Page 54 of Muddy Messy Love

I was in a stolen car.

And I’m on a bond.

I could go to jail.

I could go to jail!

I can’t breathe—the air’s too thick.

“Avery, please go. Now!” Cole says, but this time I listen.

My heart pounds triple the speed of my frantic steps, and I watch my feet scurry across the rough bitumen in an oxygen-deprived daze. I climb into Cole’s passenger seat and grip the piped edges. My vision glows white, so I drop my head to my knees. I know the drill, and I know what comes next if I don’t.

How could Slade do this?

I vaguely hear the driver’s side door slam shut moments later and the engine roar to life. Cole spins out of the car park in much the same manner he arrived, so I brace my forearms against the glove box, my head still down, as he starts a winding ascent.

“I…didn’t…know.” I say each word in a separate breath. “I swear.” Tears drip from the tip of my nose, and I cough and splutter, praying I don’t vomit on Cole’s spotless ebony floor.

“I know,” Cole says, then finds my back, rubbing firm circles with his hand. The motion shoots warmth through my veins, neutralising the adrenaline and unlocking my chest.

The car soon pulls over, and his hand disappears. The engine cuts out, leaving a silence that drowns me with shame. Panic attacks are worse than hell—no red devils or molten lakes could eclipse the mind’s ability to torture. But add an audience, and you have something even worse: a mirror reflecting the mess you truly are.

Wiping away my tears, I sit up and glimpse Cole’s way. His crystal eyes burn wild with worry. His breaths come jacked and rough. He’s probably never witnessed such a ridiculous display. I’ve probably scared him half to death. My gaze sinks to my lap. I can’t believe that happened in front of him.

Of all people.

But a second later, I’m crushed to his chest. His strong arms cocoon me, and he clutches my head with one broad hand while his other resumes circling my back, around and around. I melt into his warmth as my worries crumble, gripping his blue dress shirt like I might float away. He smells so fucking good. Like safety and hope and peace. And his chest is the perfect mix of soft skin and hard muscle. Goldilocks would lose her ever-loving mind.

“You’re okay. I’m right here.” His deep voice vibrates through his chest, sending shivers through my body, and I have to pull away. If I don’t, I never will. Cole should run—kick me from hiscar before I infect him with crazy—not comfort me. But he is, and he has no idea what that does to me.

I take a deep breath and look at him, wanting to apologise but frowning as reality returns. “I’m going to jail. My fingerprints—” I choke on the thought and clench my eyes shut. “—my fingerprints are in that car. They won’t believe I didn’t know.”

Cole shakes his head. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll fix it.”

Unlatching his seatbelt, he slides his phone from his pants pocket, retrieves a contact, then brings it to his ear. “I need a favour,” he says, low and gritty.

The words spin through my belly, and I stare out my window, beyond the wallaby grass swaying down the hill, to the view of Melbourne’s skyline peaking above the bushes and trees. The buildings stand hazed by distance, and scattered lights twinkle as twilight bathes the sky. But the attempt to distract myself fails. What is Cole doing? And what does “I’ll fix it” mean?

The air hardens around a beat of silence, and Cole’s throat bobs. He seems nervous, which inspires little trust. “There’s a silver seventy-nine Fairlane next to Brookby Shopping Centre. I need it gone. ASAP.”

A murmur drifts from the earpiece, and Cole drops his chin, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thanks. I owe you one.” He ends the call and tosses his phone into the centre console, then stares at me and I at him, while tension hums between us.

“What was that?” I ask.

He eyes me from beneath the ridge of his brow. “You build connections in my line of work. I’m not in the habit of exploiting them, but this situation is…unique.” His tone comes measured, and he watches me, but dumbfounded, I just stare.

Connections?

Every mob movie I’ve seen parades through my mind. I wonder if Beth has those types of connections. I doubt it. But then again, she’s in contract law, not criminal. But Cole—strait-laced, tailored Cole—breaking the law he vowed to uphold…for me?

“What will they do?” I ask.

“What they do best. You don’t need to worry. It’s done.”

That might be so, but for every thought I shove aside, three appear in its place. “The car won’t be there. Slade would have taken it.”

“He won’t touch it now. Trust me. Or come near you, for that matter.”

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