Page 56 of Boy of Ruin
I grab onto the handrail, my other arm darting out to his.
“Hold on tight, baby,” he says softly, shifting gears.
“What are you—” I stop abruptly as I realize exactly what the fuck he’s doing. He’s driving on the cement median, edged between a concrete divider and the line of fucking cars to my right.
My mouth falls open as I watch the angry expressions of the people sitting in their own cars that we fly by. Traffic is moving freely opposite the divider, and I keep waiting for blue lights to flash in the mirror or ahead of us, but Jeremiah doesn’t seem to share my fucking concern.
I look dead ahead, see a truck swerving out to look at what’s causing the traffic jam. I open my mouth to scream, my heart flying in my chest as Jeremiah makes no move to slow the fuck down.
We’re going to hit that truck.
We’re going to hit that truck and, in this car, we’re going to be the ones hurt.
Jeremiah curses under his breath in a language I don’t know, still refusing to slow down, but at the last minute, the truck must see us coming and he jerks back into line with the other cars, laying on the horn as we fly past.
My nails are digging into Jeremiah’s skin, my heart pounding painfully in my chest. But there’s something else, too, under the fear. An adrenaline rush, heady and intoxicating.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” I ask anyway, my mouth hanging open as I turn to stare at him.
“You tellin’ me you didn’t like that?” he asks without looking at me as he keeps racing down the median, past the stopped traffic, his eyes darting to the line of cars every so often, I assume to ensure we don’t almost smash into another fucking truck.
I’m breathing hard, my hand still clenched tight around the handle above the door.
“I don’t know,” I admit, a little breathless. Then my eyes widen as I see the source of the slowdown. “There’s a cop!” I screech out.
Jeremiah just laughs under his breath, but this time, he slows down, downshifting as we see three cop cars and an ambulance blocking one lane. The one we’re closest too.
There’s a smashed van, a smaller car flipped upside down.
My breath catches in my throat as Jeremiah slides effortlessly in front of a yellow Mustang, cutting it close, having to brake hard to stop us from slamming into the Honda in front of us.
But he does it.
He stops.
No cops come our way. I sit up straighter, trying to look over the tops of the vehicles in front of us, but if a police officer saw what we did, they don’t seem to care. They’re too busy tending to the wreck.
Jeremiah laughs, and that sound is fucking delicious. “You can get your nails out of my arm now,” he purrs.
I realize I’m still gripping him tight enough to draw blood.
I let go, releasing the handle, too.
But just as I do, his hand leaves the gearshift and yanks mine over to his thigh, the rich fabric of his black tailored pants beneath my palm.
I swallow down the lump in my throat, his hand dwarfing mine.
“You like that?” he asks me again, quietly.
I look up, meeting his gaze as we wait in traffic, much closer now to freedom. To the two lanes on this side of the highway that open up beyond the accident.
“I think so,” I manage to whisper, knowing that’s a lie. I loved it. It was a thrill, like running. It was…fun.
He dips his chin, looking down at me through his long lashes. “Yeah?”
I nod, biting my lip.
He slides my hand up higher on his pants. My blood is on fire, my ribcage feeling tight, like I can’t quite draw enough air in.
