by Liza Kendall
Back in black . . .
“Pete?” he said urgently. “Pete? Are you okay?”
Nobody’s gonna get me on another rap.
A moan came from the driver’s seat, where shortstop Pete Bergsen hung next to him. “Frannie’s . . . she’s gonna divorce me.”
The first thing Ace felt was sweeping relief. Pete was alive.
The next thing he felt was agony. “Son of a bi—aagh. I think my ankle is broken.”
“My car. Oh, man. The car!”
“Yeah, the car. Sure. Did you hear me, buddy? My ankle. Is. Annihilated.” The pain. The pain was like white-hot lightning, streaking up from his ankle and then colliding somewhere inside his nervous system in an explosion that left him breathless.
But the pain was better than panicking—giving in to flashbacks of a different crumpled car, years ago. Don’t go there. Don’t go there. Deep breaths. Stay calm.
“Your ankle. Really?” Pete’s voice anchored him to the present mess.
“Yeah,” Ace managed. “Really.”
They hung there for a moment longer, absorbing the unholy mess they were in: wrecked in pitch black darkness, out on the winding roads surrounding Austin’s Lake Travis. Courtesy of a moment of stupidity by his buddy.
“Pete, you’re such an a-hole.” Ace said it without heat.
“I know.”
“You paid enough for the Maserati—you should know it has its own lighter.”
“I like my lighter. Frannie gave it to me.”
“Next time, leave it on the friggin’ floor of the car when you drop it.”
“Hindsight.”
“Don’t run us off the friggin’ road and into a live oak and flip the car.”
“Ace, you gotta switch places with me. Say you were driving.”
“Switch . . . ?” If they hadn’t been hanging upside down, his jaw would have dropped open. “Just how many beers did you have, Pete?”
“Please, Ace. Frannie’s gonna leave and take the kids with her. She will do it this time. She was serious. You gotta switch places with me, man.”
“You have got to be kidding. Are you nuts?”
“C’mon, you’re Easy Ace Braddock. You’re a walkin’ Enquirer headline. Nobody will be surprised that you’re in the papers again. But Frannie warned me. She will walk and take my kids and then take me to the cleaners.”
“You are such a tool.”
“I know.”
“I cannot believe you’re asking me this.”
“Please. Switch places with me, Ace? I’m beggin’ you.”
Maybe it was the excruciating pain. Maybe he was just a chump. But Ace thought about it for a moment. He thought about Pete’s kids.
He didn’t have much to lose in comparison. Then he unbuckled his seat belt with his left hand and folded his head and shoulders, followed by the rest of him, onto the roof interior of what had once been a very sweet car. It hurt. A lot.
He shoved open the door—which was an amazing feat in itself, since it was crumpled like a tissue from slamming into the tree. Not to mention the fact that it didn’t work so well upside down.
Then Ace, cursing royally with each movement, hauled his sorry butt out of the car and fell into the grass.
His first thought was that it was way too quiet. No lights, no sirens, no witnesses—wait, that last part was good. If he was going to honor Pete’s crazy request to switch places with him and say he’d been the one driving the car.
His next thought was: Get Pete out of the car, now. In case the gas tank explodes.
Now.
Oh, damn, it hurts.
Now! On your feet, Braddock. Don’t even think about wussing out. Pro athlete, and you can’t take a little pain? Up! It was Coach’s voice, as always. Ace might have left Silverlake High behind, but he’d always hear Coach Adams in his head.
Ace used the car to pull himself to his feet—it felt like someone had poured acid over his ankle. He didn’t want to think about what that meant for his career with the Austin Lone Stars.
He hopped around the Maserati, reaching the driver’s-side door with another blue streak of cuss words, none of which made him feel any better. “Pete, buddy, unbuckle your seat belt. We gotta get you out of there.”
There was a pause as Pete fumbled. “Can’t find it.”
“What d’you mean, you can’t find it? Look down—or up, actually, at your lap. Press the button. Prepare to land on your head.”
Pete mumbled something unintelligible.
“What?”
The window was open, since Pete had rolled it down to smoke.
Ace winced again at the pain, but lowered himself to the grass and stuck his head in, coming face to groin with his disoriented friend. “Get your junk out of my face.”
“Can’t help it,” said Pete, his voice now more slurred.
“Did you hit your head or something? Unbuckle your seat belt and get the hell out of the car.”
Pete hung there, silent. It wasn’t like him. Was he concussed? Or drunk? Or both. Ace had been so hell-bent on getting away from that rabid baseball bunny that he hadn’t noticed Pete was in no condition to drive.
Ace did his best to ignore Pete’s crotch, and fumbled around until he found the buckle to his seat belt. He pressed the button, and Pete dropped into a heap onto the roof’s interior.
Cussing a blue, green, purple, and black streak because of the pain, Ace lay on his side and hooked his arm under Pete’s armpit. He braced his good foot on the crumpled car’s frame and hauled with all his might.
Pete popped out like a cork, and they both fell backward to the uneven terrain.
Ace dragged him farther away from the car—it really could go up in flames at any moment—almost howling with the pain. “Pete? Buddy? What’s wrong?”
In answer, his teammate puked all over the grass.
What the hell had he been thinking, to get in a car with him? What had Pete been thinking, to get behind the wheel?
Answer: Neither of them had been thinking at all.
Ace slid his cell phone out of his pocket, since one of them had to call 9-1-1 and explain their predicament. Great.
He checked Pete’s pulse. It was steady, thank God. “Pete, can you hear me? Did you hit your head?”
Pete wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “N-no. Hit the tequila . . .”
Just as Ace had thought. Well, he guessed it was better than a concussion. But there was one big, Texas-sized problem. If Ace called 9-1-1 and revealed to the cops that Pete had been driving this way, then his friend was going straight to jail.
If, on the other hand, Ace told the police that he’d been the one driving . . . well, he’d ridden in the notoriety rodeo before. Pete was right—nobody’d be shocked that Easy Ace had gotten his face splashed across the scandal sheets or the gossip sites.
He’d go to PR hell, for sure. But he’d only had two light beers over the course of the whole evening, so he wouldn’t go to jail.
Ace spun the story easily in his head: He’d spotted his friend’s condition and he’d taken Pete’s keys once they got out to the car. He’d been driving Pete home.
The team would thank him for salvaging the situation and being a good wingman. Frannie would thank him and not divorce Pete. Ace would serve as an example to the youth of America: Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.
See, he wasn’t a blithering idiot. He was a hero.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Liza Kendall is the combined pen name of two award-winning, bestselling authors who've known each other forever and decided they could work together without someone ending up dead.
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