Page 32 of Sweet Obsession
“Still there?” his grandmother asked. There was no need for Jillian to say anything; her gaze had not left the side mirror.
“Hang on.” He pressed down on the accelerator. The Suburban bucked and complained, but it picked up speed, dust billowing behind them. This wasn’t a panic, not yet. It was a test. He pushed the old vehicle, taking the barren road faster than he should, the frame groaning in protest.
The sedan behind them had no trouble keeping pace. If anything, it gained on them, the sun glinting off its windshield. This was no longer a test. This was a chase.
“Who are they?” Grams asked from the back, her voice remarkably calm, though she was now gripping the back of Jillian’s seat.
“Most likely reporters who didn’t fall for the decoys,” Blake gritted out, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Determined to shake their shadow, he pressed harder on the gas pedal, watching the needle ease higher and higher on the dashboard.
“There’s a sharp curve up ahead.” Jillian pointed with her chin, her own hands braced on the dashboard.
Though it had been ages since he’d driven to Miller’s Creek, he remembered the curve. A nasty, off-camber turn that came up without warning. He eased off the gas, preparing to navigate it. He glanced in the rear-view mirror one last time. The sedan wasn’t following his lead, they were getting too close. Idiots.
The old suburban rocked as he took the turn a little faster than he probably should have. Behind them, the squeal of the sedan’s tires could be heard as clearly as if they were riding in his trunk. Coming out of the long turn, about to hit the gas pedal once again, he glanced in the mirror one more time. The sedan clipped the shoulder, the back end fishtailing wildly. For a horrifying second, it tipped up on two wheels, a gravity-defying sculpture of metal and poor judgment, before it slammed back down and flipped, rolling once, twice, and once more before coming to a rest in the dry ditch—upside down.
Blake slammed on the brakes, the old Suburban skidding to a halt on the gravel shoulder, dust swirling around them. The world outside the windshield distorted into a horrifying tableau: the overturned sedan, the plume of black smoke, the sudden, hungry flicker of orange. For a paralyzing second, Jillian’s breath seized in her lungs. This couldn’t be happening.
“Stay here!” The words were a sharp command from Blake, already a blur of motion as he threw his door open.
Like hell. The thought was a raw, primal instinct. Her hands, clumsy and numb, fumbled with the seatbelt buckle. “Ms. Sara, call 911!” The words tore from her throat as she shoved her own door open, scrambling toward the back of the Suburban. The ranch truck. Fire extinguisher. Her mind worked in frantic, disjointed bursts. “I’ll grab the extinguisher.”
He glanced back, his face a grim mask of focus, and gave a curt nod before turning back to the wreck. She wrestled the heavy, red cylinder free from its straps, its weight a solid, terrifying reality in her arms. She ran, her feet pounding against the hard-packed dirt, the acrid smell of burning oil and rubber filling her lungs.
The smoke was thicker now, a choking cloud. She aimed the nozzle at the base of the flames erupting from the car’s undercarriage and squeezed, a blast of white powder providing a momentary, blessed relief. Blake was at the driver’s side, yanking on the crumpled door, his muscles straining. It wouldn’t budge. “It’s jammed!” he shouted, his voice strained.
She saw him reach for the door again, then recoil, a sharp curse on his lips. The metal was too hot. A wave of pure, cold terror washed over her. He was going to burn himself. Hewas going to get hurt. Every instinct screamed at her to drop everything and run to him, to pull him away.
But then, movement on the other side of the wreck caught her eye. Blake ripped his own denim shirt off. The sudden image of his bare torso, muscles taut in the hellish light of the growing fire, was shockingly out of place. He wrapped the thick fabric around his fist and forearm without hesitation. He wasn’t just Kade’s friend, not just a rock star. He was a man running headfirst into danger.
The fire sputtered back to life, angrier this time. Jillian blasted it again, the extinguisher feeling dangerously light. Help him or get the other one? The choice was a physical tear inside her. She had to trust he could handle himself. She ran to the passenger side, yanking on the hot metal handle, adrenaline giving her a strength she didn’t know she possessed. The metal groaned, then gave way with a screech as the door flew open.
Inside, a young woman, a camera still slung around her neck, was slumped against the dashboard. Jillian reached in, her hands shaking, and fought with the seatbelt buckle. It was stuck. “I can’t get it!” she yelled, her voice thin against the growing roar of the fire.
“Jillian, get back!” Blake’s voice was raw with panic. Through the smoky haze, she saw he had the driver, a man, halfway out, dragging his dead weight away from the inferno.
“I’m not leaving her!” she screamed at his back, yanking at the jammed buckle. His grandmother was suddenly there, a tire iron in her hand. “Here, child! Pry it!”
Sara Kirby shoved the tool into Jillian’s hand. She jammed the flat end into the buckle mechanism, leveraging it with all her might. There was a sharp crack, and the strap snapped free. At the awkward angle, Jillian struggled to get a grip on the unconscious woman. To her surprise, Sara Kirby was at herside, tugging and pulling with a strength Jillian wouldn’t have expected for a woman of her years.
They’d barely begun to drag the woman free when the back of the car erupted. It wasn’t a Hollywood explosion, but a concussive boom that threw a wave of searing heat and debris at them, knocking them off their feet.
Blake turned and bolted in their direction. “Back away!” His words were barely audible over the angry hisses and pops.
Scrambling to her feet, ignoring the scrapes on her hands and the ringing in her ears, she and Ms. Sara dragged the unconscious woman the last few feet, collapsing a safe distance away. Catching her breath, her gaze darted from the raging inferno to the last place she’d seen Blake. He had to be far enough away to be safe from the blast. He had to be. With him nowhere in sight, panic licked at her racing heart, threatening to steal her last breath, and then, just as suddenly as he’d disappeared, Blake was there, at her side. His hands framed her face, his eyes wild with a terror that mirrored her own. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He ran his hands down her arms, checking for injuries, his touch both frantic and incredibly gentle.
“I’m fine,” she managed, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Miss Sara?”
On her feet, remarkably composed, his grandmother slipped her phone into her pocket and dusted at her dress. “I get more scrapes and cuts pruning my rose bushes.” Her shaky smile hinted that she might not be as composed as she let on. “I think I’m going to go back to our car and wait for the fire trucks. They should be here shortly.” As if summoning help with her words, sirens suddenly blared in the distance.
Waiting a beat to ensure his grandmother was indeed steady enough to return to their vehicle, Blake turned and pulled Jillian against him, his arms wrapping around her in a crushing embrace. She could feel the tremors in his body, or maybe it washer own. He buried his face in her hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Promise me you will never do that again.”
Nodding her head into his shoulder, she clung to him, the smell of smoke and sweat and him filling her senses. “Back at you. No more evading paparazzi or fighting with cars on fire. From now on, let the reporters find us.”
A slow rumble of laughter rattled against her ear. “Us. I like the sound of that.”
“Me too,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Good.” He pulled back just enough for his eyes to level with hers. “For what it’s worth, Jillian Sweet, I love you.”
