Page 19 of Sweet Heat

“I can’t decide which shoes to wear,” I explain, waving toward the two different pairs.

He grunts with irritation, then swoops down, grabs the black shoes, and pushes them into my arms. “Put them on. No one gives adamn what you wear on your feet. They care about the players being at the draft ON TIME.” The emphasis on the last words hits me like a physical blow. Right—tonight is all about them—not me being on TV. It’s always about them. The stars, not their irritating little sister, whom they’ve dragged to a billion games over the last year alone.

Tears fill my eyes, but I do as he says, putting on the stupid black shoes and trudging down the front stairs to our waiting limo.

Everyone is inside, and although the adults smile at me as I get in, the glowering faces of my brother and Miller make me shrink. Their anger makes me tremble in my seat, and I pull out my phone, trying to hide behind the screen from their glares.

“We’re cutting it really close because someone had to change their outfit a hundred times,” Owen tells the driver after he lowers the partition. “Do you know any quicker routes?”

“Yeah. I can do that. I’ll get you there on time,” the driver promises.

“Step on it,” Miller barks, and the driver responds instantly, peeling out of the driveway fast enough to make the tires squeal.

Emma: I think the gold.

Damnit—not even my shoes are right. It’s all too much. Everyone is mad at me. The tension in the limo is so high that I can’t help the tears that spill over my lids, tracking down my cheeks. I don’t want them to see.

“Oh, honey,” Shirly, Miller’s mom, says, bending forward to grab my hands. Her sweet perfume tickles my nose, and her long, elegant black hair sweeps forward. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen—and the nicest, too. An omega through andthrough, her empathic nature is just like my mom’s. She needs to soothe my hurts. “It’s all right. We’ll be there in time.”

But she was so very wrong…

“Whenever you’re ready, just go ahead and adjust the mirrors so you can see,” Bert reminds me, and I force myself to focus—not sure how long we’ve been sitting on this nearly deserted street.

Shallow, quick breaths fill the car as my trembling fingers reach up to swivel the rearview mirror. I move it to what I think is the right position, but hell, what do I know?

“All right, dear, we’re going to take this nice and slow. Do you know which pedal is the gas and which is the brake?”

“Y-Yes,” I tell him, clenching the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white from the stress. My eyes scan the road before me, the black tar threatening to swallow me down into the pits of hell.

“Great, let’s just place it in drive and take your foot off the brake. We can start at a very slow speed. Just keep to the right, and everything will be great.” He watches me intently, his gaze piercing the side of my face, and I want to do as he says. I really do, but my body just won’t move.

“But there are birds in the street,” I inform him, watching the little sparrows play in the road.

“That’s okay. Just go slowly; they’ll fly out of the way,” he says, shifting the car for me instead of waiting.

What happened to all his ‘when you’re ready’ bullshit?

The car lurches forward, moving toward the happy birds, and freaking Bert leans back in his seat, rests his palms behind his head, and closes his eyes like he’s heading off to Dreamland.

“What are you doing?” I shriek, jamming my foot on what I think is the brake. Instead of stopping, the car rushes forward, flying straight toward the tiny creatures. My heart pounds, blood roars in my ears, and I twist the wheel, causing the car to bank up onto the curb.

With surprising speed, Bert takes control, guiding the car down and bringing us to a stop with a chuckle.

“Well, that’s not exactly what I told you to do. But let’s try again…” The adrenaline spiking through my veins wants no part of this. No trying again. Panic racing through me, I fumble at the door, suddenly gasping for air.

Get out. Get out. Get OUT.

Little black dots blink in my vision, but no matter what I do, I can’t force oxygen into my lungs. The faint reminder of the scent of burning rubber is all I get as utter terror completely consumes me. Shoving frantically, I finally throw the car door open and attempt to scramble out, but the seatbelt traps me in. Every pull makes it tighten like a noose.

Bert is yelling.

But this car is a cage. I need to get free.

Writhing like a trapped animal in my seat, I fight against the restraint.

The world gets hazy, and my eyes roll. Suddenly two big hands enter my swimming vision, unclip the belt, and yank me from the death trap.

Chapter Eleven

---