Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) by Lisa McMann Read Free Book Online

the guy. They rolled around while I scrambled to wipe the snow off my face, and the mugger managed to get up and get away. The stranger chased after him, and I never saw either one of them again.
    I wasn’t hurt, and I wasn’t much help to the police. It had been really dark, and I didn’t get a look at the mugger’s face, didn’t really have a concept of how big a dude he was. The police guessed it was probably a random incident—some meth addict who needed money for supplies and was waiting for anybody to come along.
    I shake away the memory and squint at the signs in this complex until I find the right building and a parking spot nearby. I don’t give myself time to get nervous, I just grab the warmer bag, zip out of the car. I jog up the three steps to the building and nearly wipe out on a slick spot right by the door, where a bunch of icicles must drip during the day and make a big ice patch on the step at night.
    When I grab the door handle to steady myself, it swings open hard, right at me, knocking into the corner of my pizza bag and sending it sliding off my gloved fingers just as somebody plows out of the building into me, more startling than scary.
    Out of instinct I reach out as I fall back, my focus on catching the pizza bag rather than on how I’ll land, and it’s one of those slow-motion moments where everything is blurry, my hands won’t move where I want them to, and my body is going in the opposite direction from the way I want it to go. Meanwhile, whoever plowed into me is now tripping over my leg and falling too . . . and his shoulder or arm or something takes my precious red bag with it.
    My elbow takes the worst hit when I land, then my back, and my head smacks on the cement, but I’m wearing a hat so it’s cushioned, thank the dogs. The wind rushes out of me and I lie there for a moment trying to get it back, stunned. Immediately I think it’s another attack, but there’s no menacing feeling here. A second later I’m sure it’s just an unfortunate collision.
    “Shit,” I hear. “I’m sorry.”
    I try to sit up, and flames shoot through my arm, tears of pain and frustration over the lost merchandise and lost time starting to sting. My pizza bag rests upside down in the snow about five feet away. I close my eyes. “Shit,” Iecho. My brain rushes to calculate the time wasted. At least forty minutes before I can get back here again with a fresh pizza. Maybe thirty-five . . .
    “Are you okay?”
    I freeze as it registers: I know that voice. And now I can’t speak at all, because Sawyer Angotti is tossing his empty pizza bag aside and kneeling on the icy step next to me. And I’m furious.
    •       •       •
    Five reasons why I, Jules Demarco, am furious:
    1. The pizza I was ten feet away from delivering properly is now something only Trey would eat
    2. My stupid wenus * is broken and hurts like hell
    3. It’s a snowy Super Bowl Sunday and I’m already running forty-five minutes behind
    4. Some loser (even though I’m in love with him) wasn’t watching where he was going, and I’m the one who has to suffer for it
    5. That loser just delivered his pizza without consequence, and also? Does not have a broken wenus
    “I’m fine,” I manage to say. Embarrassed, I ignore the pain, roll away from his outstretched hand, and getto my feet, holding my sore elbow close to my side. I reach out and gingerly pick up my pizza bag. I close my eyes once again and swallow hard. The inside of that box will be pretty gross right now. I don’t want to think about it.
    “I’m really sorry—I was in a hurry . . .”
    It’s true that he’s being ridiculously nice about this. I almost wish he weren’t. If he were a jerk about it, I could stay furious a lot longer.
    “Me too,” I confess with a sigh. “I was already off balance from the ice when you barreled through the door.” Shut up, shut up, I tell myself. Now I’m mad at myself for taking part of the