Page 12 of Deceit & Destruction

“Shit, Mike, put your hands on the wheel,” I hiss as I smack his hand away from the bag. He grips the steering wheel and I bend over, finding the pull on the zipper. It opens easily, but there’s no water in the bag—just drugs.

Shock courses through me and again, I freeze. I had heard about Webber’s overdose, but when it was revealed that Jennings was the one who gave him the drugs, I immediately suspected foul play, especially since the players were frequently drug tested. It seems I was wrong, though. There are enough drugs in this bag to supply half of Stonewall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He shouts, snatching the bag out of my hand. “I said the side compartment!”

Startled by his tone and the rough way he grabs the bag, I lift my head. I’m about to tell him to pull over when I spot the black SUV heading straight for us. The drugs are quickly forgotten.

“Mike! Watch out!”

He turns his eyes back to the windshield, releasing the bag. The drugs fall out of the bag and onto my lap as he grips the steering wheel with both hands and slams on the brakes. Instinctively I clutch my stomach.

Oh, God. No.

The tires screech.

A horn honks.

The car swerves.

But it’s too late.

We crash and everything fades to black.

Sometimes desperation gets us killed.

Chapter Four

Mike Robinson

The bright fluorescentlights blind me as my eyes flutter open. I blink, trying to adjust to the light, but pain shoots down my left side, making it impossible to focus. My arm throbs the most, though, and I can’t help the groan that erupts from the back of my throat.

“He’s awake.”

The voice is familiar and for a second I think I’m dead because there is no way in hell Victoria Bianci is willingly in the same room as me, much less talking to me.

“Robinson,” Alex calls.

Shit.

Him too?

I really must be dead.

“Mike, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

Looks like Webber wanted in on the fun.

I do one better and force my eyes open. It takes a moment, but I adjust to the light, swinging my gaze to the side of the bed and the three people who stare at me like I’m some kind of miracle.

I try to speak but my mouth is drier than the fucking Sahara.

Forcing a swallow, I lick my lips. “I…am I dead?”

Alex shakes his head.

“No, but you damn well should be,” he hisses.

Ah, so he still hates me. Good to know.

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