Bang (Blast Brothers Book 2)

  Bang

  By Sabrina Stark

  USA Today Bestselling Author

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  Copyright © 2020 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  Cami

  I was practically screaming now. "For God's sake, will you please stop the car!"

  The roads were slick with snow, and I was in the middle of the back seat. In the front seat were two strangers in ski masks – one male and one female.

  The male was behind the wheel, and the female was in the passenger's seat, craning her neck to stare behind us.

  And the vehicle? Technically, it belonged to my boss – one Mason Blastoviak, who wasn't known for being a nice guy.

  Whether these idiots realized it or not, they'd picked the wrong vehicle to car-jack.

  I took a deep, calming breath and tried again. "Seriously, just stop the car, alright?"

  With a sarcastic snort, the female said, "It's not a car. It's an SUV, remember?"

  Of course I remembered. It was, after all, the vehicle I drove as part of my job. But that wasn't the point.

  I told her, "You called it a car first." And she had, like ten minutes ago when she and her companion had caught me by surprise.

  "Yeah, well you called it one last."

  "It doesn't matter what we call it," I said. "You still need to stop."

  From the driver's seat, the guy said, "Shut up! You've got no say in this."

  The female turned to face him. "You'd better be talking to her."

  "I'm talking to both of you," he said. "Now, zip it! I'm trying to drive."

  Oh, for God's sake. Did I really need to say it? "You wouldn't need to drive if you'd just pull over."

  He glanced in his rear-view mirror and cursed under his breath. "I can't. He's gaining on us."

  Of course he was. Mason's car was a sleek turbo-charged sedan with eight cylinders and a lot of horses under the hood.

  But this vehicle? It was a big orange SUV with a whole lot of safety features, but not a lot of power. On the upside, it did have four-wheel drive, which gave us a huge advantage on the slick roads.

  Mason would've surely caught up with us already, if only his own vehicle weren't more suited for hot dry pavement – and not a snow-covered country road in the middle of a raging blizzard.

  Still, it was only a matter of time.

  I told the driver, "You can't outrun him, you know."

  He yelled back, "Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

  "Don't you get it?" I said. "He thinks Willow's in the car."

  "Willow who?"

  "Willow Blastoviak. His little sister."

  Willow was only eight years old and as cute as a button. Man, I loved that kid.

  I said a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn't in the vehicle.

  And she would've been, if only my best friend – who happened to be the fiancée of Mason's brother – hadn't taken Willow for an impromptu bake-a-thon earlier this afternoon.

  And me? I was Willow's nanny – not because it was my final career choice, but because teaching jobs had been thin on the ground, especially for recent college grads with more heart than experience.

  As far as the nanny job, it wasn't all bad. Willow was terrific. But her brother, the billionaire who signed my checks? He was something else entirely.

  And that wasn't a compliment.

  Still, I knew one thing for certain. Mason would've braved a hundred slick roads – and whole lot more – to save his little sister.

  But me? I was expendable. I knew this, just like I knew that Mason was the most impossible person I'd ever met. Rude, abrasive, and cold as ice – except when it came to his own family.

  I wasn't family. Ask Mason. He'll tell you.

  Repeatedly.

  In the SUV, the female looked to me and said, "Can't you just call him? Tell him Willow's not here?"

  "Suuuuure," I said. "Just turn back and retrieve my purse." I gave her a sarcastic smile. "You know, the one you tossed out the window?"

  From the driver's seat, the guy said, "We're not goin' back for nothin'."

  I made a sound of frustration. "Well, you can't drive forever. Eventually, you'll run out of gas." Assuming we didn't slide into a ditch long before that.

  He gave the rear-view mirror another glance. "Yeah, well maybe he'll run out first."

  "Or maybe," I said, "he'll catch up with us and beat you senseless for kidnapping his little sister."

  This wasn't as far-fetched as you'd think. Mason was six-foot-two and packed with hard muscle. He looked amazing in a suit – and in jeans, too.

  He was no pampered pussy cat. He hadn't always been rich. His tool company, Blast Tools, had been founded with grit and determination, along with a firsthand knowledge of his products.

  The guy could swing a hammer with the best of them – and looked very good doing it, as millions of cable TV viewers already knew.

  The driver shot back, "But his sister's not even here."

  "I know," I said through clenched teeth. "But Mason doesn't know that, does he?"

  The guy glanced toward his female companion and said, "Why'd you throw out her purse for?"

  It wasn't the purse that was the issue. It was everything inside the purse – my wallet, my phone, and my little cannister of pepper spray, which would've come in extra-handy right about now.

  "Don't blame me!" the female yelled back. "It was your idea!"

  The guy made a sound of disgust. "Since when do you listen to me?"

  As they bickered back and forth, I whirled in my seat to study the road behind us. Snow was falling so hard, I could hardly see anything. Even Mason's black sedan – it was a gray, hazy blur amidst the swirling snow.

  As far as the road itself, we were on a long country stretch, with very few houses and no other vehicles in sight.

  And why? It was because only an idiot would be out in these conditions.

  Correction. Four idiots. Me, the two masked wonders, and the guy who was hot on our heels.

