Page 126 of Slay Ride

The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Love? Well, yeah. I’m married, ain’t I?” He raises his left hand, revealing an aged gold band, scuffed with time.

“How did you know you loved her?”

The man shrugs. “Fuck, I dunno. She said she loved me. I said it back. We’ve been saying it for twenty years now.”

“That doesn’t tell me a fucking thing.” I flop back.

“I don’t know what you were expecting, buddy. I got no sage advice. You either love somebody or you don’t.” He shrugs again. “Why does it always gotta be some big production? You need fireworks? Explosions?”

He lets out a laugh that claws against my psyche.

But as I mull over his words, I’m forced to acknowledge how right he is. Maybe love isn’t what romantics paint it to be. Maybe it’s just a choice you make one day, and then you keep making that choice for every day after. Maybe it’s really that simple.

And maybe I love Cat.

“Fuck.” I slam my fist against the leather seat. “Turn the car around. I forgot something.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you don’t even know if you love the girl?—”

“I’m sure. I love her. Now turn around or I’ll slit your fucking throat!”

His eyes widen, his mouth closes, and he brings the limo to a stop before initiating a twenty-point turn.

If loving someone means choosing to love someone, then I choose to love her, but if I want that same love in return, I have to give her the choice. To love me, even when I’m not strong. To love me, even when I’m unemployed. To love me, even when I’m me.

And if I’m choosing to love her for the rest of my life, I want her to meet my mother at least once.

I check my watch. It’s been over a half hour since Ezra slid that letter into my hand. Cat probably knows I’ve left by now, but she’ll have to settle for an apology on the drive to the airport. We don’t have time for anything else.

I lean forward once more to urge the driver to step on it. That’s when a massive shadow steps onto the road, and everything goes dark.

Chapter Fifty-One

Cat

Iclutch Kindra’s waist as the snowmobile barrels down the side of the road. We chose this instead of the sleigh, figuring we could possibly catch them. The horses’ hooves aren’t meant for icy roads, but snowmobiles thrive on the snowy conditions. We don’t drive on the road, though. Kindra sticks to the shoulder, where the snow is thick enough to support the vehicle’s weight.

Twenty minutes into our speedrun, she slows the snowmobile as lights brighten the road ahead of us. I’m shocked that we’ve caught up to them so quickly, but then I peer around her shoulder and spot a massive moose lying in the middle of the road.

And to our right, with its back half wedged in a snowbank, is the limo.

“Bennett!” I scream.

I leap from the back of the snowmobile and rush toward the accident. A crumpled mess of mangled metal releases tendrils ofsteam at the front of the limo. Brown fur clings to the point of impact. Stepping closer, I see the driver.

His head lolls at an unnatural angle. Well, half of it does. He’s either missing a chunk of his forehead or it’s been pushed to the back of his brain. Peering through the shattered glass, I search for any sign of Bennett, but I don’t see him.

“Help me dig!” I shout to Kindra.

She hurries over, and like two psychotic hounds, we begin shoveling fistfuls of snow away from the back doors. When we finally have enough clearance, I wrench the door open and look inside.

Bennett slumps in his seat. A large knot protrudes from the right side of his head. He must have been knocked unconscious. At least, I hope he’s just unconscious.

“What do we do?” I plead with Kindra. “We aren’t supposed to move him, right? But what if he’s cold? What if he needs CPR?”

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