Not Your Fault

Laina

I gripped the edges of my seat, and the leather creaked beneath my fingers. Sid Paul looked like a rabid dog at the end of the Porsche’s hood. He had both hands planted firmly on the glossy black paint, and he was looking at Mason with a crooked sneer. Blood ran from his nose over his upper lip and into his mouth.

My stomach rolled. I just wanted to get the hell out of here.

“Mason,” I said nervously.

He was half out of the car. One foot was still flat on the floor, and the other was on the gravel outside. He had his right arm resting on the hood of the Boxster and his left draped over the door. From where I was sitting, Mason didn’t look concerned at all.

But I was concerned. I was very concerned.

Sid slammed his hands down on the hood again, broadcasting his crazy to the stragglers who had lingered after the race ended.

“Keep your hands off the car,” Mason said. His voice was much calmer than I expected it