  Through the rear window, I was still eyeing the fuzzy outline of Mason's car. The way it looked, he was having a hard time keeping it on the road. Every once in a while, the sedan would begin to fish-tail before straightening out again.

  But he wouldn't give up. I knew this, just as sure as I knew my own name – Camille Josephine O'Neal, aka Cami the Nanny.

  One thing about Mason, he always got what he wanted. Including me.

  And I meant that literally.

  God, I'd been such an idiot.

  But that was a story for another time, when I wasn't in the middle of grand-theft nanny-mobile.

  The driver said, "Fuck! He's not giving up!"

  I couldn’t resist. "Told ya."

  The funny thing was, we weren't going terribly fast. The slick roads made it literally impossible – not to mention, the visibility was horrendous, like driving thorough a sea of swirling cotton balls.

  In reality, we were driving barely above the speed limit. Still, we were going a lot faster than was safe – especially Mason. He didn't have four-wheel drive. No, what he had was a reckless disregard for his own safety.

  Idiot.

  But I guess I said that already, didn't I?

  And even though our history had been on the rocky side, I knew in my heart, I'd be crushed if anything bad happened to him.

  So who was the idiot now?

  Me.

  That's who.

  As I watched, the sedan lurched forward, as if Mason had abandoned all reason. My stomach clenched. Oh, God.

  I whirled forward
and yelled to the driver, "Seriously, just stop, alright?"

  "No way," he said. "I told you, that guy's fucking nuts."

  I whirled again to look behind us. Oh, yeah. Mason had definitely lost his mind. Already, the sedan was closing in on us fast, like he was putting the pedal to the metal in spite of a million fluffy reasons to do just the opposite.

  Suddenly, his sedan shifted lanes and roared forward. Within mere moments, it passed us in a blur of speed and disrupted snow.

  The guy in the driver's seat said, "What the fuck?"

  But then, a split-second later, Mason's car swerved directly in front of us. The female screamed, and I might've too.

  It was like Mason wanted us to hit him.

  The thought had barely crossed my mind when that's exactly what happened. With a sickening crash, our SUV slammed into the back of Mason's sedan and sent both of our vehicles spinning.

  I heard a series of bangs as airbags deployed all around us – in the front and even on the sides. The guy in the driver's seat gave a girlish scream as we spun like five times before coming to a slow stop in the shallow ditch.

  Frantically, I glanced around.

  I was okay.

  And so, apparently, were the two idiots in front, because already, they were arguing about whose fault it was.

  The female yelled, "You should've swerved!"

  He yelled back, "I did swerve!"

  "Yeah, but you swerved too much!"

  "What? You wanna drive?"

  "I can't now," she said. "The car's toast."

  Was it? I wasn't so sure. Yeah, maybe the front end was severely crumpled, but it's not like we were in a twisted heap of burning metal.

  My heart clenched. But what about Mason?

  I yanked off my seatbelt and lunged toward the side window. The side airbag had deployed at hip level, leaving my view unobstructed. Thank God.

  And yet, thanks to the swirling snow, I still couldn't see beyond a few feet.

  But then, the snow cleared barely enough for me to spot Mason's car on the opposite side of the road, where it had apparently found a ditch of its own. The rear of his sedan was a banged, crunched-up mess.

  As far as the front, I couldn’t be sure either way.

  As I took in the damage, something squeezed at my heart. Was Mason alright?

  I reached for the door handle and gave it a frantic tug. Nothing happened. In the front seat, they were still arguing.

  The guy was saying, "Oh yeah? Then next time you drive!"

  "I wanted to drive," she yelled back. "But you wouldn’t let me!"

  "Yeah, because you drive like shit in the snow."

  "Yeah? Well so do you!"

  Ignoring them, I gave the door handle another tug. Still nothing.

  Stupid safety features.

  I hollered out, "Unlock the door!"

  Both of them ignored me and kept on bickering.

  Great. Already, the snow was kicking up again, hiding Mason's car from my desperate view. With growing anxiety, I stared through the swirling snow.

  And then I saw him, striding forward like a gladiator heading into battle. He wore a dark business suit, a red necktie, and a look so ominous, I felt myself swallow.

  In his right hand was a hammer – silver on the business end with a blazing orange handle. I couldn't make out the logo, but of course, I didn't need to.

  Blast tools were famous worldwide. And this was their trademark Blast Demolition Hammer, which he was wielding like a weapon.

  I murmured, "Oh, my God," before hollering out to the idiots in front. "At least roll down the window!"

  I wasn't even thinking of escape. I knew I'd make it out eventually. But now more than anything, I needed to let Mason know that his sister wasn't here, before he killed someone in a brotherly rage.

  But did they listen?

  No.

  They kept on bickering.

  As I watched in growing horror, Mason strode to driver's side window and lifted the hammer high. A split second later, the window shattered in a hail of broken glass that instantly silenced the bickering.

  Mason used the sharp end of the hammer to puncture the driver's airbags. And then, he tossed the hammer aside and reached into the car with both hands. He grabbed the guy in the driver's seat and yanked him out through the now-open window.

