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Part of me knew this was her self-destructive behavior, that Chelsea probably didn’t feel anything for me. That I could be anyone.

Part of me didn’t care.

“Chelsea,” I said.

She took my earlobe in her mouth, her hand sliding higher up my thigh.

Even as the heat threatened to engulf me, some small part of my conscience knew I had to stop. Knew this could get really messy really fast. “Chelsea, we can’t do this,” I said. My voice was barely more than a whisper. The light up ahead was still red, but it was going to change any minute. I held my foot over the gas, ready to hit it the moment it turned.

Then her hand slipped over the bulge in my jeans.

“Fuck,” I said. I glanced at her briefly. Her eyes were on mine, her bottom lip in her mouth.

“See?” she squeezed her hand. “You want to, too.”

I glanced back up. The light had turned green, and we were almost on it. Thank God. I lowered my foot onto the gas.

Her hand slipped off, and I wanted desperately to tell her to put it back on.

Yes, I want it, Chelsea. I want it so fucking bad. But we can’t. It’s impossible.

I turned to look at her to tell her that last part, and that’s when I saw the headlights behind her. Bright. Huge.

Too fast.

Too close.

The last thing I saw was her face; that sad, beautiful face, before the vehicle slammed into us with an explosive, sickening crunch.

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