Page 29 of Dead Rockstar

“You're not going to do that in the middle of town. You need to get out on the open road, and then just gun it.”

I did as I was told. I turned again, watching the burgundy car in the rearview turn with me, and headed toward a rural street that didn't have much but farm houses on it. It was pitch dark on this stretch of road, and I usually avoided it because of deer that always seemed to jump out in front of me at night, especially in the fall. I hoped none were in the road tonight.

I passed a few houses, and once I was out of the line of sight, passing by nothing but coastal farmland and trees, I stepped down on the gas. My little truck was a piece of crap, but it still had plenty of get up and go. I floored it and we shot forward, racing around a curve, gaining speed. For a moment there was only darkness behind me, and I felt my heartrate start to slow. Then after a second or two their headlights became visible. I hadn't lost them yet. “Fuck.”

“What the fuck is going on today?” Sloan said, her irritation giving way to fear. I knew she was worried now. “Go faster, Storm.”

“This road is so twisty, I'm afraid-”

“Just go,” she said. She was gripping the seat with both hands.

I gunned it harder, and we sped around another curve. The lights were still behind me, but further away. They didn't know these roads like I did, evidently. I sped around another curve, then another, going faster and faster, and then finally it appeared that I'd lost them. There was a four-way stop up ahead, but I barely paused, instead veering left and driving straight through. I hoped they'd assume I'd gone right, which led to Jekyll Island, rather than back the way I'd come. I couldn't see the hint of headlights in the rearview, and the road was dark and deserted.

“Don't slow down,” Sloan said. “They could still be behind us. I doubt they turned around.”

“I think we lost them-” I started to say, then suddenly the headlights were behind me again. I sped up, zooming downhill, toward a bridge up ahead. I knew this area; below the bridge was a creek, connecting to Turtle River. It was pretty shallow, but I didn't want to be speeding over the rickety little two-lane bridge in the dark. I instinctively touched the brake. As I did, the headlights got closer and closer – they were bearing down on us. I could hear the Mazda's old engine rumbling loudly behind me.

“They're going to rear end us!” Sloan screamed, and I braced my shoulders, waiting for the impact.

But the car didn't rear end us. Instead, it got closer and closer, then moved into the center of the road to pass. As the car came up beside me, I looked over, unable to help myself, catching a glimpse of a younger looking man with a hat pulled down low over his eyes. As he passed on my left, the driver suddenly rammed the car into my side of the truck, hard. I'd lost a lot of speed but was still going fast enough to fly off the road. There was no ditch to break our fall, so we propelled forward, down the hill and toward the creek, the old truck screeching as I hit the brakes, trying desperately to stop before impact, Sloan and I both screaming.

As we careened toward the water, I felt a jolt and then heard a loud, metallic smack. The front left of my car had hit one of the huge concrete girders that held up the bridge, my head slamming into the steering wheel and my leg jamming into the dash. I let out a cry of pain. I sat there for a beat, trying to catch my breath, my leg throbbing, and peered out the window to see if the attack was over. The burgundy car gunned its engine and kept going, over the bridge, up the hill, and into the night without slowing.

I sat there, stunned, reeling from the shock and the pain in my head and leg, and felt something wet on my face.

Sloan's voice was quietly shocked in the darkness. “Stormy, are you okay?”

“I think so,” I said in a shaky voice. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It shook my neck pretty hard. I'll probably have whiplash in the morning. But I'm fine.”

“I hit my head,” I said, raising a hand to feel the goose egg forming on my forehead. My vision felt blurred; I wasn't sure if it was a blood pressure thing or from hitting my head. “And my leg is killing me. It got jammed up against the dash.”

“I'll call 911,” she said, reaching for her phone.

“No.” I reached out a hand to stop her. “Don't.”

“Why not?” she said. “Somebody just ran us off the fucking road. We've had an accident. And you're hurt! You need an EMT!”

I couldn't explain why I didn't want her to call them, only that I didn't. Luckily, she cussed and threw the phone down. “I don't have a signal anyway. Fuck. You said your leg is messed up? I guess I'd better get out and walk, go find somebody. We need help down here.”

I looked at my own phone, thinking I could try to call Phillip. But mine was dead too. A no-reception area. “Let me try to start the truck,” I said, putting my hand on the key. “It felt like a hard impact, but I bet it's still drivable.”

“Are you sure that's safe?”

I shrugged. “This truck has been rumbling along for a decade. It's solid as they come. Might as well try.”

To my luck, the old pickup started up with no trouble. I patted the dash, grateful that at least one thing Tess had left behind was doing me some good. I hoped and prayed there was no real damage to the truck, other than the banged-up front end. If I could just get home, get to safety, everything would be okay. Damage could be assessed, and so could our injuries. Phillip would help. He'd make it right, somehow. It had only been fifteen minutes since I'd seen him, but suddenly the desire to be near him was so strong it took my breath away.

“If you can scoot over here, we'll switch places,” Sloan said. “You shouldn't drive, not if you're injured. But maybe we should take you to the hospital first, Stormy. Your head looks bad, even in the dark.”

“Home first,” I said. I wanted to see Phillip. Everything else could wait. I scooted over, gingerly, trying to ignore the screaming pain in my leg, and let her take the wheel.

“Can you drive a stick?” I mumbled, pressing my head against the passenger window, suddenly tired.

“What do you think I am, an idiot?” She laughed, then her voice turned serious. “Stormy. Don't fall asleep.” She put the truck in reverse and maneuvered it away from the concrete bridge with a loud, metallic screech. I opened my mouth to tell her that there was no chance of me sleeping, not now, and probably not later, but I couldn't seem to find my voice. My head was in turmoil with the chaos and terror of knowing that someone had just caused me to wreck my truck. Who was after me, and why did they seem to want me dead?

Eight

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