Page 40 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

There’s a black car following us out of town.

The last traffic light turns red, forcing us to a stop.

I keep my eye on the car, wondering if it’s going to take a turn at some point before following us down the back road.

I recognize it from when we pulled out of the parking lot down the street from Emily’s gallery.

My heart pounds, and the same feeling slithers down my spine that I got when we were walking to the car.

“I do.” London gently smiles. “I wonder if I grew up somewhere similar to this.”

“What makes you say that?” The blood slowly drains from my face. I take a left onto a smaller, residential road, lifting my eyes to the rearview mirror again. The car is still tailing us. I try to weave from one lane to the next, but it’s quick to mimic my moves.

“I don’t know,” London continues, scratching her head. I nearly forgot I’d asked her a question. “When you told me you grew up around here, I swear something in my head clicked. I got this flash of a memory. Or what I think is a memory.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” She lowers her arm from the side of the door and rests it in her lap, turning her beautiful face in my direction. “I couldn’t make sense of it like all the rest, so I didn’t say anything.”

“What was it?”

I turn down another small, winding road.

One the GPS tells me to stay on for the next eighteen miles.

Glancing in the rearview mirror again, I see the car is quick to follow.

It’s growing closer, the headlights clearer than they were before.

I try to get a read on what type of car it is but can’t make the emblem out with the fog obstructing its view.

By my guess, it’s an expensive car, especially if it can keep up with mine.

The dense fog hovering above the ground has grown heavier now that we’re no longer in town.

The car gains on me. Close enough that if I were to slam on my brakes, he’d crash right into us.

My adrenaline kicks in. Spotting a split in the road several hundred feet ahead, I lay on the gas and stiffen my arms, readying myself.

“Oh…” London mumbles, twisting her fingers in her lap. “It was a sign?—"

I cut the steering wheel, and the tires screech against the asphalt.

“West!” London yells. “What are you doing?”

My hands shake as I straighten the steering wheel and glare into the rearview mirror. “Someone’s following us.”

“What?” She gasps, twisting in her seat to look behind us. She grips onto her seat before whipping back around. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, lowering my voice. My adrenaline is racing, but I try to remain calm for London’s sake. I don’t know who is following us or why. We’re far from home, or anywhere really. There’s nothing but back roads and trees for what seems like miles.

My foot leans into the gas a little harder, and I watch the dial rise faster and faster, going up to ninety. Then one hundred.

The GPS hasn’t caught up with my sudden shift in direction. We must be getting a weak signal where we are.

“How long have they been following us?” London squeaks out, constantly glancing between the road, then to the car behind us.

“Since we pulled out of the parking lot.”

“Are you kidding? And you didn’t say anything?” she asks, panic stricken.

The air in the car has grown tenser. Clenching her hands into fists, her chest rises faster with every breath.

She’s having a panic attack.

“I couldn’t be sure,” I tell her, grinding my jaw. “But now I am.” Although I’m driving faster than I’ve ever driven before, not to mention on a road I’ve never fucking driven down in my life, I reach out and squeeze London’s thigh. “I’ll get us home safely. I promise.”

“What if he follows us the whole way? Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” I swallow, uncertainty settling in my veins. “Don’t worry. I’ll lose him.”

Seeing another split in the road, I take it. Leaves and dirt kick behind my tires, and I’m fishtailing.

London tries to stifle her screams, but she fails, clutching onto the side of the door.

She slaps her hand on the dash to steady herself when we reach the edge of a cliff.

I slam on the brakes, quickly whipping the steering wheel back in the opposite direction.

My foot grinds on the gas, and I pull back onto the small road.

I take another turn when I see another road. The farther we travel down the back roads, deeper into the woods, the more dangerous the turns become. It feels like we’re driving on the side of a fucking mountain.

If I take a turn too soon or too fast, we’ll roll hundreds of feet into the valley below. Just like we did almost a few minutes ago.

It feels like forever that the car follows us, and it seems like every turn I make, he has the chance to catch back up. Between the fog and the overcast skies, night begins to settle in. The sun sets behind the tree line, and it’s harder to see the roads or which direction I’m going.

“West?” London asks, still panicked. “He’s still behind us.”

I grind my jaw, taking another turn. “I know.”

Finally, another chance to lose him reveals itself around a sharp curve. Once we round the corner, I see an opportunity to turn down a private road. I have no clue if it’ll connect to another route, but I take it anyway .

It’s a narrow dirt road, uneven and bumpy. I hit a million potholes, and I’m bottoming out all over the place. My sweaty palm grips the steering wheel as I drive us farther into the cover of trees.

“Did we lose him?” London asks, turning in her seat to look behind her while I glance in the rearview.

“I think so,” I breathe out.

London slowly turns back in her seat and grips the leather edge beside her legs. I reach out and squeeze her thigh again. “Hey,” I urge her.

She doesn’t answer. She lifts her hand and fingers the Big Ben charm again, vacantly staring at the dash in front of her.

“Hey, Dimples,” I repeat, this time catching her attention. “We’re safe.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and she inhales an unsteady breath. “Okay.” Her eyebrows slant into concern. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know.”

I drive us down a private road for what feels like several miles before coming out to a main road. There are farmhouses and what looks like a small, abandoned town in the distance. Rolling hills covered in trees for miles.

Once I reach the end of the private road, I type in the address to my house in Brooklyn. I immediately take a right, but when I recognize the sign for the gas station at the next intersection, the air is sucked from my lungs.

Oh, shit. I recognize this place.

How the fuck did we end up here?

Giving London the side-eye, I watch for her reaction. She’s still anxiously fingering my necklace, her glassy eyes frantically looking through the windshield and passenger window. She examines every building and landmark we pass, and the longer we stay here, the harder the pull is on me .

The pull to get the fuck out of here and away from this place. I haven’t been here since I was fifteen years old.

I press my foot into the gas pedal, knowing what we need to pass to get to the highway.

We leave the center of the town behind, and I find myself looking in the rearview more times than I should, just to make sure I really did lose the asshole who was following us.

“Wait, stop,” London says beside me. Her eyes roam across the countless trees, and she sits forward.

I snap my head to the right. “What?”

“I’ve been here before,” she breathes. Her seatbelt strains against her shoulder as she leans forward. “I’ve been here before.”

“London.” My stomach swims with nausea.

Her fingers spin the charm, and she presses her hand to the dash. “I’ve been here, West. I recognize these houses. I know it.”

I drive us past the houses I’ve been to a million times. The yards I used to play in. The woods London and I used to chase each other through.

Panic settles in. Fear makes a home in my bones.

Is she finally remembering?

My mind screams at me not to stop the car. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a train track, watching it barrel toward me. It’s blaring its horn, screaming at me to move, but I don’t.

I don’t know what to do.

I press on the gas a little harder, hoping I can drive straight past the house and get us out of here.

“Stop the car, West,” she cries, digging her nails into the dashboard.

“London. We’re almost to the highway.”

“No.” She shifts to clutch the door. She follows every single building and tree, watching as they pass us by. “We need to stop. ”

“We can’t.”

“Stop the car.”

“No. I can’t do that, London.”

“Stop the car.”

“I can’t.” I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.

But my heart shatters when she whips her head in my direction, tears streaming from her wild eyes. “ Stop the car, West! ”