I spot Rae before I’ve even fully stopped the car. She’s backed against a parked delivery truck, arms wrapped around herself, cameras in her face as they all descend on her.
I screech to a stop, spraying angry media members everywhere as they shout curses in my direction. When I’m close enough, I lean across the center console and shove the passenger door open.
“Get in,” I growl. “Now.”
She doesn’t move at first. She looks at me the way a drowning person looks at a piece of driftwood—not sure if it’ll hold, but sorely lacking for better options.
Then she ducks under a reporter’s outstretched arm and sprints for the car. She throws herself into the passenger seat and yanks the door shut. I’m pulling away before it fully latches, tires screaming against the asphalt.
In the rearview mirr
