Page 7 of Eight Years Later

I grabbed the driver’s door handle, and Dylan reached for the rear door. We both pulled at the same time.

Footsteps pounded against the concrete path behind me. “Hey, bitch! Where do you think you’re going.”

Don’t stop.

I threw myself into the car and reached for the door. A hand slipped into the crack before I could completely shut the door.

But that didn’t stop me.

I pulled hard and smashed the fingers between the door and the frame.

The person connected to them roared loudly and withdrew far enough for me to close the door and flick the auto lock, locking all the car doors. I fumbled with the keys as Dylan climbed through the center and into the front seat.

“Mom, we need to go,” he urged.

“I know, I know.” I finally managed to jam the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine came to life. “Put your belt on.”

“Fucking whore,” the man roared, pounding his fist on the window and making me jump. “Get out, bitch.”

I turned to look.

Just a glance.

He had shaggy black hair that whipped around his face as he screamed at me through the glass. I could see tattoos, a lot of them. Across his eyebrow and cheek, on his temple, and almost completely covering his arms, disappearing up under his short-sleeved Rolling Stones T-shirt.

I finally got the car into reverse and pressed hard against the accelerator, jolting both Dylan and my bodies as we spedbackward. One of my tires bumped over the curb as we flew out onto the street, and we barely paused so I could put it into drive.

The man chased after us, still screaming, as we sped off down the street. “I’ll be fucking waiting, bitch. You’ve gotta come back sometime.”

I looked into the rearview mirror and saw him standing in the middle of our usually quiet suburban street, under one of the street lights. I turned the corner at the intersection and kept driving. Another corner, then another.

Even when we got a few miles away and passed several police cars, lights and sirens screaming, I still kept driving.

“Where are we going?” Dylan asked as he watched them speed by. “To the police station?”

It was a pretty good suggestion.

And we probably would have been safe there, with cops all around us.

Until we had to go home.

I’ll be fucking waiting, bitch.

You’ve gotta come back sometime.

The words played over in my mind.

If the police didn’t catch him, or he got out on bail—what would we do then?

“No,” I answered finally, pulling out onto the interstate and trying not to look at my hands as they gripped the wheel. I didn’t want to think about the blood still smeared on my hands and up my arms. “We’re going to go ask a friend for help.”

Someone had once promised me that no matter what happened between us, he would always have my back. I had no doubt he would protect Dylan and me using whatever means necessary.

And even though I knew it would probably be hard to see him again after eight years, my hurt feelings were far less important than my son’s safety.

Chapter Three

TALLY

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