Page 15 of Victorious: Part 2
Gravel gives way to pavement as I charge down the shoulder. My boots slap the ground with brutal force, my muscles burning as I propel myself toward my damn truck.
She’s not gunning it—not yet.
Not with the weight of her equipment in the back and Dracula in her lap, but the seconds are slipping through my fingers like sand.
Fifty feet.
Dracula’s yowl cuts through the air, similar to a battle cry, and I almost choke on a bitter laugh.
“Shut up, you furry traitor,” Clover’s voice carries across the open stretch, frustration laced with something else—panic.The truck wobbles slightly, her attention split between driving and a pissed-off cat clawing at her chest, and it’s just enough.
Forty feet.
The lactic acid building in my legs feels as though it’s eating me from the inside out as I push harder and faster to get to my damn truck, attempting to speed off down the highway, but the traffic is heavy.
Thirty.
My lungs are on fire. Sweat stings my eyes. I’ve never run this hard in my life. Not in Defiance battles, not running from the cops. Not even when I was escaping the fallout of the Steel Serpents.
But this?This is survival.
Because if she gets away,I lose her.
Not just physically.
I lose her trust.
Her faith.
Her.
Twenty feet.
A kid goes to step out onto the street in front of her, and she slams on the brakes like a madwoman. The rear of the truck fishtails slightly, the tires smoking as I increase my speed while the kid stares at her through the windshield. Clover yells at her to get out of the way, waving her hands about like a person possessed.
Clover’s eyes meet mine in the rearview as I gain on her, but then she turns back to the street ahead and floors it.
“Fuck, Clo!”I scream, pushing harder to reach her, racing past the kid who’s staring at me as I pass her in awe.
But I know I have to do something dramatic.
The tailgate is down, begging me to make my move.
Ten.
You have to jump, Wes!
With all my might, I launch myself off the ground like a goddamn missile, heart crashing against my ribs, every muscle screaming as the wind rips past my ears. My body slams onto the tailgate, knees buckling with the impact, and I lurch forward, hands scraping across the truck bed, my skin instantly tearing with the force as the momentum throws me toward the side, my legs flailing with the momentum swing.
The metal sears hot against my palms. Instant friction burns as equipment slams into me from every side, bruising my ribs while I scramble to stay upright.
Inside the cab, Clover screams.“What the fuck, Wes?”
Fueled with adrenaline and anger, I drag myself over camera bags and Pelican cases, crawling toward the cab as if I’mcrossing a damn battlefield. Dust stings my throat as it swirls around the truck like a tornado. The wind shoves against me as though it’s trying to force me off the back and fight for Clover’s freedom.
“Pull over,” I demand.“Clover, stop the goddamn truck!”I shout.
“No,” she screams back, wild and breathless.
