Page 2 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

The devil must suffer for what he did. It’s only fitting that Bal Harbour, Florida’s small suburb, sees their golden boy run from the sheriff’s little sister.

Brian will be pissed when he hears about this, but frankly, I don’t give a single shit. Chadwick Tane needs to be taught a lesson. You don’t spend five years of your life with someone you swore to marry after you won the World Drivers’ Championship Trophy only to dump her right before one of the biggest races of the season.

That’s low, even for Chad.

But whatever, I’m over it—well, I will be after I clip him with my car.

“Run, you lying bastard!”

I punch the gas, whipping around the corner as the bastard bobs and weaves through the parked cars until he finally runs out of breath and stops between two of them. He thinks he’s protected, but he makes a fatal mistake by flashing me an arrogant smirk while simultaneously flipping me off, which really switches my crazy into high gear.

I rev the engine and back down the aisle to gain momentum, but just as I put the car in gear, a truck rams into me from the side, pinning me between them and the parked cars. Eleanor, my car, groans and hisses as her metal body takes a crushing blow.

“Dammit!” I shout at the wide-eyed driver who clearly wasn’t paying attention to the circus around him. “You wrecked my car!”

Like it was all Eleanor could take, she sputters a few times before her engine dies completely.

I point to the jackass in the truck. “You better hope I can fix this.”

I care about two things in this world: racing and Eleanor. Apart from those things, nothing else matters—not even Chad. I knew deep down he wasn’t the one, but I had hoped thingswould change. “The one” never loved me like I did him. It's hard to let go of the love of your life when he leaves without offering any closure.

The only good thing that came out of that relationship was Eleanor, which?—

“Get out of the car with your hands up.”

Dammit.

I sigh, glancing in the review mirror, spotting a cop car and a familiar face. I guess fuck boy is getting away without my car up his ass after all. Bummer.

“I’m getting out, Smithie! Lower your fucking gun before you slip and shoot your foot again.” My brother tends to hire deputies who use their guns about as much as I use matte lipstick—never.

“Lola!” Smithie’s shocked voice shames me for about 2.5 seconds before my anger at Chad sets back in. “Didn’t your brother tell you to leave Chad alone?”

Brian did say that, but we were drinking, and I was threatening Chad with bodily harm. Brian was obligated as the county sheriff to tell me to leave him alone. I didn’t take it as an official warning. Though, maybe I should have. I could have saved us all from this cozy little reunion.

“Smithie,” I call out, “now is not the time for lectures.” I try the handle of the door, intending to get out like Smithie demanded, but it’s jammed. “The door won’t open. I need your help.”

I don’t know where Chad’s ass disappeared to, but I bet the little turd is loving my predicament right now.

“I’ll call for backup.” Smithie weakly informs me. It’s as if he’s unsure whether he’s supposed to help his boss’s sister or keep his gun trained on her.

“Maybe I can crawl through the window,” I suggest desperately. “Just don’t shoot me, okay?”

Smithie barely passed his gun certification test this year, so I’m not so much worried about my safety but more about the safety of others. If he fired, he’d likely hit all these lovely people who have gathered in the parking lot to watch this shitshow unfold. This small town rarely sees any action. This is like a fancy Hollywood premiere for them, and unfortunately, all eyes are on the star of the show—me.

Before Smithie can even answer, a fire truck pulls up, and sirens cut through the air. Great, now the fire department is here. I didn’t think this could be more of a spectacle than it already was, but it seems I was mistaken. The doors swing open, and a bunch of firefighters jump out, but one in particular catches my eye. He's tall and lean, with a face that could launch a thousand ships. And he's smiling at me, even though I'm pretty sure I look like a hot mess.

Please don’t come over here. Send one of the less-hot firefighters to help me. You don’t need to see this.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” His eyes focus on my pajama-clad legs.

It’s the smoking-hot firefighter. Because of course, it would be him. I’m hoping it’s a good sign that his helmet shield has a 13 on it.

I base my entire life decisions on my lucky number thirteen.

It has never steered me wrong.

Until today.

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