Page 51 of Nanny for the Firefighters

I want to say, you can take the girl out of the trailer park… but she didn't grow up in one. She was raised in a decent middle-class family in the northern California suburbs. Her parents divorced when she was a teen, and both tried to buy her love instead of paying her attention. Or giving her ground rules. Or teaching her how to be a well-adjusted adult.

Not that they're completely to blame. Vanessa made her own choices. And I've seen so, so many kids overcome their upbringing. Vanessa's likely inflated an already self-centered personality.

Nothing important is happening, and I'm nearly ready to call it when a gentleman twice her age sidles up to her, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist. Her head tips back, and she lets out a squeal that no one our age should let out in public. I decide to take a video this time, catching the way she spins and throws her arms around him, how she smashes her body against his, how she greedily kisses him in the center of the dance floor.

It makes me sick that so many of her admirers don't immediately flee at the display. After their kiss, he pulls a box from the inside his jacket—a luxurious dark blue, custom-made bespoke suit. I can spot them a mile away after the many, many high-class homes I nannied within. And I know the signature navy blue box of Astteria, an old-money luxury jewelry brand. The length says necklace.

If Vanessa expects a ring, she hides it well. Another shrieking squeal pierces the room's smooth live music. I capture her turning and lifting her hair for the necklace. It perfectly fits to accent her decolletage. Her hand strokes it the moment the large stone touches her skin.

After another five minutes of their reunion, the newcomer has put an end to her steady stream of drinks. She stumbles a bit, but it's obvious she's had practice in these heels with this level of drunk. The man's slowly guiding her toward the door.

Does this man know how many others have been buying her things tonight? How many men shower her with expensive gifts to have her on their arm and in their beds? This is at least the third I've seen give her a gift today. Although none of them seem to overlap. She's smart enough to play them all in different restaurants and bars in different cities around Harborview.

They're halfway to the door. It's my time to shine. Out the back door like earlier, I smile and wave at the security guard on my way to my car. His head cocks, but I call back, "The pasta really helped. Thanks!"

I slide behind the wheel before he has time for a retort. It's easy to navigate my car out to the street, then I wait down the street from the front door in case Vanessa leaves in her lover's vehicle instead of her own.

When they emerge, the fatherly figure hands a ticket to the valet, and his black Bentley is pulled forward only a minute later. Vanessa plops into the front passenger seat, still idly stroking the stone hanging from her neck. Her suitor hurries to the driver's side, unbuttoning his jacket and looking around before he sits.

I pull into traffic before he does, giving me an excuse to slow and let him in front of me. Makes it look like I didn't mean to follow him. As we weave toward the highway outside of town, I've let a car between us, but I stay close enough that I can track his brake lights.

But there's a few sharp turns to get on the 101. I lose sight of the car for a precious few seconds, and it's gone. Where the hell did he go? No one's turning onto the highway. Both sides of the onramp are clear.

This just isn't possible.

I really wish the guy drove her home in her vehicle. At least then, I could find them again.

Sighing, I turn to go south and head for the manor, for home with Marcus and Lily, and likely any combination of Will, Theo, and Ethan. Most nights, it's all four of them with me. Once I'm on the 101 for a minute, headlights approach fast. They grow larger and larger, blinding me in my mirrors. I try to shield the glare with my arm.

My heart races. There's plenty of room for them to get around me. No one is coming, and no hills hide anyone on this stretch. But as that glare begins to dip below my back window, my foot instinctively presses on the gas.

By the time I'm speeding eighty-five down this fifty-five mile an hour road, I'm seriously scared. All I know is I can't slow down, or they'll catch me.

24

ELLA

The roar of the engine vibrates through my bones as I slam the gas pedal to the floor. My heart pounds in my chest, a relentless drumbeat echoing the wild pace of the car. I'm on Oceanview Drive, speeding along the coast with the dark, tumultuous waves crashing against the cliffs below. The moonlight barely pierces the heavy clouds, casting a ghostly glow on the wet asphalt. The other car is right behind me, its headlights glaring in my rearview mirror like a predator's eyes.

I take a sharp turn onto 31st Boulevard, tires screeching in protest as I drift around the corner. The cityscape blurs in my peripheral vision, a whirlwind of neon signs and shadowy alleys. The driver behind me is relentless, his sleek black car a phantom in the night, inching closer with every second. He's not just trying to catch up. He's trying to make me crash.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles white with the effort. I can't afford to lose focus for even a moment. The stakes are too high. I swerve to avoid a pothole, the car jolting violently but staying on course. The other driver matches my maneuver, staying hot on my trail. I glance at the GPS, calculating my next move. The Oceanview Bridge is coming up—long, narrow, and slick with rain. Perfect.

I press a button on the console, activating the nitrous. The car surges forward with a burst of speed, the force pressing me back into the seat. The bridge looms ahead, a skeletal silhouette against the stormy sky. I hit the bridge at full speed, the metal grating beneath the tires singing a high-pitched, nerve-racking tune. I can hear the other car's engine screaming behind me, the gap between us closing rapidly.

Midway across the bridge, I see an opening—a side road that dips sharply down to the lower docks. I yank the wheel hard to the right, sending the car into a controlled slide. The tires squeal as I shoot down the ramp, narrowly missing the guardrail. The sudden drop catches the other driver off guard. He overshoots the turn, his car skidding wildly before he manages to correct. I gain precious seconds, but he's still on me.

The docks are a maze of shipping containers and abandoned warehouses, perfect for losing a tail. I zigzag through the narrow lanes, the sound of the ocean growing louder. My car fishtails as I navigate a series of hairpin turns, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I catch glimpses of the black car in my mirrors, its driver unrelenting, his pursuit dogged and precise.

I burst out of the maze onto Harborfront Avenue, the open road stretching ahead. The sea is to my left, the city to my right. I push the car harder, the speedometer climbing dangerously high. My eyes flick to the fuel gauge. It's running low. I need to end this, and soon.

Ahead, the road splits into a winding mountain path and a tunnel that cuts through the cliffside. I opt for the tunnel, hoping the narrow confines will work to my advantage. I barrel into the darkness, the walls a blur as I race through. The other car follows, its headlights casting erratic shadows.

Inside the tunnel, the sound is deafening. The roar of the engines reverberates off the walls, mingling with the screech of tires and the pounding of my heart. I see a faint light at the end, the exit approaching fast. I need a plan—something to shake him off for good.

As we burst out of the tunnel, I spot it—a service road that loops back toward the city, barely visible in the darkness. I yank the wheel and brake hard, the car spinning in a perfect 180 before I slam the gas again. The sudden maneuver takes the other driver by surprise. He overshoots, struggling to regain control.

I tear down the service road, buildings flashing by in a haze. The city is a labyrinth, and I know it like the back of my hand. I weave through the streets, taking turns at random, my only goal to lose him in the urban jungle. I hear the wail of sirens in the distance—reinforcements, perhaps, but I can't count on it.