If you’re looking for a fun read full of great banter and adrenaline filled car racing, look no further because Austin by Jeannine Colette and Lauren Runow is releasing tomorrow, and I have a sneak peek for you.
I wish I could laugh at the ridiculousness of this guy as I watch him fumble with his hat and the hood of his oversize sweatshirt.
This whole Eminem, 8 Mile routine has got to end because his need for being incognito is freaking me out. Either he just got a bad haircut or he’s on America’s Most Wanted list … and I’m not gonna stick around to find out.
Pushing myself away from the car, I walk as fast as I can down the sidewalk. My heart is beating a million miles a minute as my breath desperately tries to keep up with its erratic rate.
“Get back in the car,” he shouts.
I quicken my pace. “I’m not getting back into that death trap.”
How the hell did I get into this mess? Oh, that’s right. Beckett. How dare he not fight for me! He gave up and allowed this guy to practically throw me in his car.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and tap on the Uber app. I don’t know where I am, but thankfully, GPS does. Based on the amount of graffiti on the sides of the buildings and the man I just passed, smoking from a questionable-looking pipe, I can only assume we’re in the ghetto.
And, as it turns out, I’m not getting reception in the outskirts of Oakland.
“Damn it,” I curse as the little icon roams in a circle, trying to connect me to a driver. I raise my hand in the air as if that will miraculously connect me to a signal.
Heavy footsteps jog after me, followed by Falcon’s deep voice in my ear. “I’ll bring you home. I’ll drive the speed limit. Just get in the goddamn car.”
He’s gritting his teeth through his words, but they don’t scare me. I grew up, hearing anger from a man every day, and his seemingly aggressive tone doesn’t do shit to persuade me in his direction.
“With you?” I adamantly shake my head and continue my pace. “I don’t even know who you are. All I know is, you go by the name ‘Falcon.’”
I hear him snicker beside me. “Did you just use air quotes?”
My feet halt on the ground. When I turn to him, he stops, too. His body is stern, except for the smirk he has on his lips, the only portion of his face I can clearly see.
I cross my arms and lean back. “Are you laughing at me?”
He lifts his fingers and makes air quotes as he says, “‘Maybe.’”
“Ugh!” I throw up my hands and continue walking, my legs trembling as I wrap my arms around my body to control the blast of coldness rushing through me.
I jump when he charges forward, blocking my path.
“You’re coming down from the adrenaline rush. That’s why you’re shaking.”
I look up at his tall six foot two figure. I’m no slouch, but his presence is the type that would make most people feel small.
“I’m just cold.”
“Sweetheart, it might be the Bay Area, but look around. There’s no fog tonight.” The deep baritone of his voice sends a chill up my spine.
“Says the guy wearing a sweatshirt,” I counter.
He takes a step closer. “I bet your fingers are tingling in a way you’ve never felt.” His words make me stretch them out in defiance. “And you have to keep straightening your posture because you feel like, if you don’t, you might trip and fall from the shakes.” He leans in even further. His breath is hot on my skin. “You keep rubbing your arms like you’re cold, but really, it’s the blood flow rushing back in.”
I hold up my hands in protest. “You can just stop right there.”
“Because you know I’m right?”