Page 33 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gabby

T he world came back in flashes—disjointed and heavy, like wading through syrup.

I remembered the feeling of a hand on my arm—gentle, steady like it was trying to anchor me. A voice followed, low and soothing, though the words slipped through my mind like water through a sieve. A figure was hunched beside me, whispering something I couldn’t quite hold on to.

Then came the crunch of gravel beneath hurried footsteps, the groan of a car door swinging open, the press of a seat against my back, and finally, the solid thunk as the door closed behind me.

Darkness swallowed me again after that, and when I came to properly, my head throbbed like a marching band had set up camp behind my eyes.

Every inch of my body ached like I’d been dropped down a flight of stairs.

Twice. My mouth was dry, my limbs were stiff, and I was covered in what I was pretty sure was dirt—or at least ninety percent dirt and ten percent regret.

I groaned and turned my head.

Beside me, hunched over the steering wheel, was the old woman from the site.

Her white hair had come partially undone from the bun, and her face was pressed so close to the windshield I thought she might fog it up with her breath.

She was perched on what looked like a worn-out phone book, her bony knees tucked awkwardly under the steering wheel.

She was squinting so hard through the thickest pair of glasses I’d ever seen that I wasn’t entirely sure her eyes were even open.

Every few seconds, she slammed her hand against the horn, apparently for no other reason than to announce her presence to the world like a foghorn.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she greeted without taking her eyes off the road—or what I hoped was the road. “You’re a little dirty, sorry about that. I kept falling while trying to get you out of there. I’m not as strong as I used to be.”

I blinked slowly. “What…what’s happening right now?”

“If your head hurts, there’s some Tylenol in the glove box,” she added, adjusting her glasses slightly. “Don’t take more than two unless you want to sleep for a week. I've got the kind with the nighttime stuff in it. My arthritis doesn’t care what time it is.”

My hand fumbled for the latch and opened the glove compartment. Sure enough, a battered bottle of Tylenol rolled out, along with a travel-sized sewing kit, a granola bar that had probably expired during the Obama administration, and a packet of tissues covered in lint.

I popped the cap and dry-swallowed two pills while my brain tried to stitch reality back together.

“You’re helping me?” I asked slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Yes, dear. We needed to get out before Colin got back from his meeting.” The car weaved across the center line as if she were guiding a canoe, not a vehicle. “I figured we could find a phone somewhere and call your young man. You do have one, don’t you? A boyfriend?”

I blinked at her. “You mean Webb?”

“If that’s his name,” she shrugged, squinting even harder. “Do you know his number?”

That made me laugh or maybe wheeze. I wasn’t sure what came out.

“Does anyone know anyone’s number anymore? That’s what cell phones are for.”

“I don’t use those stupid things,” she snapped, tapping the steering wheel for emphasis. “I’ve got all the numbers I need in here.” She pointed at her temple proudly.

“Well, the only number I have up there is 911,” I muttered. “So, I think we’re screwed.”

She snorted. “We haven’t even been properly introduced, have we? I’m Gladys, and I really want to apologize about all of this.”

“Yeah.” I leaned back into the headrest. “Me too.”

I tried to take stock of everything. My body still felt like it had been run over by a freight train, and my thoughts kept slipping around in circles, but the facts remained: I wasn’t in that room anymore. I wasn’t tied up. I wasn’t in Maddox’s control.

Instead, I was in a car being driven by a woman who had probably once survived prohibition and now couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of her.

Was I still unconscious? Was this the plot of a horror movie that I was dreaming about? These felt like a valid questions.

Just then, Gladys swerved sharply to avoid a mailbox—or maybe she was aiming for it—and nearly side-swiped a pickup truck. The driver honked and flipped us off as we jolted into the other lane.

“Oh, hush,” she hissed at him, slapping her horn in retaliation. “People are so rude these days.”

I grabbed the door handle like it might anchor me to life.

So, as it turned out, I wasn’t going to be murdered by a cartel-backed tech mogul after all.

No dramatic shootout, no sinister monologue, no international scandal splashed across the headlines.

