horn in response—almost as an answer to an unresponsivelover.
Is thatpsycho?
Probably.
The slow minutes finally speed up, and everything becomes clear again. Light and darkness combine, blazing past us as they mold into twisted streaks. It’s only then that I realize it’s not the truck, but me who has veered intohislane—and my hands aren’t on thewheel.
“Shiloh! Do something! Oh, God!” I don’t see Kirkland’s hand jerk the wheel hard to the right until the last second. I can’t feel anything as the realization that we’re going to crash settles deep within me. Covering Kirkland’s shaking hand with my own, I hold her grip steady into our sharpturn.
Which, obviously, is the absolute worst thing we could’ve everdone.
Know what sticks in my head the most righthere?
Britney Spears’Toxicis playing on theradio.
God apparently does have a sense ofhumor.
My beautiful car fishtails, spins, and does a complete three sixty in the middle of the road before becoming airborne. I scream. Kirkland screams. I think one of us screams again. I can’t be sure, because at that point my airbag smacks me in the face—hard. A searing pain rips through me and warmth coats mylips.
Then there’ssilence.
