Road Rage Read Online Free PDF Page B

stiffened with shock.
    How had she not realized it before? Every object in the room refused to react to her touch, except the bed. And for whatever reason, when the man was in the bed, he could feel her. With a rush of excitement, she remembered stroking his hair last night–the strands had moved!
    A laugh of triumph bubbled out of her as she wiggled her bottom, settling deeper into the pillowy fabric. The man stirred.
    “Haley-girl?” he muttered, but his eyed remained closed, and his breathing remained deep and steady.
    She clapped a hand over her mouth. He’d heard her!
    Everywhere else, she could only observe, invisible and inaudible. But here on the bed, she was more. Alive. She felt her smile all the way to her toes. Finally, progress.
     

 
    Chapter 4
     
    The dream started out the same as it had last night. Derek was driving the Honda north on traffic-choked, sunny I-5 when he, uh, cut himself off, he guessed. Even though he knew he was dreaming, fear flashed through him with shocky heat as the crash unfolded. But unlike last night, he never felt the urge to scream. He wasn’t alone. He felt someone stroking his hair and tenderly smoothing sweat from his forehead.
    The possessiveness in the touch reminded him of Deidre in the early years of their marriage, but his subconscious would never conjure her up for comfort. Besides, the tenderness in the touch was nothing like Deidre. That was something new. New and intriguing.
    He tried to end the dream and wake himself up, wondering if he would glimpse wavy auburn hair and dark blue eyes. But the dream ignored his wishes.
    He hung upside-down behind the wheel of the red Honda. Out the jagged remnants of the windshield, the sun glinted off pebbles of glass sprayed across the pale-gray concrete. His chest felt funny, like it lacked the firm padding of muscle he’d maintained since his pigskin days, and oddly swollen and sore from the cutting strap of the seatbelt. His brain throbbed from too much blood going to his head, and the drip-drip-drip sound of thick fluid hitting the upholstered ceiling told him his head wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping all that blood inside. His vision pixilated. Then it went black.
    When he could see again, he was no longer upside down in the Honda.
    It was dark now. Rain beat down on the intact windshield of a white Nissan. The dream had changed, but he still sat behind the wheel of a wrecked car. Another airbag lay deflated in front of him. Another seatbelt cut across his chest. The nose of the car had crumpled against a tree, and steam curled from the gaping seam of the hood. Somewhere outside the car, the swish of wheels on wet road suggested a freeway close by.
    He turned his head to the left, toward the traffic noises, trying to figure out how he’d gotten here, but pain dug fiery trenches into his neck and shoulders. Whiplash.
    Testing the damaged tissues, he gingerly tried the other direction, surprised to find a man in the passenger seat. He wore a yellow polo shirt and had blond hair lightened with gray at the temples. Smile lines framed his pale blue eyes and mouth. That mouth was still. Those friendly eyes were open. And still.
    His heart dropped. “Daddy?” he said in a strangled voice. When no answer came, he tried again, louder. “Daddy? Daddy, are you okay?” He had a young female’s voice, but he couldn’t care. His father sat beside him, dead.
    Wait, his dad wasn’t dead. Dan Summers was alive and making people cower just up I-5 in Dunsmuir, where he lived with Derek’s mom and their two corgis. This guy wasn’t his dad. Not even close. This guy’s face reflected patience and affection, where his dad had little to express other than stern disapproval and outright anger. This guy was khakis and polos, briefcases and BlackBerries, bedtime stories on weeknights and golf on weekends, where his dad was jeans and work boots, Ford pick-ups and hard hats, too much beer on weeknights and too much whisky on