Page 19 of Reclaim (Deadly Hearts 3)

They slow down to Driving Miss Daisy speed in the inside lane, and they are out of sight within seconds.

“What?” I ask, but don’t form a complete thought when Layton sits forward and wraps his hand around the driver’s neck. “Erm,” I mutter when the car veers wildly at a hundred miles per hour.

“Why have you split us up?” Layton snarls to the driver.

He grunts his response.

“Start speaking or I’m going to throttle you and when you pass out, we will all die in this car,” Layton growls.

“Uhm,” I stammer, not liking that plan. I do hope that Layton isn’t a hundred percent married to that, because I don’t want to be a motorway death statistic, and I’m wearing day old underwear, for fuck’s sake.

“Vinnie only wants Declan,” the driver chokes out.

“What for?” Layton says, not easing up on his hold, sending our car a bit too far over the line for my liking.

“There’s a p-price on his head…”

“What?” I snap. “No, no, no. We can’t deal with this now. Layton!” I bellow. “Do something!”

“I’m trying,” he grunts, wedging himself in between the two front seats and gripping the steering wheel.

“Un-unclip the seat belt,” he grunts, struggling with the driver.

“Oh, God, we’re going to die, we’re going to die, we’re going to die.”

“David! Seatbelt!” Layton bellows.

“Right,” I say and snap into action. I manage to get myself in between Layton’s bulk and the car seat, unclipping the driver from his safety net.

“Door,” Layton says, his hand slipping on the steering wheel.

“Oh, Jesus,” I murmur and cram my arm into the small space between the seat and the side of the car. After fumbling for a few moments, I manage to get my hand on the door handle and give it a quick yank.

The door flies open, causing the driver and Layton to fight over the steering wheel. We swing from side to side, horns blaring at us, and causing absolute mayhem. The police will be here any minute.

“Move,” Layton grunts and I duck out of the way.

He gives the driver a huge shove and lets him go, pushing the rest of him out of the car with one hand and boot, while he keeps his other hand on the steering wheel. The driver hits the tarmac and rolls to the side to avoid being run over by the car behind but there is no way he isn’t injured as fuck.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I bellow when Layton somehow, against the laws of physics, squashes himself into the driver’s seat and takes over complete control of the vehicle, which has slowed down to half the speed with no foot on the accelerator.

He leans out of the moving vehicle to grab the door handle, yanking it closed.

“Excuse me while I barf,” I murmur and flop down on the back seat, my heart hammering, my head spinning and nausea rising.

“You okay, Sunshine?” Layton asks after a minute, where he has pulled us over to the inside lane and is traveling now at a speed that a bike could keep up with.

“No,” I groan and with relief, he pulls over onto the hard shoulder and stops.

I open the back door and then throw up whatever was in my stomach from the day before and wish for one moment, just one, that my life was a little less Rubi-fied.

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