Page 96 of Poetry By Dead Men
"Let’s go," he says as soon as he walks off stage, handing his guitar over and putting a protective arm around my shoulders.
Sam hands Bobby a bag. “Take the west exit. A car is waiting for you. There’s a disturbance at the east concord I’m going to go check out. With any luck, we’ll catch him there, and I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
My stomach swirls with nerves as we hurry through the back halls of the venue, stopping when we come upon a nondescript door, and Bobby pushes it open, peeking his head through before pulling us outside.
A black SUV is waiting for us, and I breathe a little easier. The driver gets out and opens my door, and I slide in quickly, keeping my head down. "I’ll take it from here," Bobby says, and the driver pauses. He looks nervous, his brow glistening with sweat and his eyes darting around. "But Sam said—"
"I know what Sam told you. But if someone’s after Beth, then no one will be driving her but me. Tell Sam I insisted. I’ll take the blame."
The driver looks like he wants to argue, but Bobby clears his throat, holding his hand out for the keys.
"Yes, sir," the driver hands them over and slips inside the door to the venue, likely to tell Sam exactly where Bobby is and that it's not his fault he's not the one driving us to the hotel.
Bobby locks the doors as soon as we get in, then looks in the rearview and side mirrors, making sure we're alone.
"This feels a little dramatic, doesn't it?" I joke, trying to lighten the mood. But really, his nerves seem appropriate, and the reminders of why are all over my body. Maybe we're worrying for nothing.
But maybe we’re not.
I'll kill you, for this.
His parting threat circles through my mind, and I shiver.
"Let's go, please," I say, buckling my seatbelt. I slide the shoulder strap around my back as I lean down to grab my phone from my purse.
Bobby checks the mirrors once more, then puts the car into drive. The relief I feel once we're moving is almost instant.
Bobby’s jaw stays clenched tight. He squeezes the steering wheel, his eyes darting around nervously.
As Bobby pulls the car onto the interstate, I shuffle through the stations on the radio, trying to find something calm and serene to help slow my heart rate, but nothing helps. I don’t think I’ll feel safe until we’re behind a locked door at the hotel.
Bobby changes lanes a few times, shifting in his seat as he glances in his rearview mirror repeatedly.
"Bobby, it’s fine—" I start, but as I look up at him and his white-knuckle grip, I pause.
"Someone’s following us." Bobby says quietly, as if trying to keep whoever it is from hearing him.
"What?" I twist in my seat to look, but Bobby pushes me back down.
"Stay down," he orders as he presses the accelerator, so instead, I lean over to look in the side mirror. Bobby changes lanes, and sure enough, the car behind us does as well.
"What do we do?" my voice comes out high pitched, hysterical, and I take a deep breath. The car appears to be black, but it's impossible to see through the windshield, though I can make out a vague outline behind the driver’s side. Whoever it is swerves back and forth, and is driving so close, I can’t even see the car's headlights. A lump of fear works its way up my throat.
Bobby pulls the shoulder strap from where I'd moved it behind me back across my chest, using one hand to make sure the belt is tight. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "Get Sam on speakerphone," he says, unwilling to take his hands off the steering wheel again as he maneuvers around a minivan in front of us.
I do exactly as he says, my hands shaking as I grab his phone and press Sam's name in his contact list. Sam answers on the first ring. "Bobby, why the hell didn’t you let Phil drive you?"
Bobby ignores him. "There’s a black sedan following us. Did you get Harrison?"
"It was a false alarm. Someone discharged a fire extinguisher, but they were gone when I got there. What do you mean someone's following you?" Sam's voice is sharp, and I picture him pacing. A car door slams on the other end of the phone.
Bobby's knuckles go impossibly whiter on the steering wheel. "I noticed them when I pulled onto the main street from the venue. They followed me on the interstate and every move since. He’s driving erratically. Right on my tail."
The car behind us swerves to the right, but I can’t tell if he’s trying to pass us on the shoulder or simply losing control of the vehicle. The sound of metal on metal crunches from behind us as our car lurches forward, and I cling desperately to the armrest, my fingernails making imprints in the leather.
"Shit! He's ramming us from behind," Bobby tells Sam as the car jerks violently to the right. I let out a hiss of pain as my injured elbow slams against the side of the door.
"Shit!" Bobby yells again, looking in the rearview. "Sam, he’s trying to run us off the road." The car slams into us again, and I hold ina scream. Bobby presses his foot to the accelerator, speeding up and merging between cars to change lanes, but there aren’t enough people on the road to put space between us and the car trying to kill us. He’s behind us again in a second, and Bobby slams his hands on the steering wheel. "Sam!"
