by Juno Rushdan
The distance between her and the back of the truck’s high steel wall shrank. Two hundred feet dropped to a hundred. Eighty. Forty. Blood roared in her ears. Her stomach knotted.
If no one would let her change lanes, she’d have to force her way in.
A hairsbreadth from impact, she laid on the horn and swerved into the HOV lane.
Chapter 04
Northern Virginia
Thursday, July 4, 6:50 p.m. EDT
The slick puddle on Willow’s parking spot, oily with a slight brown tint, was brake fluid. Gideon estimated almost a quart had leaked onto the ground.
He zoomed down the G. W. Parkway in his Jeep Wrangler, weaving through traffic, headed toward Wolf Trap. Gideon had spotted Willow taking the turnoff to the Beltway, I-495, bearing south—a treacherous roadway with random pockets of congestion. If she stayed on 495 too long, she’d hit a choked patch and risk hurting herself or someone else.
A cold pit split open in his gut. Accelerating off the southbound ramp, he scoured the condensed three lanes for her car.
Come on. Where are you?
A blip of yellow in the raging current of steel hooked his gaze but disappeared in front of a SUV before he identified the make. He swore, slapping the steering wheel.
The car on his left sped up, and he zipped over. Hazard lights flashed on a yellow Beetle trapped in a tight rush of traffic.
Willow.
Her bug passed a semi and cut across into the centerline of the roadway, riding the edge of the right lane, honking. The other car held firm, not letting her in.
Stuck in the middle of the two lanes, her vehicle rammed a black sedan. Horns wailed. Her VW bumped the car again. The sedan accelerated, and she slipped into the slow lane but just missed an exit.
A chill peppered the nape of his neck. She must be frantic with terror.
His wife’s last moments, helpless as his truck lost control and tumbled over the side of an embankment, must’ve been horrifying. He hadn’t been in the vehicle with Kelli, but the accident had nevertheless been his fault.
Despite their laundry list of marital problems, Kelli hadn’t deserved to go out that way. No one did, but especially not Willow. The only thing Willow was guilty of was being afraid of his advances. She’d shrunk away from his touch, stark fear in her face, but something else, too, had glimmered in her eyes, brought a flush to her cheeks. If he hadn’t been thrown for a double loop by her reaction, he would’ve realized what the fluid on the ground was sooner.
He slammed a fist on the dash.
As he rolled down the window, exhaust fumes hit him. He stuck his arm out, waving the car with the smoky transmission to move over while he laid on the horn until the vehicle changed lanes.
Up ahead on the parkway, traffic pinched into a grinding halt, dotted with steady red brake lights. The gridlock would stop her car, but the number of injuries and possible fatalities would be high.
Another exit sign appeared on the right. This was Willow’s last chance to get off before the jam. She swerved, taking the ramp. The yellow car raked the guardrail, screeching around the bend.
He signaled and beat on his horn, slashing in between cars to follow her.
Whipping around the curved off-ramp, the tail end of his Jeep swung out. Tires squealed, burning rubber. He wrestled the wheel and straightened out of the power slide.
He had to reach her. Help her somehow. Maybe it was his pent-up guilt over Kelli, all the things he’d done wrong that led to her accident. Or maybe it was simply how he was wired.
Not once in his life had he sat on the sideline when he should’ve been in the game. Never left a battle brother or sister hanging—not under fire, not under duress, not under any circumstances. He’d do everything possible to prevent anything bad from happening to Willow.
Aluminum scraped against steel as Willow’s car grated the guardrail. Sparks flared. The agonizing cry of metal clashing together stabbed her eardrums, and spiky pain bloomed in her head.
She squeezed her eyes shut and let go of the wheel, pressing her palms to her ears.
The metallic shriek drilled into Willow’s skull, jarring her senses. Her muscles hurt, paralyzed, like her body was caught in a steel-jaw trap. Her thoughts garbled in a wave of static.
Then a sudden, abrupt silence fell. Blessed peace pried her eyes open.
Blinding light cleared to a cloudy world as her car nosedived down a long slope. The ramp had straightened, mouthing open to three lanes. Vehicles lining the two on the left were stopped at a red light. She grabbed the wheel and veered toward the empty right lane.
The disorienting fog of agony lifted. Relief flashed through her, but as quickly as it came, it was gone. Her car was on a collision course with a major intersection of traffic.
Pressure welled in her chest.
Figures. She’d just had the most highly charged experience in her short life with a guy she was crazy attracted to, and now she was going to die. After living a neutral—
Neutral. She shifted from drive to neutral and dragged the tires against the concrete curb. The friction would shave off some speed but not enough. Not while pitched downhill on a trajectory sending her right into traffic with the cruise control jammed at sixty.
She had to avoid causing a domino effect of collisions in the intersection. Cranking the wheel, she plowed over the curb, scraping the undercarriage, and climbed the grassy berm over uneven terrain. Her gaze flickered up to the rearview mirror and a red Jeep speeding up behind her.
A concrete barricade ahead stole her attention and her breath. She spun the wheel, turning into the main street traffic. Cars squealed, braking. Another skidded and rear-ended a truck.
