Page 122 of Dating Goals
“Sorry about that,” I mutter, then drive my knee into his groin.
I hear Ivy’s front door opening again. “Anika?” James calls out.
The distraction costs me. The second man, still on the ground, grabs my ankle with both hands. I lose my balance, hitting the sidewalk hard. Pain flares through my elbow and hip. I kick upward, catching him squarely in the jaw. His head snaps back with a satisfying crack.
Lights flick on in neighboring houses. A dog starts barking. The syringe man is recovering from the blow to his family jewels, and I’ve run out of time for this nonsense.
I sprint down the street, my dress hiked up to my thighs. Behind me, I hear cursing in three different languages. My lungs burn as I round the corner, scanning frantically for somewhere to hide. A noise behind me. They’re giving chase. I dart between parked cars, zigzagging through the residential neighborhood to lure them away from Ivy’s house.
A motorcycle engine roars to life behind me. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see both men mounting black bikes.
Then, headlights illuminate the street ahead. The unmistakable synthesizer of “Don’t You Want Me” growinglouder as the lights get closer. A sleek black Bugatti screeches to a halt beside me, passenger door flying open.
Griffin. The absolute idiot didn’t leave after all. He leans across the seats, his expression dead serious for once.
“Need a ride?”
I dive into the car without hesitation. “Go!”
I barely have time to slam the door before Griffin floors the accelerator, sending me slamming back into the leather seat. The Bugatti leaps forward with a growl.
“You came back,” I gasp.
“I was circling the block,” Griffin admits, eyes locked on the road.
The Bugatti’s engine screams, gaining speed, straight toward the motorcycles.
“Are you insane?” I shriek, clutching the dashboard. “They’re right in front of us!”
“Trust me,” Griffin says with disturbing calm.
At the last possible second, motorcyclists’ wrench their handlebars in opposite directions, tires smoking as they skid sideways, barely missing us. Griffin whips the wheel, drifting around the corner as the centrifugal force presses me against the door.
“Seatbelt,” Griffin reminds me cheerfully, as if we’re headed to Sunday brunch instead of fleeing hired goons.
I fumble with the buckle, finally clicking it into place as we take another corner. “Who are those guys?”
“Probably Chase’s men,” Griffin says, checking the rearview mirror. “He wasn’t happy about losing all that money.”
“You think?” The sarcasm drips from my voice.
The motorcycles appear behind us, gaining ground. Griffin floors it, sending us hurtling down a narrow residential street.
Griffin grins, dimples making an appearance. “You’re cute when you’re scared.”
“I am not scared,” I snap. “I’m terrified.”
The Human League fades out and Yaz’s “Only You” fills the car with its melancholy synthesizer. My heart does a ridiculous little flip at the familiar opening notes.
“Is this…”
“Oh, just a playlist I made for you,” Griffin admits, keeping his eyes on the road. “Songs to Make Anika Ditch Her Boring Date. I may have spent three hours crafting the perfect 80s mix to lure you away from Thomas.”
Something warm, and dangerously close to affection, spreads through my chest. This ridiculous man made me a mixtape. Like we’re teenagers in 1985.
“You planned to serenade me with Yaz?” I ask, trying not to sound as touched as I feel. “Do you have a boom box and a trench coat in the trunk?”
“Maybe. Wait until you hear track fourteen. It’s ‘Somebody’ by Depeche Mode.”
