Accidental It Girl by Libby Street Page A

this is absolutely not a chase. It isn’t even a follow. I’m just exiting an airport three cars behind a celebrity.
    Make that four cars behind a celebrity…stupid cabs! I’m too far behind.
    I yank the steering wheel and make a questionably legal move to the right, scooting past the slow-moving cars ahead of me. I squeeze between two cabs, just before the exit ramp narrows from two lanes to one.
    An angry honk cuts through the darkness.
    Up ahead I see the Mustang move onto the shoulder, out of the line of traffic, then abruptly swerve back.
    With a resounding screech, my field of view is flooded with bright red light.
    The unmistakable sound of crunching metal and shattering glass fills my ears.
    The song on the radio stops, my engine howls like a wounded animal, then sputters slowly to silence.
    Oh, my God. I think I’ve just been in a car accident.
    Â 
    A man’s voice breaks through the clanging of metal and hissing of car engines. “Are you all right?” he asks calmly.
    I look down at myself, take a quick survey…arms, legs, fingers, and toes. No blood to speak of. Luckily, my camera is still in one piece, though I think it got jammed between my chest and the steering wheel on impact.
    â€œYeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “But my car!”
    By the light of a flickering streetlamp, I watch as silvery fumes billow from the front grill. The hood, normally marked by a stout but aerodynamic slope, is now shaped like a W. Its peaks point skyward, blocking the view through the windshield. The dashboard is slightly off kilter, now pitching down toward the passenger seat.
    A great wave of sadness rushes over me, a quiet sob grips my throat as tears begin streaming down my face.
    This is my father’s car.
    â€œMiss, I think you should get out if you can. I can’t tell if that’s smoke or steam coming from up there,” the man says, pointing to what used to be the hood of my car.
    I unhook my seat belt and, with the aid of the stranger, try to open the door. It won’t budge. I lay my shoulder into it, but all I manage to do is slam my camera into the immovable door.
    After taking the camera off and placing it gently on the passenger seat, I tip my head through the open window and use my arms to push myself out of the car, like Daisy Duke exiting the General Lee. The kind stranger lends me his arm to steady myself.
    â€œThank you,” I tell him.
    â€œNo problem. You sure you’re okay?” he asks, his eyes dancing over my tear-streaked face.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI’m going to check on the others then,” he says, pointing to the knot of vehicles ahead.
    I nod yes, and he jogs away.
    It’s hard to tell for sure, but it looks like four or five cars have been involved—a chain reaction. Police and fire personnel have already begun to stream in, the one good thing about getting into a car accident a stone’s throw from a major international airport, I guess.
    There’s honking in the distance as impatient drivers eager to merge onto the exit pile up behind us.
    As though driven by some primitive instinct, I find myself walking toward the flashing police lights.
    After a few fitful strides I see the cause of all this drama—a brand-new, bright red Mustang convertible.
    Ethan Wyatt stands deep in conversation with an attentive group of law enforcement. It’s a sea of uniforms, ill-fitting suits, and plastic windbreakers with POLICE, FAA, and HOMELAND SECURITY, plastered on them in big block letters. I’ve inadvertently stepped into a bad Tommy Lee Jones movie—costarring Ethan Wyatt.
    I edge up to eavesdrop on the conversation.
    â€œI’m telling you,” Ethan says forcefully, “someone was following me and, I don’t know, I took my eyes off the road, thought I saw something, and—” His voice drops off. Ethan’s eyes catch mine.
    He raises his arm, slips it cleanly between two