The Jeep bulldozed up beside her in the left lane, horn honking.
What was she supposed to do? What could she do?
The four-wheel drive vehicle nosed past her bumper and crashed into her car, forcing her to make a hard right—straight into the parking lot of a grocery store.
A woman yapping on her cell phone while rooting in her purse crossed in front of them. Willow’s chest turned to a block of ice.
The Jeep that had run up beside her tapped her car to the right, engaging her focus.
She steered away from the woman to the side of the building and a vacant part of the lot.
“Willow!”
The sound of her name penetrated her shroud of fear. She looked over through the Jeep’s open passenger-side window.
Gideon.
He signaled to her, punching his hand down and yanking his fist up toward his shoulder. She glanced to her side.
Gear selector? No.
Emergency brake. He wanted her to pull up on the emergency brake.
She gripped the handle and wrenched up. The car whipped into a wild spin. She gasped. Light swirled into a haze of gray. Nausea flooded her in a violent wave. Her body shivered like it wanted to splinter into a hundred pieces.
Pressing her head against the seat, she released the wheel and crossed her arms, hands to her shoulders. The tail of the car crashed into something, shattering the back window. The vehicle rocked, jostling her forward.
Phfowmph!
A dense pillow punched her, throttling her back. A white cloud engulfed everything. The airbag sucked up the space around her. A scream strangled in her throat and died.
Dust and white powder clogged her nose and esophagus. She choked on the remnants of terror.
Her car door swung open. “Willow! You okay?”
A loud pop echoed. Her airbag deflated with a hiss, as if it’d been cut. She drew in a shuddering breath and waved to clear the congesting dust from her face.
Gideon whipped a double-handled knife closed and reached for her.
A whimper slipped from her lips as she cringed, raising her arm. It was all too much—losing the brakes, the sound of m
etal grating, hitting vehicles. Almost dying. She needed to breathe, gain her bearings, before he touched her.
“I want to help you from the car and make sure you’re okay. I won’t hurt you.” He reached for her slowly. “Okay?”
Shutting her eyes, she clutched the strap of her purse still draped over her and nodded.
He unfastened her seatbelt. One strong arm slipped under her legs, the other curled around her shoulders. He lifted her out the car, tucking her against his large frame.
Particles clung to her nostrils, burned her throat, and filled her lungs. She coughed and raked in a glorious breath of fresh air.
Gideon’s long legs stretched quickly, carrying her to his car. In his powerful arms, warm and solid, a blanket of calm covered her, dampening her chaotic thoughts, save one.
She was safe with him.
He opened the passenger’s door and set her inside, but she didn’t want him to let go. Not yet.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Everything had unraveled in minutes. Trying to slow the car, the parking lot. Gideon helping. She still couldn’t make sense of it.
His big hands probed her face, fingers running along her neck. He tilted her chin up, inspecting her. “Did you hit your head? You might have a concussion.”
Staring into his wide eyes, now darkened to the blue-gray of a stormy sky in this light, her breathing slowed, and her bunched muscles uncoiled. He looked shaken, off beat from his normal steady cadence.
A calloused thumb ran over her face and he stroked her arm. She pressed her knees together. The instinct to close off rivaled her desire to open herself and stare into his eyes.
He cupped her cheek. “Willow? Are you all right?”
I’m okay. How bizarre since she’d almost died. “Everything is fuzzy, but I didn’t hit my head. I don’t think I have a concussion.”
“You can get it from whiplash. A doctor should check you.”
Before she voiced objections, a sheriff pulled into the lot, lights flashing, siren muted. Gideon patted her knee and left her side. He spoke to the officer, pointing to her car, waving his hands in the air as if explaining everything that’d happened.
What exactly had happened?
This morning, nothing was wrong with her brakes. She had the car checked recently, never pushed the service due date. Yet she’d nearly been killed.
The officer approached, pad and pen in hand. His stern face looked hard enough to crack stone. His narrowing gaze scrutinized her from head to toe. She tensed, gaze falling to the asphalt, and roped an arm around her stomach to steady herself.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Martin. Your boyfriend was telling me what happened.”
She glanced at Gideon. Why didn’t he correct him? She looked up at the cop but avoided his probing eyes, choosing to stare at his cleft chin. “Gideon isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a coworker.”
“Oh, not the impression I got.” He scribbled on his pad. “Ma’am, I need to see your driver’s license.”
Scanning for her purse, she noticed she was tapping her fingers on the seat. The habit soothed her whenever she was tense or overly tired, but it tended to make others uncomfortable. She clenched her hand a moment and fished her wallet from the purse draped around her.
She took out her license, and the white Asperger Network card she kept in case of emergencies such as this slipped onto the ground.
Her jaw dropped. The words rising in her throat clumped together. The card was designed to help ease communication with first responders, but she didn’t want Gideon to see it.
The officer bypassed the license trembling in her hand, bent down, and picked up the card. He went to hand it to her but glanced a little too long. The words To Law Enforcement and First Responders written on the front must’ve captured his attention because he pulled the card back. That side only gave personal details like her name, date of birth, and emergency contacts—her dad and sister Laurel. Willow would’ve preferred never to list Laurel as any sort of contact, but her other sister, Ivy, lived abroad.
