Page 37 of Letting Go

I put a hand at the back of her neck and touch her cheek just for a moment. "Nic's pretty clear. If you think you're in danger, then you're putting anyone who's with you in danger as well. We need to understand what's going on no smoke and mirrors."

"I'm not in danger," she says grimly, though her eyes are wide. "And you guys can take care of yourselves."

"You don’t know that. Your sisters? Travis? Cory? You need to think of them. No secret is worth them getting hurt."

Her breathing gets louder, raspy, and she looks like she can’t get enough air. I pushed too hard too fast. Damn.

"I … can't … stop … it," she says sucking down air hard and fast. Her eyes are wild, unfocused.

"Pull over now, now!" Grabbing the steering wheel, I swerve to the dirt shoulder and shove her legs out of the way, jamming the brake with my left foot. We slide up right before the gravel company entrance and the sudden stop is loud, tires pulling on crushed granite.

The car rolls to a stop and she grabs the seat, still pulling hard on each breath, looking at me to make it stop.

"You're fine, you're fine, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trigger anything. You're fine," I say again. I take her and pull her to me, her body shaking, hands on my shoulder, and I kiss her, anything to stop that horrible wretched gasping. At first, she struggles, and she keeps pulling away to breathe. Grabbing her face, keeping her close to me, finding her mouth over and over, I keep kissing her, covering her mouth with mine, and slowly, slowly, her body relaxes, softens, molds to mine.

Finally, with a little hiccup she pulls away and wipes a damp strand of hair from her cheek. "I'm so screwed up," she says.

I'm just glad she's stopped hyperventilating. A glance in the side mirror confirms my second immediate concern: the white car has pulled to the side as well, loitering behind us about a tenth of a mile. This is not a coincidence.

I need to find out who this asshole is and swap drivers, but I don’t want her stepping out of the car and being exposed.

Wiping her face, using the review mirror, she catches the reflection of the car behind us. Her mouth opens.

"Hang on, we're going to find out who this is."

Pushing her hand off the wheel, spinning to the left, I jam my left foot on the gas pedal.

The car is jumpy with a sticky gas pedal, but I can work with it. I swing the car out onto Route 1 for a second, then make a hard left into the expansive gravel yard towards the coast.

We tear down the dirt road entrance and hit about every hole. Chloe's holding on to the driver's handgrip with one hand and the seat with the other. As we come abreast of the offices, I spin the wheel again, this time to the right, while shifting and stomping on the break. The Squareback spins in a short 180-degree arc to the right, spitting gravel until it stops. There are four, hill-sized piles of gravel across from the low-slung cement building with the industrial grinding machine and conveyors at the end of the lot. Reaching down, I throw up the emergency brake.

The white Honda makes the turn as well, swerving, adjusting, dirt flying and skidding in a sharp "C" to a stop.

In less than a second, I've unbuckled and am pushing Chloe's head down. "Stay down!" I'm ready to kill this guy. Ex-lover? Ex-employer? Some asshole she spoke to at the store last week? He isn't detailing her, he isn’t hiding what he's doing.

Now the other car starts to back up slowly, flashers on. What the fuck? He's not getting away. Instinct kicks in. I launch from the car, gun drawn.

"Get out of the car motherfucker, out of the car. Hands up, hands up, hands up!" I have no idea what is going on behind that tinted glass. Then two hands rise, barely visible.

"Keep those hands raised! Out of the car, asshole." Now, I'm yelling, but my gun is steady, pointed right at the windshield. The dust settles as fast as it rose. The heat from Chloe's Squareback breathes against the back of my legs from the muffler. Crouching, I keep a focus on whoever emerges, arms out, the gun unwavering. When the car door starts to open, every nerve is on fire, ready to send me into a pivot to duck or roll. I size the situation, check parameters, no accomplice, at least no one I can see. Damn, those windows are dark.

The door clicks and swings open, and as I steady my double grip on the gun handle, a voice, loud, clear, and so fucking familiar calls out: "Man, are you hard to track down."

The drop in adrenaline makes my hands shake just for a moment while I throw the safety latch. I may still kill the guy. The door opens fully and then heavy, black, leather boots and tight black jeans emerge from beneath the door.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell, Mateus!"

"Are you really going to make me get out with my hands up?"

"No. No. Fuck me."

Mateus Gutierrez, lean, light, but more ripped than the last time I saw him, steps from the car. "Hola, my man!"

He looks so young. Wavy, jet black hair, longer than I've ever seen and cut in a 1970s sort of way, dark eyes the color of molasses, lashes, the dark shadow of stubble on his chin, all seems like a flash from the past. Last I saw him he was probably forty pounds lighter, and what he's put on is all muscle.

He was also sick, recovering, in a wheelchair, testifying in front of a military court explaining why I beat up a civilian.

I can't seem to speak.