The streetlight turns red, and I lower the sun visor in front of my seat, slightly tilting my head to get a good look at my face. No blood. Nothing anywhere.

I shut it as the light changes to green. “Look, it was just a few minutes. It wasn’t a big deal.” I try to soften my voice. I’m losing my grip, acting totally off the wall.

Who am I? Who the fuck am I? My mind moves in fast-forward.

“Yes, it was a big deal.” Her angry voice is sad now. “How could you just leave me there? You shouldn’t have brought me. I was scared as hell, sitting in your truck in the middle of this dark lot in front of some dilapidated house and all these motorcycles. It was a motorcycle club, right?” The question rips from her lips.

“Most of them are decent guys,” I lie, clenching my fists around the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t have brought you somewhere dangerous.” My chest palpitates.

Reality is, I brought her with me to a horrible place just so I could score drugs. My life is fragmenting, but how else can I stay alive? How else can I keep myself from drowning? I need to numb the part of my brain that’s deserted the rest of my psyche.

It isn’t me.

But it is me.

Putting on my signal, I turn right. I’m taking deep breaths through my nose, trying to bring my head back to the present. “Look, Lauren, nothing happened to you, and we’re okay. We won’t ever go back there, all right?” I turn my head to see her, but all I get is the back of her head. “I won’t ever bring you back,” I repeat.

A few minutes pass in silence, and I can only hope she’s calming.

She shifts in her seat. “It’s not like Sons of Anarchy, is it?” She turns to me, a small grin on her face.

Is she … playing?

“If you’re looking to meet Jax Teller, the answer is no.”

She laughs out loud, and the darkness between us dissipates.

Lauren, God. I want to yell with relief.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” she grumbles. “Don’t tell me they’re like the Bandidos or the Hells Angels.”

“And what on earth do you know about those guys?” I move my eyes between her and the road, needing to see her beautiful face. Her face steadies me.

“Well, I saw this show called Gangland, and they are really scary. Like, flying gang colors and torturing each other in prison and making these things called shivs—”

I laugh out loud, and she tilts her head in mock confusion.

“What’s funny about that? Tough men like you aren’t afraid?”

“You’re just crazy cute. Yeah, they’re outlaw. I’m sure they do illegal shit, but they’d never mess with me.” Another lie. God must be making tally marks.

“But what were you doing there?” she presses. “What kind of work could you possibly have with a—”