“Why the hell would I stop?” I ask, frantically, shouting, “We’re being chased! And what the fuck does no matter what mean?”
My answer comes in the form of the ground beneath us rumbling until it feels as if the earth opened up and is about to swallow us whole. I look in the rearview and spot yellow and red flames along with a plume of black where the Hummer had just been. The explosion is so forceful, the truck accelerates forward as if I stepped on the gas when my foot’s already to the floor. The back tires lift from the pavement, and my arms feel like they’re breaking as I try to hold the wheel straight. I’m sure we’re about to flip over when the tires settle back down, and I’m flooded with a surge of relief so strong I’m dizzy from it.
I look over at Nine, and he’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear him because of the ringing in my ears. I realize he’s mouthing the word stop.
It takes me a solid few seconds to process what he’s saying. When it sinks in, I do as instructed and slowly bring us to a stop on the side of the road.
Nine and I are both breathing heavily, trying to catch our breaths.
The first thing I hear after the high-pitched ringing in my ears begins to die down is laughter followed by a voice. “How did you like that apple, motherfuckers?”
“Is that our reinforcements?” I ask.
Nine nods, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.
Our eyes lock. There’s something in the air between us. It’s charged. Electric. I can feel the heat of his body all the way across the cab. My lips tingle. My senses abandon me. I’m just about to open the door for some fresh air to regain my senses when Nine scrambles across the cab, lifts me from my seat, and places me on his lap. He pulls my head down and crushes his lips to mine, and it’s nothing like any kiss I’ve ever experienced before. I didn’t even know people kissed like this. Maybe, I’m dead, because the way his tongue licks across the seam of my lips feels like heaven, but the way my body reacts, nipples tightening, thighs rubbing on his, the need and pressure building as he passionately destroys what I thought kissing was supposed to be, feels more sinful than heavenly.
I might be in Hell, but I don’t even fucking care.
The feeling doesn’t last long. Nine’s lips leave mine, and I’m deposited back into the driver’s seat just as the door suddenly flies open. A man wearing a dress shirt with a set of matching suspenders and a bow tie appears.
“Howdy, kids. Did you enjoy the show? Anyone hurt? Dead? Dying? On fire? Headaches? Nausea? Unexplainable discharge? Rash that won’t go away? A sudden need to stop, drop, and motherfucking roll?” He runs a hand over his long hair, slicking it back and exposing the shorter hair beneath and tattoos inked into the sides of his scalp. “No? Just some post-adrenaline heavy petting? I get it. Been there. Done that. Bought the motherfucking t-shirt.”
“Took you long enough,” Nine groans.
I adjust my dress and smooth down my hair, still breathing heavily while Nine looks unaffected by what just took place.
“Why, you’re welcome for saving your life, brother. I’m happy to have been of service,” the man says, tipping an imaginary hat.
Nine chuckles, then hisses and grabs his arm. “Lenny, meet our reinforcements, otherwise known as my asshole brother,” he groans out.
Brother. It makes sense. I can see the similarities. They look to be about the same height, and they have almost the same hazel-colored eyes. The thing that’s the most strikingly similar between the two is their smiles. Both slightly crooked and like they’re hiding something wicked. Seeing Nine’s smile on another man is downright eerie.
“That’s me! Howdy, lady I don’t know who’s sitting in my brother’s car.” The man extends a heavily tattooed hand. “The name is Samuel Clearwater, but my friends call me Preppy…as well as everyone else.”
I skip the small talk when I notice that more and more blood is gushing from Nine’s arm. “Shit. You’re hit.”
Preppy leans into the car over me, pressing me into the seat with my nose in his shirt. He presses his finger into Nine’s arm who in return pushes Preppy off of him with his good arm.
“Fucker,” Nine swears.
Preppy smooths down his dress shirt with his hands and straightens his bow-tie. “That wasn’t very neighborly, brother.”
“We should get him to a hospital.”
“No,” Nine says.
“A hospital? For what?” Preppy asks, not looking nearly as concerned or panicked as I feel.
“For that!” I say, pointing to all the blood. “Because he was shot.”
“That?” He points at Nine’s wound. “My kid’s done worse when he fell roller skating. That’s just a fucking scratch. In my professional medical opinion, nothing some super glue, duct tape, and a Preppy super smoothie can’t cure.”