One thing is certain: I am not in San Francisco.
I’m in pain.
My head throbs, and I’m still wearing my thin, flowered sundress from yesterday with my plush, beige coat on top. My feet are bare. Sand is stuck to my toes, and my mouth is so dry…
I must’ve fallen asleep in Metallicar. Now I’m racing down the highway with The Eagles playing in the background, “Doolin Dalton,” and a strange man is driving.
Blinking hard, I try to focus on him. Who is this guy?
His profile is chiseled. He has a perfectly straight nose and square jaw covered in a short, dark-brown beard. His hair is dark, but shiny with caramel highlights. It’s shaggy like he hasn’t had a haircut in a while—but who has these days?
He seems angry. His dark brow is lowered, and the muscle in the side of his jaw moves back and forth like he’s deep in thought. His heavy, light blue shirt reminds me of a uniform with the long sleeves rolled to his elbows. He grips the top of the steering wheel with one hand, flexing a powerful forearm. Dark ink swirls in a design on his skin, but I can’t make out his tattoo.
He’s so intensely focused and ridiculously hot. Even in my hungover state, I feel a tingle low in my belly at the sight of him. He’s all man, commanding and powerful, and I’m not sure I can look him straight in the eye.
I need to snap out of it. I shouldn’t be here—wherever I am… Where am I?
Yars is waiting for me at her apartment in Half Moon Bay, but it feels like we’re headed south.
Reaching out, I’m wobbly as I clutch the seat in front of me, easing myself to a sitting position. “Where am I?”
Light blue eyes hit mine in the rearview mirror, and it’s a jolt of electricity. The car jerks wildly to the right, and I go flying, slamming against the door with an oof.
“What the fuck?” He jerks the wheel to the left to get us back on track, and I bolt to the open window.
The entire bottle of wine I consumed last night is making a reappearance.
I hang out the door, as my stomach turns itself inside out, and my shoulders heave. Tears sting my eyes, and I’m so embarrassed.
I whimper, gripping the metal side of the door as the car quickly slows to a stop. I’m sure my face is a wreck, and I pull the sleeve of my coat over my hand, trying to dab at my eyes.
The driver’s door slams, and I hear the sharp crunch of boots on gravel just before the passenger’s side door jerks open. I almost fall.
“Get out.” It’s a sharp order, just short of a growl.
He’s waiting, and I’m doing my best to breathe normally.
“I’m sorry… I—”
A grip like a vise clamps around my upper arm, and he drags me out of the vehicle, dropping me in the dirt on the side of the road.
“What are you doing in this car?” He isn’t shouting, but anger crackles in his tone.
I say the first thing in my mind. “This is my car—”
“No, this is my car. I bought it.”
“Oh, God.” I rock back on my ass facing Metallicar.
He’s right, and I’m afraid I’m going to be sick again. I really don’t want to puke in front of this wildly gorgeous, hostile man.
It’s strangely quiet on the side of the freeway. Instead of cars racing past, the hum of birds and crickets fills the air between us as we breathe fast, facing each other.
Finally, he speaks, his wolf eyes narrowed. “Do you have the virus?”
“No…” I wince. Speaking hurts. “I-I had a bottle of wine.”
His hands drop from his hips, and he exhales sharply, stomping back to the car. “You got a phone?”
Feeling around, I find my phone in my pocket. He nods when he sees me lifting it out. “Call someone to come get you.”
He slides into the driver’s side and the engine roars to life as he slams the door.
Panic seizes my chest, and I jump to my feet, ignoring the flash of pain in my skull. “Wait! Please wait! I can’t call anybody!”
My phone is dead, and anyway, there’s no one to call.
I grab the open passenger’s window, jogging a few steps before he slams on the brakes and glares at me.
“Let go of the car.” Dust rises around us, and tears sting my eyes.
“You can’t leave me here.” My heart beats so fast, and I struggle to breathe normally. “I’m not wearing shoes…”
“Not my problem.”
He starts to go again, and I scream. “Wait! Please!”
Again, the tires grind to a stop, and blue fire smolders in his eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I’m sorry… I’m really sorry, but… you have to find it in your heart…” I’m trembling. My voice wavers. “You can’t leave me on the side of the road like this.”
Full lips press together, and he looks straight down the road in the direction we were headed.
Seconds like hours tick past. I’m sure he’s going to floor it, but instead his shoulders drop. His fist clenches on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t look at me. “I’ll take you as far as LA. You can get a ride or whatever there.”
My eyes slide shut, and I hold onto the side of Dad’s black car idling on the shoulder. Then reality hits me. A man I don’t even know is driving me to LA. What then? I have no money, no phone… No shoes.
“I’m not waiting forever,” he snaps. “Get in or stay here. Final call.”
I hesitate a bit too long, and the car starts to move.
“Okay!” I scream, and the car jerks to a stop.
Grabbing the door handle, I rush into the passenger’s side. As soon as the door slams, he floors it, sending my back against the leather and dirt and rocks flying into the space behind us.
It’s quiet inside except for the wind pushing around us. My hands are clutched in my lap, and Los Angeles rises up ahead. The Eagles continue to sing softly on the radio, and I press my lips together in the dry air swirling around us.
“Are you an actor?” My voice is like sandpaper.
The tiny muscles around his eyes flinch. “No.”
“But you live in LA?”
He cuts his eyes at me briefly. “No.”
We continue powering down the freeway. He’s letting Metallicar eat up the miles, and I feel the power—this car was built for speed. My eyes sting, and my head aches like someone hit it with a sledgehammer. I’d give my little toe for a bottle of water.
“Got anything to drink in here?”
He exhales in an irritated manner. “No.”
“Is that all you can say?”
Those ice-blue eyes flash at me, and my stomach flips. “No.”
I settle back against the seat, holding the sides of my skirt as I prop my bare feet on the dash.
He reaches over and shoves them down. “Feet on the floor.”
My jaw drops, and I catch myself, shifting upright as he rubs his palm over the spot where my feet had been. “Excuse me!”
“You’re excused.”
His hand returns to the steering wheel, and I cross my arms over my chest, studying his profile. He could be a movie star with that profile. His teeth are straight and white, and I can tell from the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders and down to his waist he works out. He’s rough around the edges, but he doesn’t look much older than thirty.