Page 197 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

“Run!” Scar hollers like we’re in a fucking action movie, and a rush of adrenaline surges through my veins. I unbuckle my seat belt, about to haul ass out of the van to try and get help, but then…

All the hope in my body bursts into flames.

Dean manages to elbow Scar in the face and regain control of the situation, climbing on top of him and angling the gun underneath his chin.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Dean growls, fury seeping out of him. “This doesn’t have to get messy.”

What does that even mean?

Are they just going to let us go after this?

And if they do, what’s stopping us from going straight to the police station?

There’s no way this is not going to get messy.

Either they kill us, or we rat them out.

There’s no door number three.

Scar seems to share my thoughts because he blurts, “Are you fucking kidding me? It doesn’t have to get messy? It got messy the second you—”

That’s when I hear it.

The gunshot.

It resonates through the night, the sound making my throat close up and blocking my airways until my lungs feel like overinflated fire balls.

Brody was probably just trying to scare Gray.

That was just a warning shot.

It had to be.

Brody comes rushing out of the store with the black bag in his hand, and Dean starts shouting at me. It’s something about “getting ready to drive,” but my ears are ringing.

Something’s wrong.

“Let’s go!” I hear Dean scream as soon as Brody drops into the passenger seat. “Are you deaf? Fucking go! Now!”

The gun is back on my temple before I know it, pressing so far into the side of my head my skull radiates with pain.

Brody is hyperventilating next to me, his entire body shaking.

Scar’s voice is the only thing to pull me out of the trance dragging me under.

“Kane, fucking drive!” he begs, the concern in his tone rebooting my brain.

My foot comes down on the gas so hard the tires screech as we take off at maximum speed.

Brody starts throwing up all over himself, mumbling nonsense as his body spasms. “I didn’t… I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

“What the fuck happened?” Dean yells, but Brody doesn’t answer. “Brody, what the fuck did you do?”

On autopilot, I drive and drive, images of Gray flashing before my eyes, the memories we’ve made from age five up until this moment flashing before my eyes.

I see it all.

Us sharing a bedroom.

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