Chapter One
Collin
Call me the king of precaution. I’ve always taken meticulous care with relationships, my work—even the mundane tasks. But precautions are like vitamins. You can take them all you want, and you still might get the bird flu.
It’s early Monday morning, and I am driving toward downtown St. Louis. The traffic requires all my defensive driving skills—watching the car in front of me for erratic braking, a blinker on too long, no blinker usage at all.
Of course, precaution doesn’t matter when a car hits me from behind and delivers a morning cocktail of chaos and crunching metal.
The sudden impact slams my car ten yards past the stop sign. My head whips back and the seatbelt clamps hard across my chest. Every muscle in my body seizes, a futile act to stop my moving car.
My foot presses the brake like I’m stopping a train.
I let off the brake, pull the car to the side of the road, and check the rearview. The other driver hasn’t moved. My hands shake as I unbuckle and get out.
When I make it to the car behind me, I’m not a bit surprised to discover it’s a woman. My mother and ex-fiancé are both volatile multi-taskers and distracted-all-to-hell drivers. Casual collectors of traffic citations.
The blonde chick stares through the glass, her clear blue eyes wary.
“Are you okay?” I grab the door handle to find it’s locked.
You can’t tell a book by its cover or, in this case, a driver by her clunker. She’s a real babe. Honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves around her heart-shaped face. Full cherry lips. Light tan skin with a faint smattering of freckles over her nose.
Songs are written about faces like hers. And those foolish songwriters won’t discover the truth about women until it’s too late.
“Are you hurt?” I yell to be heard above the obnoxious honking by a morning commuter rubbernecking at ten miles per hour. The driver deserves a one-fingered salute.
The girl won’t get out of her car. “I’m calling to report it. “ I inch closer to her door. My finger rests on my cell touchscreen.
“No, wait. Don’t call.”
I glance up at the nervous jangle in her voice.
She throws open her car door with a loud squeak of hinges, and the door bangs into my thighs, barely missing a full impact on my nuts.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Thoughts of throttling this girl flash hot in my brain. She’s definitely dangerous to the unsuspecting commuter. I step back into the road to protect myself from this driving, walking, hot mess.
“Don’t call the police.” She flashes a timid smile. “I’ll fix your car. I will. No problem.”
“Yes, you will.” I nod, grinding my teeth. Do not be conned by this pretty face. “The cops will write a report and my insurance company will give yours a call.”
“You can’t call it in,” she says.
My finger’s poised on the phone’s 911 keys. I raise one eyebrow at her declaration. “Watch me.”
Her blue eyes go wide. “Please. You can’t.”
She snakes out a hand to my phone, as if she believes she can actually wrestle it away from me.
I shake my head at the tremor in her voice. For the love of weak men everywhere, don’t cry. “Nope. Don’t even think about turning on the tears.”
The morning sun beats down on my head, warning that today will be a scorcher. Between my rising blood pressure and the heat, I’ll be a sweaty mess at my morning meeting. I turn toward my vehicle and respond to the operator.
The Audi is a college graduation present from dear old Dad. A bribe not-in-disguise. I’ve hated the car since the day I folded my fingers around the new, shiny keys. Maybe the angry scrape belongs on the bumper, a mar signifying how ugly the gift is to me.
“Collin Cordova. I’ve been involved in an accident. A car rear—”
The oily sputter of an engine starting behind me grabs my attention. The girl pulls her car from the shoulder and drives past me.
I swear she mouths, “I’m sorry,” as a cloud of black smoke billows behind the car.
“No way,” I mutter under my breath. “She did not drive off.”
“Sir, are you still there?” The operator’s voice cuts through my haze of disbelief. “The lunatic drove away,” I say as much to myself as the operator. The license plate sports an inch of grime, making it impossible to read.
“Sir, if you’ll tell me your location, I’ll send an officer over so you can file a report.” The operator’s monotone voice hints at boredom.
In the distance, black exhaust continues to pour from the lunatic’s car, and I might be able to follow the smoke signals to hunt her down, but it’s not worth it.
I take another glance at my watch. “You know what? I need to be somewhere. Thank you.” I hang up on the operator and stare at the retreating car in the distance.
I silently wish a load of karma on people like her.
Three hours later, I leave my meeting at the Baldore building in downtown St. Louis in a much better mood. I make a turn onto a less traveled highway heading toward the house I rent with a couple of guys, Jordy and Dylan. I’m driving along a deserted strip of road. This part of my commute is between an interstate and the next section of the suburbs. There’s not a gas station or house for miles.
I see a woman on the side of the road. A person walking is an unusual sight this far from the city. She’s wearing tight, faded jeans and a tighter red T-shirt. My brain clicks with a recognition that ignites my dormant temper.
I drive past and gawk. It’s the driver from this morning. She’s got a hitchhiker’s thumb out. I glare into my rearview mirror. She’s now trying to hitch a ride. Doesn’t she realize how dangerous that is? I quickly swerve to the shoulder of the road, spraying gravel in my wake.
I wonder if she’ll turn and make a run for it when she realizes it’s me. She’s still walking, her head slightly turned down as if she’s watching her feet. Five, four, three, two … and then she lifts her head. Her stride falters.
I step out of the car and wait, arms folded, as she stares at me.
“Well, we meet again.” I recline against my car door. “Run out of gas? Run over some other poor, unsuspecting commuter?”
She doesn’t answer, but begins walking again—not in the opposite direction as I’d predicted—but toward me. Her head lifts a little higher and she’s within a few yards of me when she speaks. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“I suspect not. You’re the hit-and-run type, so I doubt there’s much that bothers you.”
Her lips thin and her eyes harden in challenge before she takes in a long draw of breath. “I need your help.”
I don’t have a clue why this doesn’t surprise me. “Sure. Go for broke. You dented my bumper, now you’d like … what? To steal my car?” I unfold my arms and wait for her response. This has got to be good.
“I need a ride.”
Is she even going to apologize for ramming into me this morning? “Is that all? Want to empty my bank account while you’re at it?” I raise a brow.
“Or directions. You don’t have to give me a ride. How far are we from the bus station?” Her voice is low but steady.