I want nothing in the world more than to keep her here, behind the locked doors, and explore every inch of her body, but my mind is a vast collection of gears all clicking into place beneath the sweet taste of her.

My family.

My family is the only thing keeping me from her, from more of her. My father. My aunts and uncles. My brothers. They have been guiding me all my life, steering me in the direction of manhood, but after that kiss—Jesus, what was I thinking?—the guiding hand iis a choking one instead. I always knew they were watching out for me, but even here, even in the privacy of my own kitchen, I feel their eyes burning into my back.

They could take this from me. They could end her.

“Where are we going to go?” Her blue eyes are wide, innocent. She is innocent. She is.

It feels superstitious to say the words out loud, so I go to the next room. Sia follows close behind. The living room has a picture window in front that gives me a view of most of the block. Right now, at least, there are no strange cars. Better yet, there are no familiar ones. They’re not here yet.

“There’s someone we need to talk to.”

“We?”

“Someone I need to talk to.”

Sia blows out a frustrated sigh and I turn back to her. “About what?”

“I need to know the truth.”

“I told you the truth.”

Her lips are still dark from where I kissed her, and the need to taste her again is electric. God help me, I love the anger in her eyes. The indignation. She might not know much about her history, but even in my sweatpants she is regal. I wrap a hand around the back of her neck and kiss her again. Mine, I think, ridiculously, when she parts her lips for me. I break it off before the urge to fuck her on the living room floor takes over.

“I know you told me the truth,” I tell her, her face inches from mine. “But there’s more I need to know.”

She’s hardly breathing. “To make up your mind?” It’s awful, breaking with my family like this, but I am intoxicated by her.

“I’ve made up my mind.” It’s almost entirely truthful. I’m a Moretto—I’m not going to discount the possibility that someone might provide me with information that would sway me. But the taste of her on my lips? Fuck me if I give that up for anything less than a damning revelation.

Sia lets out a little sigh of relief. “Should we go?”

I lead the way.

Leaving the garage is uneventful, though waiting for the door to make contact with the concrete makes my heart beat painfully fast. No cars appear on either side of the street. One of my neighbors comes outside and puts a garbage bag in his company-issued garbage tote. That’s it.

We’re two blocks away from my townhouse when I see it.

The car.

It glides into the street behind us, half a block back, out of nowhere. I rack my brain. Was there a side street it could have been hiding in? I’ve been dragging my eyes back and forth over everything on the street.

Sia doesn’t notice. She’s looking at the divide between the houses and the shops. A single road separates the residential area from the stores and strip malls that surround the freeway exit. A white two-story brick house overlooks a CVS that’s next to a Rite Aid. When it rains, it fucking pours.

Calm down, I tell myself, steering through the intersection. I glance back at the car. There’s nothing special about it. It’s a dark blue sedan, and from here I can’t tell what the make and model is, but it doesn’t matter. If I saw this car in a catalogue it would be labeled nondescript.

The way it moves is the thing that pushes me over the edge.

The driver, whoever it is, is too careful, too measured, too focused on me. I tap the brakes and the reaction is instant, though the car is still half a block behind.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Hold on,” I tell Sia.

“What?”

Out of the corner of my eye I see her turn, see her hand rise to tuck her hair behind her ear, but adrenaline surges through me. She’ll have to wait. Her questions will have to wait.

The next light is yellow.

We’re too far away to make it, but I stomp my foot down on the gas pedal with all my strength. My car responds without missing a beat and I thank God that I’ve always been obsessive about upkeep.

I hope there aren’t any cops. God, I hope there aren’t any cops.

We sail into the intersection a few heartbeats after the light turns red. Sia gasps, a strangled sound that could turn into a scream, and the vicious sound of a horn, too close to the passenger-side window, blares. I press down harder on the gas pedal. It’s already on the floor, and I release it.

I risk one glance in the mirror when the screech of brakes echoes through the back windshield. It’s the blue car, skidding to a stop just before it enters the intersection. A flash of white—a hand, coming down on the steering wheel?—and the car is hidden by the traffic.

The on-ramp to the freeway is clear and I take it gladly, as if this road can save us from whatever was back there. I know that’s not true, but that’s what it feels like. Sia leans heavily into her seat. “Jesus,” she whispers, so quiet I almost don’t hear.

My heart races until we’re up to speed, miles away.