Chapter 7
It all happened so fast, I still don't know what startled me more – the crunching of metal, the tightening of my seatbelt, or the whiplashing sensation that rocked my body forward, even as the seatbelt held me tight.
With a shriek, I sat up and looked around. We weren't moving. Not anymore. And neither was anybody else. From the sidewalk, the pedestrians had stopped to gawk at us like spectators at a zoo.
Jake reached for my arm. "You okay?" he said.
My heart was racing. "I think so." I gave myself a little shake. "Yeah, I'm okay."
Jake's gaze skimmed my body, and he gave a quick nod. "Good," he said. "Now stay in the car, alright?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Just do it."
Embarrassed to realize I'd completely forgotten about Trey, I whirled toward the backseat. Trey, apparently unharmed, was grinning like he'd lost his mind. With a half-crazed chuckle, he reached down to fumble with a small black carry-case.
"What are you so happy about?" I said.
Trey glanced out the car's back window. "Showtime," he said.
"What?" I followed his gaze. Directly behind us, a massive guy in a sports jersey was getting out of that same luxury car that I'd noticed trailing us just moments earlier. The car's massive grill was a crumpled golden mess, along with the rest of the front end.
As for the guy, he looked surprisingly okay, even if he did look mad as hell. When the stranger turned to glare in our direction, I felt myself swallow.
My heart hammering, I turned to Jake. "What going on?" I asked.
"Later," he said.
I frowned.
"Don't worry," Jake said with that same old cocky grin. "I got this." His smile faltered. "Sure you're okay?"
Why was he smiling at all? I didn't see anything to smile about. "No, I’mnotokay," I said.
His grin disappeared entirely. "You serious?" His gaze dipped to my body before returning to my face. "You hurt?"
"No." I glanced down. "I mean, no I don't think so, but–"
Suddenly, a huge, lurking form appeared just outside the driver's side window. It was the man from the white car. "You cocksucker!" he bellowed. "Get the fuck out of the car. Now."
Jake spared the guy half a glance. He held up a hand. "Hang on," he said through the glass.
"I'm not gonna fuckin' hang on," the guy said. He reached for the door handle and gave it a useless tug. "Get the fuck out."
Holy crap. Seeing the guy up close, I realized something. I'd seen the guy on TV, hawking some popular sports drink. Wasn't he a famous linebacker or something? Desperately, I searched my memories and came up with only one word.
Chainsaw.
That was the guy's nickname. But it couldn't be. Famous football players didn't go around rear-ending people for no good reason.
Did they?
No. They didn't. It had to be someone else.
I lunged for Jake's arm. "Don't get out," I said.
"Why not?" Jake asked.
