Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I get dressed, freshen up, and in a few short minutes, we’re on our way out. His car sits, purring, waiting for us, when suddenly he curses.
“Motherfucker. They’re almost here.” He shakes his head. “I won’t do it. I fucking won’t let them take us. Buckle your belt, now.”
“Who? What’s going on?”
“Buckle,” he snaps, my only warning before he starts the car and floors it.
Like everything he does, Lyam is an incredibly competent driver, even when he’s driving so fast it feels like we’re flying. Eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel, his reactions are instantaneous and on point. I should be scared, but in his capable hands… I’m not. I feel like a magician could wave a wand and turn this car into a spaceship, and he’d maneuver that control panel with expertise and ease.
I gasp when I see flashing lights behind us. I expected criminals or his enemies, not… the police?
He drives with staggering speed down a long, narrow street, takes a sharp left, then a right. Paris is a maze of intersections and streets full of landmarks, tourists, and shops, with the Seine at the heart of the city. It’s easy to get lost in a place like this.
My pulse hammers in my chest, my belly in knots. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I can probably do better if I know what’s going on.”
“You’ll do better if you do what I tell you.”
Of course he says that.
“Fuck.”
A roadblock sits at the center of the intersection.
I gasp as he takes a corner so quickly, I feel we’re airborne for a second. Without missing a beat, he yanks the wheel so we’re on a sidewalk. Pedestrians scream and jump out of the way. Street dogs bark at us, and a few people snap pictures with their cell phones.
I can see them in the rearview mirror. This car is narrow, though, and I realize then that’s why he took it. At the next turn, he yanks the wheel again. I scream as we drive straight into oncoming traffic. “Up the down staircase,” he mutters. “Always an option B. Don’t worry, they don’t want to die either.”
Is he banking on that?
I open one eye to watch as the cars in front of us part as if by magic.
I squeeze my eyes shut again when we careen forward with impossible speed. A loud, grating noise makes me open them again. I stifle a scream.
We’re in an alley so narrow, I feel claustrophobic. The side mirrors of the car scrape off along the walls, the remaining wires sparking when they contact the concrete.
I scream and cover my face.
“This can’t be good for the baby. Oh my God!”
“Don’t worry, Cosette.” I feel his hand on top of mine. My heartbeat thunders. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
We come out of the alleyway on the other side. For a moment, I think we made it, until I see another flash of lights.
“Trust me,” he says, pushing his foot down hard on the pedal. The streets and people whip past us so fast I feel like we’re on a movie set. A pedestrian bridge over water looms in front of us.
That bridge is not built for cars but foot traffic.
“Lyam…”
“You have to trust me.”
“This isn’t made to drive on. It’s pedestrians only! It won’t support the weight of the car, Lyam!”
Ignoring me, he goes even faster.
“Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes!”
I scream and squeeze my eyes shut. For added measure, I cover my closed eyes with my hands.
Is he going to jump the bridge? Oh my God.
We’re airborne. Airborne. I don’t know how he does it, but I can feel us flying through the air like a paper airplane. I grip my belly on instinct and brace for the impact. We land on the other side with a soft thunk, the impact gentle, then we’re driving again. The impact wasn’t anything like I expected. How did he do that?
We’re on the other side.
We made it.
He jumped the bridge.
Without pausing for even a second of triumph, he takes a sharp left, then a right. We’re zigzagging back and forth until finally, finally, we make it to a city road flanked by cars. We merge with the flow of traffic and blend right in.
No one follows us.
He slows and turns to face me. “You alright?”
I check. “I’m f-fine.” Other than a little jostling, I’m okay. “How did you manage to land like that?”
“It’s the car. I had it customized.” He goes on and on about something like suspension and shocks and stability. I know it isn’t just the car, though. He’s grossly underestimating his abilities. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a superhero, able to fly through the air and navigate human limitations with ease.
I do know better, though. I know who he really is.