shit appear, or worse, a piece of shit she’d been passed over for.
So tonight she’d gone for a long late-night drive—the best kind in L.A. Enough wallowing. She wanted the ocean air to blast away the malaise. Blasting away the better part of the past three years would be nice, too…
And then the headlights were back. Rocketing toward her, practically up her ass.
Number of accidental vehicle crash deaths in the United States per year: 43,200.
She stomped on the accelerator and spun the wheel, tires screaming as she made—barely—the next finger turn.
The bastard stayed right behind her.
The worst part was not being able to see much beyond the span of her headlights and having to make lightning-fast decisions, one after the other. There was no room to pull over, to let him pass. If passing was even on his mind.
She wondered why she presumed it was a
And then she remembered why. Of course.
At some point she knew Decker Canyon Road crossed Mulholland, and there was even a stop sign. She’d happily pull over then and give him the double-barrel salute as he drove by.
How much farther was it? She couldn’t remember. It had been years since she’d been on this road.
The road continued to snake and twist and turn and climb, the tires of her Lexus gripping asphalt as best they could, the headlights bobbing and weaving behind her, like she was being pursued by a forty-foot electric wasp.
Finally the road leveled out—a feature she remembered now. From here, the road would ease up for a quarter mile as it ran through a valley, followed by another series of insane uphill curves leading to the next valley. A few seconds after, everything seemed to level out—
—then she gunned it—
—the electric wasp eyes falling behind her—
The Lexus made it to the next set of curves within seconds, it seemed, and all she had to do now was slide and skid her way along them and put even more distance behind her. She applied some brake, but not too much— she didn’t want to lose momentum.
Halfway through the curves, though, the electric eyes returned.
Right on her, curve for curve, skid for skid. It was like the car behind her was mocking her. Anything you can do, I can do better.
When she finally saw the red glow of the Mulholland stop sign out in the distance, she decided to fuck it. Hit the turn signal. Slowed down. Used the bit of skirting that now appeared on the side of the road. Go ahead, pass me. I’m stopping. I’m stopping and probably screaming for a while, but I’m done with this. Maybe I’ll take a look at your license plate. Maybe I’ll call the highway patrol after all, you reckless asshole.
She pulled the Lexus to a skidding stop, her first since the PCH, which felt like years ago. Then she turned left and pulled off to the side.
The car followed her, pulled up next to her.
She reached for her cell and power-locked the doors at the same time. The other car appeared to be a goddamned Chevy Malibu, of all things. Some kind of bright color—it was hard to see in the dark. The driver popped out, looked over the roof, made a roll-your-window-down gesture.
Phone in her hand, she paused for a moment, then relented. Pressed the power window lock. The glass slid down two inches.
“Hey, are you okay?” the guy asked. She couldn’t see his face, but his voice sounded young. “Something wrong with your car?”
“I’m fine,” she said quietly.
Now he moved around the front of his car, inching his way toward her.
“Just seemed like you were having trouble there. Want me to call somebody?”
“On the phone with the cops right now,” she lied. She had her finger on the 9 but had stopped. Go on, press it, she told herself. Followed by two ones. You can do it. That way, when this guy pulls out a shotgun and blasts you to death, your last moments will be digitally recorded.
“What the hell were you doing, racing up my ass that whole time?”
“Racing up what? What are you talking about? I didn’t see anybody on the road until just now, when you slowed down. I almost slammed into you!”
The guy sounded sincere enough. Then again, L.A. was crawling with men who were paid to sound sincere.
“Well, we’ll let the police sort it out.”
“Oh, okay,” the guy said, stopping in his tracks. “I’ll wait in my car until they show up, if you don’t mind. It’s a little creepy, being out here in the middle of nowhere.”
She couldn’t help herself—she flashed him a withering
But that was a mistake, because now he was looking at her—
“You’re
Great. Now she couldn’t be just an anonymous pissed-off woman on Decker Canyon Road. Now she had to be
“Look, I’m fine, really,” she said. “Go on ahead. I guess I was imagining things.”
“Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but should you even be driving?”
Lane’s brain screamed:
“I’m fine.”
“You know, I don’t mind waiting, if you want to call this in, or check in, or whatever you have to do.”
“Really, I’m okay.”
The guy seemed to know he’d pushed the ribbing a little too far. He smiled shyly.
“You know, I promised myself when I moved here, I wouldn’t be one of those assholes asking for autographs everywhere he goes. And I’m not. Just wanted to tell you how much I’m a fan of your movies.”
“Thanks.”
“And you’re even prettier in person.”
“I really appreciate that.”
After a few awkward moments the guy got the hint, walked back to the driver’s side of his Malibu, and gave her a sheepish wave before ducking back inside his own car and pulling away into the dark night.
Lane sped through Westlake Village, caught the 101. It was an hour or so before dawn. The freeway was as calm as it ever gets. She took a series of deep, mind-clearing breaths. Maybe when she had enough oxygen in her brain she’d be able to laugh about all of this. Because it was sort of funny, now that it was over.
Sort of.
The Malibu guy hadn’t been riding her ass; he’d simply been out cruising down Decker Canyon Road for the same reason Lane used to cruise it—the sheer thrill. It only seemed like he was trailing her. Hell, he was probably following her lead. Lane Madden had clearly seen too many action movies. God knows she’d been in too many of them.
They caught her in the Cahuenga Pass near Barham—a two-car team. Malibu had done this dozens of times before. His job title: professional victim. You find your target in the rearview, then start to make a series of subtle calculations that only truly exceptional wheel men can make. A small turn of the wheel, a tap on the brakes, then presto, Hollywood fender bender. Happens all the time.
