Page 51 of Lock Me Out

“What’s happening?” Leni’s panicked question rings out in my head as I push the pedal to the floor, and we only pick up speed, rolling downhill toward a small lake at the center of a large business park.

“Colt!” Nix shouts, like that’s going to help. Like I’m doing any of this on purpose.

There’s only one thing I can do. “Hold on!” I bark, steering us off the road while Leni screams beside me and crosses her arms over her face.

Before we run head-on into a tree that brings us to a sudden, shattering stop and makes my head hit the wheel.

23

LENI

This has to be a nightmare.But I don’t think I’ve ever had a nightmare this vivid. One second, we were rolling down the street like normal, and the next, we were careening down the hill before Colt steered us into a tree. For a second, before the impact, when it was clear we were going to crash, I thought it was the end.

Then the airbag hit me, or I hit it. We hit each other.

I can’t keep up with what’s happening. Clawing the airbag away from my face, the first thing I see is crumpled metal and broken glass. Colt’s airbag deployed, too, and I’m surprised not to hear him cursing and groaning.

In fact, I don’t hear anything from him.

“Colt!” I turn to him, then gasp when I see him slumped over the wheel with the deflated airbag around him. “Oh, my god! Colt? Colt! Wake up!” I want to touch him, but I’m afraid to. What if he hurt his neck? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember hearing you’re not supposed to move someone with a neck injury.

“Oh, fuck.” Nix groans behind me, his voice deep and raspy, sort of thick, like he’s a little dazed. “Is he okay? Are you?”

Looking back at him, I gasp again at the blood running down the side of his face that isn’t scarred. “You’re cut!”

“I’ll live.” He leans over the seat to look at Colt, nudging him, but it’s no use. He touches his fingers to the side of Colt’s neck, and I hold my breath, frozen in fear.

“He should be fine,” Nix announces. “Just out cold. Probably hit his head. He might have a concussion.”

“Oh my god, he has to go to a hospital. We have to get to a hospital!” I’m panicking. I know I am. Some part of me that’s still capable of thinking knows that. Like I’m standing outside myself, witnessing all of this from a distance.

“And I need to get out of here,” Nix says, already opening his door.

“What? No! You need help, too!”

“I can’t go to the hospital for help. Remember?” Right. I’m not thinking clearly. He’s not even supposed to be alive.

“But what if you’re hurt worse than you know?”

“I’m not. I have a cut on the side of my head. I’m fine. I’m going back to my apartment to get cleaned up.”

We both go silent and still when a car pulls up on the other side of the road and comes to a stop. “Shit. I have to go, now,” he whispers. Before I know it, he’s out of the car and is making his way through the woods further ahead from where we crashed, out of sight by the time the driver of the other car reaches us.

“I called for an ambulance,” the guy says. “They’re on the way. We should get you out of the car—a fire could start.”

What if Colt can’t be moved, though? “My boyfriend. He’s unconscious. He might be hurt badly.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

A broken sob bursts out of me when I hear Colt’s voice.

“Oh my god,” I whimper, running a hand over the side of his face as he lifts his head from the steering wheel. “I was so scared. Be careful, Colt,” I tell him as he starts unbuckling his seatbelt. There’s smoke coming from under the hood, and the sight chills my blood.

“Nix?” Colt tries to turn his head to look into the back seat.

“Come on, pal. We’ve got to get you out of there.” The Good Samaritan opens the driver’s side door while I open mine and step out on legs that feel like they’re made of rubber. Where did Nix go? Peering into the dark woods, I can’t see him—he’s good at hiding, too.

Colt groans as he climbs out of the car. I force myself to stop looking for Nix in the shadows and round the car to wrap an arm around his waist, wedging my shoulder under his armpit. Can I bear his weight? Probably not, but I need to feel like I’m helping him somehow.

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