Page 64 of Trip

The racing bug, that was.

I didn’t blame him. The Shelby Cobra was a beautiful piece of machinery. Hell, even I had to admit, I was itching to sit behind the wheel and take that beauty for a spin.

I slipped through the side door, careful to avoid the creak in the hinges, and crouched low behind a stack of tires. Cameron hadn’t noticed me yet, his attention entirely fixed on the Cobra’s dashboard as he mimicked turning the wheel and shifting gears. I could see the thrill in his expression—a mixture of wonder and determination.

I stood there and watched Cameron fiddling with the steering wheel, his tiny hands gripping it as though he were imagining himself on a wide-open racetrack, and I wondered if I should put an end to his tomfoolery before he tried to hot-wire that damn thing and take it for a real spin. Which made me chuckle, remembering the day I did just that with my dad’s old truck. Standing there, I couldn’t help but smile. There was something pure about the way Cameron’s eyes lit up—the kind of wonder that reminded me of my first encounter with a car that set my heart racing. Then, a sudden and unexpected crunch of gravel outside the garage pulled me out of my memories.

In that instant, Cameron ducked low, and I turned as Mitch backhanded me across the face before grabbing my arm and pulling me closer, pressing a gun against my stomach.

“You are coming with me,” he sneered.

Breathing through the pain, I glanced behind me but couldn’t find Cameron anywhere. “Mitch? What the hell are you doing?”

Shoving me toward the Shelby, he growled, “Get in the car.”

Mitch’s voice was like a slap of cold water, jolting me back to reality. I turned to face him, my mind racing.

“What’s going on, Mitch? Why are you here?” I asked, my voice steady despite the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Mitch glared at me, his eyes cold and hard. “You ask too many questions,” he snarled. “Now get in the fucking car. We’re leaving.”

I glanced back at the Cobra, Cameron’s small form nowhere in sight.

Had he run off?

Or was he still hiding, witnessing this bizarre turn of events?

Taking a cautious step forward, I tried to buy some time. “Look, Mitch, I don’t know what this is about, but you can’t just march in here and make demands. This is Sons of Hell property.”

Mitch’s grip on the gun tightened, his finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger. “I said, get in the car!”

I held my hands up in surrender and slowly backed toward the Shelby. As I slid into the driver’s seat, my heart sank. Where was Cameron? Had he managed to escape unnoticed, or was he still hiding in the garage, terrified and alone?

“Drive.”

The command came sharp and unyielding as Mitch jabbed the barrel of the gun toward the windshield for emphasis. My hands trembled as I gripped the wheel. My mind spun with possibilities. Should I stall for time? Try to subtly alert someone?

The engine roared to life. Its guttural purr filled the tense silence. Mitch’s eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror,scanning for any signs of pursuit. “Take the back roads,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I swallowed hard, my palms slick against the leather steering wheel. “Mitch, just tell me—what do you want? What’s this about?” The questions tumbled out before I could second-guess them.

He leaned closer. The cold barrel of the gun brushed against my shoulder. “I want you to shut the hell up and drive,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.

As I pulled out of the garage and turned onto the dimly lit back roads, my eyes darted to the side mirrors, and I searched desperately for any sign of Cameron. Was he watching from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to act? Or had he already vanished into the night, leaving me to fend for myself?

As we drove, the tension in the car was palpable. Mitch’s eyes darted around constantly, his finger twitching on the trigger. I knew I had to keep him talking, buy some time, and hopefully figure out a way to escape this situation.

“Mitch, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice shaking despite my efforts to stay calm.

“Shut the fuck up, C.C., and drive,” he growled, his eyes narrowing. “I need to think.”

As we drove, the tension in the car grew thicker. Mitch’s eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror, his finger never leaving the trigger of the gun. “Mitch, why don’t you just tell me what you want? We can work something out,” I offered, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“You know I can’t do that,” he replied, his tone bitter. “You know too much already.”

I glanced at him as my mind raced.

Knew what? I didn’t know shit.

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