Instead, I was apparently destined to die in a tragic—yet somehow whimsically absurd—automobile accident on the side of a forgotten Florida backroad.

And my co-pilot in this impending disaster? A woman who believed GPS was a government conspiracy and treated traffic signs like polite suggestions she was free to ignore.

Perfect. Just perfect.

“I think we’re being followed,” Gladys said casually as if she were commenting on the weather. She squinted into the rearview mirror, then glanced sideways at me. “It’s probably that awful boy, Clayton Barris. I told Colin I didn’t like him hanging around that one. He's a bad influence.”

I blinked at her. “Clayton Barris?”

“Yes. Always skulking, always whispering. One of those types who never looks you in the eye.” She made a disapproving noise in her throat. “Colin used to bring him around when he was in college. He's like a stray dog that bites.”

My brain stuttered. I couldn't quite wrap my head around her tone—like she was talking about teenage friendships gone bad instead of the man I mentally classified as Maddox’s personal henchman.

There was no other word for him. The guy was six foot four, built like a bulldozer, and had all the charm of a prison shiv.

But Gladys spoke like she was reading lines out of a diary from 1973. Maybe it was how she coped. Or perhaps that’s just how mothers worked—clinging to the versions of their children before the world turned them cruel.

“Anyway,” she continued, “we’ll lose him. I’ve still got a few tricks left.”

Then she floored it. Literally.

The car jolted as she slammed the gas pedal down, and I let out a noise that might’ve been a squeak or a very polite scream as we shot down the interstate, weaving between lanes like we were trying out for a demolition derby.

My hand slammed against the door and stayed there, white-knuckled, while my other hand gripped the edge of the seat for dear life.

“I really should go get new glasses,” she muttered. “These are scratched all to hell. Everything looks like it’s wearing a foggy sweater.”

“Please let me drive,” I squealed, my voice coming out higher than I'd intended.

Gladys snorted. “And give Barris a chance to swipe me while we’re switching seats? I don’t think so.”

“I have a head injury,” I argued, trying to breathe through the pounding in my skull. “I should be asleep right now, not living through a high-speed chase with a woman whose lenses are held together with tape.”

“You should be resting, yes, not driving,” she agreed serenely. “You just sit there and stay alive. I’ve got this.”

And she meant it. The way she said it was as if she were trying to mother me. As terrifying as the whole thing was, there was a strange kind of comfort in it. A warped, adrenaline-soaked comfort, but still.

It made me think of my own mom and how I barely talked to her anymore. Not because I didn’t love her but because I couldn’t stomach the man she married. My stepfather had always made me feel like a burden in my own home, so I'd stopped trying to fit in.

Growing up, I’d spent most of my childhood at Sasha’s house instead of my own.

It was the kind of home that felt safe the moment you walked through the door—warm, a little chaotic, and filled with the kind of love that didn’t come with conditions.

Her two dads had treated me like I was one of their own, never once making me feel like I had to earn my place at the table or prove I was worthy of affection.

They were my sanctuary. My calm in the storm. My safe place.

And if I made it out of this—if I actually lived through this ride from hell—I was going to tell them everything. How much I loved them. How grateful I was. How they’d saved me without ever knowing how badly I needed it.

A horn blared behind us, long and angry, cutting through the chaos of rushing cars and roaring engines.

My heart was already pounding from the stress of the last few minutes, but now it thudded so hard against my ribs it made my already throbbing head feel like it was about to split open.

Every beat sent a fresh wave of pain behind my eyes, but I couldn’t focus on that, not with the way Gladys suddenly leaned forward and grinned like a woman half her age.

“Here we go,” she cheered, that grin stretching wider with a spark of something feral behind it.

Before I could process what she meant, she yanked the wheel sharply to the right.

The tires screamed against the asphalt in protest as we veered wildly off the interstate, the entire vehicle tilting just enough to make my stomach lurch.

We barreled onto an exit ramp at the last possible second, narrowly avoiding a concrete barrier that loomed far too close to my window.

My breath caught in my throat as I clutched the door with both hands, my nails digging into the armrest like it could anchor me to safety.