Page 13 of Victorious: Part 2
But the truth is, part of me agrees with her.
Part of me has been screaming to turn around since the moment we lost contact.
But I have a job to do.
“Get back in the truck,” I growl, finally.
“Phoenix—”
“Get. In. The truck, Clover. We’re going to Vegas.”
Her face crumples, and I hate myself for being the one to put that look of betrayal in her eyes. But I made a promise to her brother, and I amnotbreaking it.
Even if she hates me for it.
Letting out a dramatic huff, she climbs into the passenger seat without another word, Dracula settling in her lap as if he’s siding with her on this one. The silence that fills the truck as we pull back onto the highway is different from before. It’s heavier, more toxic.
This isn’t just tension.
This isresentment.
The hostility in the truck is colder than ice as we drive for another hour, the desert landscape slowly giving way to more populated areas as we approach the Nevada border. The sun is setting, painting the sky in a glorious sunset, and under different circumstances, it would be a nice way for Clover and me to connect.
But every mile feels as though we’re crossing a line we can’t come back from.
My phone finally chirps with an incoming signal as we hit the outskirts of a small town, and both our heads snap toward the sound like we’re being attacked.
Clover lunges for her phone, hope blazing across her face, but it dims just as quickly.
“Just a roaming notice,” she whispers quietly. “No messages.”
The silence that follows is deafening, so I do my best to quash it.
“There’s a rest stop coming up,” I say, mostly just to fill the silence that’s been extending for too long. “We should stretch our legs… hit the facilities.”
She nods once, her eyes fixed straight ahead, unmoving. Not even a glance in my direction. But somehow, her silence isdeafening. It’s louder than if she’d screamed at me, louder than any words she could hurl.
I know why she’s angry.
Because I haven’t turned us around.
Because I haven’t chosen her side.
But she doesn’t see the weight I’m carrying.
She doesn’t feel the promise pressing against my ribs, comparable to a loaded gun, with Maverick’s voice ringing in my head like a war drum.
Protect her.
Even if it means she’ll never forgive me.
I’ll carry that.Gladly.Because taking Clover back to LA, back into that mess, back into the goddamn Cartel’s sights?
That’s not protection.
That’s adeath sentence.
I pull into the rest stop, and it’s busier than expected. Kids spilling out of SUVs, truckers nursing lukewarm coffee, travelers leaning on their cars with road-weary faces.
