Page 91 of Life After You

“Take a detour, now.”

His brows furrow. “Where?”

“Just drive.”

He yawns, stretching.Too slow. Too fucking slow. My pulse is hammering, my skin burning with impatience.

“Move faster.” I snap.

Mearl rubs his eyes. “Not ‘til I take a piss.”

I lunge for him, ready to drag him out of the damn seat if I have to. Sam and Chace grab my arms, pulling me back.

“Logan, chill,” Chace says, his voice careful. “I know what you’re feeling—”

“Fuck off, Chace! You don’t know shit—”

“She’soursister.” His voice breaks. My fists unclench. The rage is swallowed by something deeper, something raw and crippling.

Trey steps onto the bus, eyes bloodshot, his face ashen. Mearl returns, drying his hands on his jeans. “Where to?” he asks.

“Providence Portland Medical Center.” I say, flat. Empty.

Mearl doesn’t ask questions. He starts the engine. Punching the hospital into the GPS.

Five hours.

Might as well be a fucking eternity. The irony isn’t lost on me that I booked Mac a plane ticket, to save her driving the Charger so far on her own.

What the fuck happened?

An hour in, there’s a loudclunk,followed by a bang from under the bus. We lurch to a stop. Mearl swears, grabbing a flashlight and storms outside. We follow, hovering, as he inspects the damage.

“Stupid fucking potholes,” he growls. “Snapped the axel. We’re stuck.”

A sick, sinking feeling churns in my stomach. I can’t be stuck here. Not when Mac needs me.

I turn and start walking.

“Logan!” Sam calls out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I ignore him, my feet moving faster.

“Dude, you can’t walk to Portland.” Chace shouts.

I don’t care. I’d crawl if I had to.

A car whizzes past. Then another. I stick my thumb out.

Illegal? Maybe.

Desperate? Absolutely.

I just need to get to her, before it’s too late.

Chace catches up to me, but he doesn’t try to grab me or block my path. He just walks beside me, matching my stride, his breath coming in short puffs in the cold air.

“Logan, stop.” His voice is firm, but I don’t even glance his way. I just keep moving, my boots crunching against the gravel, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Triple A might not be that far off,” he tries again. “We could be back on the road by sunrise.”

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