Jackson’s been playing emotional hide-and-seek with me ever since the cops showed up in Santa Fe, and now he’s taken that to the next level.

Well, too bad for him that’s not a game I’m in the mood to play.

A lockbox is mounted to the side of the building, and I punch in the code, then grab the keys for a bright yellow Mustang. I hurry over to it and fire up the engine, gratified by the way the motor purrs as I back it out. It’s a responsive car, a hell of a lot spunkier than my five-year-old Nissan, and I hope that it’s got enough power to catch up to Jackson.

He can’t really lay on the gas until he’s off airport property, but I’m more than willing to break the rules and do exactly that. I hope he hasn’t passed the gates, because I’d never find him on the city streets. But surely he hasn’t been gone that long. Has he?

There’s a single road that winds its way through this Stark-operated section of the airport, and I’m certain that is Jackson’s path. But I know how to cut across on the service feeder that runs behind the Stark hangars and, hopefully, catch up with him by Hangar C, which is where the main road and the feeder converge.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do then, but I’m not above tailing him all the way to wherever the hell he’s escaping to. Because I know damn well that he’s not going home. He needs a fight—he needs to lash out. He needs to pummel the world into submission, until the universe rights itself again.

What he doesn’t seem to need is me, and the thought that he’s not just running from me but actually escaping out the goddamn back door makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Fortunately, my anger has overshadowed that emotion. I’m fired up, riled by my fury. I’ll melt down later; right now, all I want is to find him, to shake him, and to tell him to get the fuck over it. Because he’s got enough problems right now, and dammit, I’m not one of them.

My temper has been rising with my thoughts and I realize that I’ve pushed the car up to almost ninety, which is completely forbidden on airport property.

I press harder, edging the speedometer up even more. I’m not worried about safety—this part of the airport is primarily used for storage of planes and parts, and even during the week there are rarely people around. But even if it were bustling, I’d still floor it. Because right now, the rules are the last thing on my mind. My descent into anarchy is rewarded when I pass a cluster of planes anchored on the tarmac just past Hangar D. They are on my right, and just beyond them I see the black streak that is Jackson’s Porsche.

I’m even with him, maybe just a little bit ahead, and I floor it, barely even slowing when I reach Hangar C and make the sharp right turn to take me up the building’s north edge, which will put me perpendicular to him right about the time he’s about to pass the hangar.

I pound on the steering wheel, as if that will force the car to go faster, and Jackson’s black Porsche comes into view on my right the moment I’m clear of the hangar. I slam on the brakes, bringing me to a dead stop in his path, with just enough room for him to hit the brakes.

I cringe as his tires squeal, and too late I realize that the consequences will be very bad if he hits me. Not just injury to me, but damage to his Porsche.

And that really won’t sit well with Jackson.

But it’s not the Porsche I have to worry about. He’s brought it to a stop mere inches from the Mustang, and he’s out of it and at my door so quickly it makes me gasp. His palm slams down hard on the roof and I jump, then have to fight the urge to lock the door and stay safe inside.

But this isn’t about being safe.

This is about getting into that goddamn thick head of his.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands as I burst out of the Mustang.

But I don’t answer him. Instead, I surprise us both by lashing out and slapping him hard across the cheek.

four

“What the fuck?”

“You need a fight?” I demand, my voice harsh. My skin feels hot and prickly. I’m walking on dangerous ground, and I know it, but I can’t go back now. “You need to hit something? To lash out? I told you once, Jackson, and I meant it. Whatever you need.”

“I need to be alone.”

“Bullshit,” I say, even as I raise my hand to hit him again.

He catches my wrist, then twists, so I have no choice but to move where he wants me to go. Now it’s his back that is against the car, and I’m standing with nothing to support me except Jackson’s hand holding me up.

He releases me, backs away. Then slowly walks toward me, stalking me. His eyes are feral. Wild. And his face is all hard lines and angles, dangerous and edgy. The hint of copper in his coal black hair flashes like fire, a sharp contrast to the cold, hard blue of his eyes.