  The guy hollered out, "What the fuck?"

  As for his companion, she practically dove for the passenger's side door. Unlike me, she shoved her door open with no trouble.

  How nice for her.

  As for myself, I was still trapped by the child safety locks.

  I watched in stunned disbelief as the masked female bolted from the vehicle and headed not for her companion, but in the opposite direction, sprinting toward the nearby woods.

  Well, so much for loyalty.

  As for Mason, he slammed the driver up against the side of the car, just inches from my face. He hauled back and hit the guy in the dead center of his ski mask.

  With my face pressed against the back window, I hollered out, "Willow's not here!"

  Mason called back, "I know," just before hitting the guy again, this time in the stomach.

  Huh?

  By now, the masked car-jacker was babbling and cussing up a storm. And so was I.

  Obviously, Mason still wasn't getting it. I scrambled over the center console and dove into the driver's seat. As I did, Mason called out, "What the hell are you doing?"

  "I'm trying to get out!"

  "Don't," he said. "There's broken glass."

  As if I didn't know.

  I glanced down at my hands and thanked my lucky stars that I'd worn gloves today, along with my warmest winter coat and sturdy denim jeans. My clothes were thick, and if the shards of glass were cutting me, I sure as heck didn't feel it.

  Or maybe I was just too numb to feel anything but desperation.

  I needed to stop Mason before he murdered the guy.

  I grabbed the front door handle and gave it a hard yank. The door wasn't locked, but when I tried to push open the door, I was met with hard resistance in the form of the guy's backside, which was apparently blocking the door just enough to keep it from swinging open.

  I stuck my head out the front window and yelled, "Didn't you hear me? I said Willow's not here. She's with Arden."

  Now Mason was gripping the guy by his shoulders, holding him firm against the vehicle. Without letting go, he looked to me and said, "And I told you, I know."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Hang on." And then, almost as an afterthought, he tossed the guy aside, sending him stumbling toward the road. The guy regained his balance for only a moment before slipping and falling hard on his backside.

  With a string of curses, he scrambled up and then bolted through the snow, heading in the same direction as his female companion.

  I watched for only a moment before I looked back to Mason. As I did, the wind momentarily died down, even as the snow kept falling in big fluffy blobs, lending a Christmas card quality to our surroundings.

  The picture would've looked quite serene, if only there weren't two banged-up vehicles and a very ticked-off guy standing just outside the SUV.

  He didn't look serene. Far from it.

  His gaze locked on mine as he said, "I didn't come for Willow. I came for you."

  My breath hitched, and my mouth fell open. I hardly knew what to say. I wasn't even sure what he meant, not for certain.

  After all, this wasn't the first time he'd caught me by surprise. It wasn't even the first time he'd come for me, even if that other time – just three months ago – had been a whole lot different.

  Chapter 2

  Cami

  Three Months Earlier

  "Oh. My. God." In front of me, Livia's eyes widened as she stared across the small, crowded nightclub.

  She was facing the main entrance. I wasn't.

  When I turned to look, she lunged for my arm. "Cami, don't!"

  At the sound of my name
, I stopped in mid-motion. "Don't what?"

  "Don't look," she said. "I think he's coming over."

  "He?" I turned back to Livia. "He who?"

  Her voice grew dreamy. "A total freaking hottie."

  "Let me guess," I laughed. "Tall, dark, and handsome? Like the last three guys you mentioned?"

  "Forget them," she said. "They're chopped liver compared to this guy."

  Now, I really wanted to look – not because I was here to meet someone, but rather because the other guys had been nothing to sneeze at. This meant the latest "hottie" must be something truly spectacular.

  Livia was still gripping my arm. With a little squeeze, she said, "Quick. Laugh like I just said something funny."

  At this, I actually did laugh, not because she'd commanded me to, but rather because the request was so ridiculous, I couldn’t help but laugh. "Seriously?"

  "Louder," she urged. "And better. Like this." And then, right on cue, she threw back her head and laughed with such wild abandon that several people turned to look.

  Then again, people always looked at Livia. She was undeniably gorgeous, with long dark hair and a figure to die for.

  And me? Well, I wasn't quite chopped liver, but I was no Livia, that's for sure.

  I stood several inches shorter, with long auburn hair that was nearly impossible to tame, especially during humid weather – or when I'd been dancing for too long in a crowded nightclub.

  But Livia? She still looked picture-perfect. She and I were probably the same dress size, but with her impossibly long legs, she looked three sizes smaller and ten times more fashionable in her little red dress with matching heels.

  She was holding her fifth mojito – not because she'd consumed the other four, but rather because a long parade of guys had been vying for her attention and buying her drinks whenever she expressed the least bit of thirst.

  As I watched, she placed the latest mojito onto the bar beside us and smiled winningly over my shoulder. Under her breath, she urged, "Hurry up."

  "Sorry, what?"

  "Laugh, like I said."

  Oh, God. I didn't want to. But the truth was, I owed Livia a favor, and I couldn’t afford to tick her off.

  Just yesterday, she'd gotten me a job interview with her dad's jewelry store, and if there was one thing I needed now, it was gainful employment.