Page 46 of Deliverance

I snap out of the gruesome memory and walk over to the breakfast nook to snatch my car keys from the table. “I gotta be somewhere.” My voice cracks like a piece of glass under a heavy boot.

“No worries.” Julian gets the hint and heads outside. Seconds later, I can hear his van’s engine rumbling in unison with the engine of my Spyder as I pull out of my garage. My driveway can easily fit four cars and I level my ride with his and tip my chin up. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday.” He nods and steers his van toward the road.

I watch him go with both my hands on the wheel. I watch until the vehicle becomes a gray blur on the coastal highway, a dot moving against the blue backdrop of the Pacific.

My pulse roars in my ears and my foot on the gas pedal itches to slam it hard and fast. But there’s still some common sense left in me and I don’t want my neighbors seeing what I’m about to do. I don’t want these people with their perfect oceanside lives and their family dinners to know my secret. So I drive down the street, maintaining the legal speed limit. I drive until a fork in the road leads me to PCH, and there—on the endless stretch of hot asphalt among a sea of other cars—I let go.

Hills and palm trees zip past me in a blur as my Spyder begins to accelerate. I left the top down on purpose and now the wind slaps my skin with full force, spattering the hot rivulets of tears that stream down my cheeks. I jerk the gear lever and change lanes, aiming for the far left one. Old, faded images slither back into my mind and no matter how much I try to push them away, they won’t leave me alone, they won’t fucking go.

Sharp, searing pain shoots through my temples. I can’t tell if it’s real or just a trick of my sick imagination, because at this moment, everything is muddy and cluttered.

White-knuckled fingers tight around the leather of the steering wheel, I shift my gaze to the dashboard. A veil of wetness covers my eyes and I blink through it several times to see better.

The speedometer reads a hundred and ten per hour and my skin stings from contact with the air, my muscles spasming and my lungs out of breath.

I push on the gas, forcing the pedal all the way down. The car revs and jerks forward, leaving traces of burnt rubber on the highway behind me.

Faster, a voice in my head demands.

I oblige and switch lanes again to pass the Mercedes ahead of me.

A hundred and thirty.

Faster.

Someone honks a few times as I continue to veer my Spyder right and left, crisscrossing the road.

A hundred and forty.

Faster.

Eventually, I stop checking the speed and just keep driving, keep going forward. On and on. Until the shrewd sound of a siren punctures the chaos in my head and blue and red flashing across my rear-view mirror knocks me back to the present.

Reality slowly sets in.

Breathing hard, I pull over to the shoulder. My cheeks burn, my throat closing in. Both my phone and my license are at home.

“Fuck.” I wipe the moisture from my face with the back of my hand as the highway patrol vehicle comes to a stop a few yards back and reach for the visor to grab my shades.

Drew wasn’t kidding when she said the nature of the activity would remain a secret. The following morning, I get a cryptic text with an address and instructions toMeet me there at 7 pm. Nothing else.

As always, Friday afternoon traffic is annoyingly heavy and it takes me nearly three hours to get to L.A. Luckily, I spend this time productively. I choose to spin the last two Bleeding Faith albums in an attempt to memorize some of the parts that, in my opinion, should get a proper homage on the new record. It’s never beneath me to pay respects to the original drummer, and he deserves that respect. After all, there’s a reason Ashby’s nickname is “Thunderstorm.”

The place of my rendezvous with Drew is somewhere at the edge of downtown. It’s a six-story parking structure connected to an equally tall brick building, its huge windows devoid of any kind of life.

“This better not be a joke,” I mutter through gritted teeth as my gaze scans the macabre surroundings. The fact that the lot is only half-empty gives me some small hope.

What are you up to, Drew?

My mind is racing while I drive up the ramp to the top floor and I start to shiver from the onslaught of anxiety. This type of adrenaline—the same type that sent me flying down the highway yesterday and earned me a huge fucking speeding ticket—is dangerous. And destructive. And while I’ve figured out how to keep it contained, lately, this monster has been frequenting me against my will.

To my surprise, when I reach the roof, I’m greeted with a knot of people in flashy makeup and gleaming spandex and leather.

My twisted heart sings at the sight of the eccentricity.

This I can do!

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