Page 55 of Heavy Hitter

But Javi isn’t listening, craning his neck to look out the window. “We’re not done,” he says grimly. “On your left.”

Lacey’s heart sinks at the sight of the black SUV creeping up behind them. Still, “It’s fine,” she insists. She can recognize photographers when she sees them. “The windows are tinted. They’re not going to get anything.”

“Maybe,” Javi says, pulling out his cell phone. “But I’m not taking any more chances tonight, are you? I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t bother,” the driver says, stepping on the gas. “I can shake ’em off.”

He can’t, though; Lacey watches in horror as the second car pulls up alongside them—way too close, incessant. “They’re going to run us off the fucking road,” Javi says, then turns his attention to whoever has picked up on the other end of the line. “Hello? My name is Javier Mendoza. I’m head of security for the entertainer Lacey Logan. We’re headed south on—” He cranes his neck. “Where the fuck are we?” he asks, or starts to, and the last thing that Lacey remembers is the shriek of the tires on the pavement. The jolt of the crash in her bones.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jimmy

TUCK CALLS AND WAKES HIM UP AT SIX THIRTY, THE LIGHT JUST leaking through the bedroom windows and the last of the birds barely waking up outside the glass. “Yo,” he says when Jimmy mumbles a groggy hello, “is Lacey okay? Did you fly out there?”

“What?” Jimmy struggles upright, rubbing a dazed, sleepy hand over his face. Tuck doesn’t know they broke up. Nobody knows they broke up, really; Jimmy hasn’t said anything to anyone, assuming Lacey would at some point send him further instructions via carrier pigeon or a chip she had secretly implanted in his brain while he slept. She hasn’t, though, and the last week or so the thought has occurred to Jimmy that it’s possible she’ll leave him hanging indefinitely as a final fuck you, fielding questions about her at every media appearance he makes for the short remainder of his career and into whatever he winds up doing next until one day it suddenly comes to light that she’s been married to the son of an oligarch from Monaco for eleven years. “Um. No, why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Tuck sounds incredulous. “You didn’t talk to her?”

“Not this morning,” Jimmy admits, which isn’t a lie. “Why, what’s going on?”

“Dude,” Tuck says, “she got got by some huge, crazy mob of fans in LA last night. I think she’s in the hospital.” A pause. “She really didn’t call you? Everything okay with you guys?”

“Everything’s fine,” Jimmy manages. “Everything is great.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye, opening the browser on his phone and searching. Sure enough, two seconds later: Megastar Lacey Logan Hospitalized Following Crowd Incident in LA.

Jimmy’s vision starts to swim as his eyes flick over the headlines, the panicky taste of iron hot at the back of his mouth. He thinks of his mom calling to tell him about Matty, about how soft and sorry her voice was. This isn’t that, he scolds himself almost immediately, scanning the article; this is nothing like that.

Still, though. Still.

He chugs the glass of water on his nightstand, forces himself to read more carefully: A concert, a car accident. Security at the venue was quickly overwhelmed. A never-ending cascade of hot takes:

Looking for attention just like always

This is why we can’t have nice things!!!!

Police are investigating the cause of the accident, which according to sources familiar with the incident occurred when the SUV in which Logan was riding was pursued by a second vehicle as she attempted to leave the venue.

Making everything about her.

It’s Lacey Logan’s world, including at other people’s concerts, apparently.

Logan was treated for what her publicist described as “minor injuries” at Cedars-Sinai and released.

Jimmy scans three more pages of Google results trying to figure out how hurt she was, exactly, then realizes he’s being an enormous fucking chump and calls her instead. Are you okay? he texts, when she doesn’t answer. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I get it if you don’t want to talk to me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

Her reply comes through a moment later: It’s four in the fucking morning here, James.

Then, before he has time to be properly abashed: I miss you.

Jimmy’s whole body goes briefly boneless; he flops backward onto the mattress, scrubbing a hand over his beard. He thinks of what Rachel said to him back in her kitchen. He thinks of what Lacey said to him the last time they fought.

He has to report to Camden for Game 1 of the World Series in a little over twenty-six hours.

He doesn’t have time for distractions.

He needs to make a choice.

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