Classy.
Caleb turns, and I slump down in my seat. Embarrassed. Hating that I’m embarrassed. Hating that Caleb gets to see this side of me—the part I’ve been hiding behind sarcasm and stolen cookies and pretending I belong in his world.
Fuck. I’m dreading this. I can never let Z know how much. It’s fine. I just need to get him out of here, and then we’ll never have to come back here ever again.
It’ll just be a place we came from.
A distant memory.
Caleb pulls in, and I feel eyes on our car as we roll down the road.
I watch Caleb’s eyes dart to the rearview mirror. Then both side mirrors. Then scan the area in front of us. Then back to the rearview.
His hands tighten on the wheel—adjusting their position even though we’re barely moving.
He’s cataloging everything. Every person standing up. Every eye watching us. Every potential threat.
It’s a nice ride.Too nice. Oh shit, why didn’t I think about that? I feel immediate apprehension choke me in addition to the ammonia smell from the chicken factory.
“Shit,” I hiss. “We’re gonna have to make this fast.”
I look down at my phone.
HARPER: We’re here
I text Z.
HARPER: Meet us outside and we’ll take off.
But the second I look up, I’m distracted by everyone not just watching, butstanding upfrom their camping chairs and overturned coolers and crates. Moving toward us.
“Shit,” I breathe out. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around.Now. Fuck. We never should’ve brought the car in here.” The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up when I see some of the men from around the fire barrel start heading our way. I recognize Tommy Lee’s walk. And Jesus Christ, is that Marcus? He got out of county already?
We’re all jackals here. Friendly enough to our own kind, but outsiders are only good for one thing…
“Turn around now and book it.”
Caleb must hear the don’t-fuck-around in my voice, because he does exactly what I say. He does a wide U-turn in one of the few dirt yards that’s not filled with toys or the rusted-out guts of what used to be some part of a car.
But even fleeing—even with men advancing on us—he checks his mirrors first. Signals. Turns the wheel in this controlled, precise arc.
Who the fuck signals when they’re running away?
Caleb Graham, apparently.
Gravel spits in the rearview as he books it back out of the narrow drive.
“What now?” His voice is serious, steady, and I feel even more embarrassed.
Ashamed.
This is my world. These are my people.
And they would’ve stripped his car for parts without a second thought.