The officer turned the card over. Gideon glanced at it from the side.
She held her breath. No, no. Please don’t read it. Her skin grew tight as shrink-wrap.
Gideon would never look at her the same. Today was the first day he’d even bothered to look at all. Now each word he read incinerated any chance she might’ve had to ashes.
Because of my Autism Spectrum Disorder, I may:
• Panic if yelled at and lash out if touched or physically restrained.
• Misinterpret things you tell me or ask me to do.
• Not be able to answer your questions.
• Tend to interpret statements literally.
• Appear rude or say things that sound tactless, especially when anxious or confused.
• Have difficulty making eye contact.
There was more, but she didn’t want to think about the words Gideon read as she peered at his face, searching for a reaction. His expression was a mask she couldn’t decipher. The ASD label was probably already redefining her in his head from normal to treat with caution.
The officer took the license from her hand, swapping it carefully with the card, using his fingertips like her disorder was contagious.
“Ma’am, do you need medical attention?” His tone turned, riding the cusp of loud, the words drawn out and emphasizing each syllable, kicking her heartbeat into a sprint.
Cringing, she shoved the card into her wallet, regretting the decision to carry it.
When her father had suggested keeping the card in her purse, it sounded logical, practical even, since she’d need a little assistance communicating with a stranger in situations of high or traumatic stress. But now she wanted to dissolve. Simply disappear.
“Officer, she doesn’t have a hearing disability.” Gideon moved toward her and turned in front of the cop, shielding her with his body. “There’s no need to raise your voice.”
The cop peered around Gideon. “Are you like Rain Man?”
She aimed for his eyes, but her gaze only reached his sharp beak of a nose. “What’s a rain man?”
“A movie.” Gideon stepped forward, and the cop backed away.
Putting a hand on a hip, the cop used his knuckle to tap up the front of his stiff, wide-brimmed hat. “I’m going to need her to take a breathalyzer.”
“That won’t be necessary. I don’t drink.” She’d tried on several occasions but never tasted anything she liked.
Peering around Gideon as if afraid to cross the invisible boundary line he’d created, the cop looked at her. “Still need you to take one, ma’am.”
Gideon glanced at her over his shoulder and waited. For what? Her permission? The man was an officer of the law. How could she refuse?
She nodded. “Of course.”
An ambulance pulled into the lot. Thankfully, the siren was off.
“Let me help you,” Gideon said, as if he could see the shock of everything curtaining her.
She took his extended hand.
His long, thick fingers closed around hers, and his palm rested on her lower back as he helped her down from the vehicle. The step had been high for her five-foot-four frame.
When he let go of her, she swayed, and he clutched her arm.
She had no idea what had happened to her balance. She wasn’t dizzy, but as Gideon’s hands had left her body, she floated like a kite let loose in a breeze.
He helped her up into the ambulance, holding her at the waist. The EMT steered her to sit on a gurney, asked her questions, and pointed a small flashlight in her eyes. The tow truck arrived, and Gideon talked to the driver at length. The man in overalls kept writing for several minutes. She had no idea what Gideon said, beyond explaining the brakes had failed.
As the officer approached her again, Gideon broke away from
the tow truck driver and hurried to her side.
“Ma’am, please take a deep breath and blow until I tell you to stop. Okay?” Although the officer spoke to her, he stared at Gideon, who’d recovered his usual unflappable demeanor and stared back at the cop.
Sitting on the end of the gurney in the ambulance, Willow leaned forward, took a deep breath, and blew into a white tube. When the cop raised his hand, she stopped.
He looked at the small device in his hand. “Okay, ma’am. You’re free to go.”
Gideon reached up for her with both hands but met her gaze before touching her. She nodded, and he grasped her at the waist, lifting her down from the ambulance.
More police had arrived on the scene. Officers were managing the traffic and other accidents she’d caused. Gideon roped an arm around her midsection, bringing her close to his body, anchoring her with the strength of his grip as they headed to his vehicle.
He opened the car door and hoisted her up onto the seat.
“I’m having the tow truck driver take your car to a mechanic I know, if that’s okay.”
The local garage she’d used had overlooked a problem, and she’d almost died as a result. “That’s fine.”
“I’ll finish with the driver and take you home.” He shut the door and hurried off.
Her skin was warm around her waist and on her arm where he’d touched her. She was surprised how a man capable of brutal but necessary things could also be so tender and kind.
She glanced around the Jeep. The inside further contradicted her expectations.
A faceted crystal ball, a beautiful prism of light, hung from the rearview mirror. Custom covers wrapped the console lid, steering wheel, and front seats in a striped mosaic fabric of blues, purple, and pink. The touch was feminine and the car tidier than hers, which was saying a lot, since she vacuumed her VW and wiped everything down every Saturday morning.
Even her glove box only held the essentials—a car manual, tire gauge, packet of napkins, and mini first aid kit. She opened his to see if it was similar.
A large manila envelope fell out. A rectangular label from a law firm was in the top left corner in bold red letters, and it was addressed to Kelli Stone, his wife, who had died in a car accident a year after Willow transferred to the Gray Box.