Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach Read Online Free

Holden,” Thomas says. “His lyric notebook.”
    My stomach drops another floor if that’s possible. “Your only copy?”
    “For all intents and purposes,” he says.
    By now, I’m feeling downright sick. I can feel Hank Junior’s worry in the rigid way he’s holding himself on my lap. I rub his head and say a prayer that we’ll live to laugh about this. Every nerve in my body is screaming for Thomas to slow down, but a glance at Holden’s face is all I need to keep my mouth shut.
    “There they are!” I yell, spotting them up ahead just before they zip in front of a tractor-trailer loaded with logs.
    “Crazy mothers,” Thomas shouts, whipping around a Volvo whose driver gives us the finger.
    I never liked thrill rides. I was always the one on church youth group trips to sit out the roller coaster or any other such thing designed to bring screams ripping up from a person’s insides. I’m feeling like I might be sick at any moment, but I press my lips together and stay quiet.
    “They just took a right,” Holden barks. He unbuckles his seat belt and sticks his head out the window, yelling into the wind. I can’t understand what he’s saying, although I’m pretty sure it involves profanity.
    “Why don’t we just pull over and call 911?” I suggest.
    Thomas ducks his head to see around a produce truck loaded with bushel baskets of tomatoes and cabbage. “They won’t catch them before we do.”
    I have to admit we’re gaining on them. I can now see the way the guy holding the guitar case keeps throwing looks of panic over his shoulder. He’s making scooting motions, too, like he can force the motorcycle to go faster in doing so.
    I drop my head against the seat and close my eyes, forcing myself not to look for a few seconds. That only makes the lack of control worse, so I bolt upright and hold onto Hank Junior tight as I can.
    We’re two car lengths behind them now, and the motorcycle driver has taken his craziness to another level. He zips past a minivan, laying the bike so low that the end of the guitar case looks like it might touch the pavement. I hear and feel Holden yank in a breath.
    Thomas cuts around the van and lays on the horn. We’re right on the motorcycle’s tail now and, in the headlights, I see that both the driver and his buddy are terrified. The front of the truck is all but touching the license plate of the motorcycle, and I don’t dare think what would happen if they slammed on their brakes.
    “Slow down!” I scream, unable to stand another second. At that same moment, the guy holding the guitar case sends it flying out to the right of the bike.
    It skitters on the asphalt, slips under the rail and disappears from sight.
    “Stop!” Holden yells.
    Thomas hits the brakes, swings onto the shoulder and then slams the truck into reverse. Suddenly, we’re backing up so fast my head is spinning.
    “Right here!” Holden shouts and before Thomas has even fully stopped the truck, he’s jumping out the door and running.
    “There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment,” Thomas says, leaning over me.
    I’m too stunned to move, and so I sit perfectly still, willing my reeling head to accept that we’ve stopped. Hank Junior barks his approval, and I rub his back in agreement.
    Thomas hauls out, flicking on the flashlight and calling for Holden. Within seconds, he’s disappeared from sight, too. I tell myself I need to get out and help look, but a full minute passes before I can force my knees to stop knocking long enough to slide off the truck seat. I hold onto Hank Junior’s leash as if my life depends on it and teeter over to the spot where I’d seen them hop over the guardrail.
    The drop off is steep, and vines cover the ground. I can’t see much except in the swipes when cars pass and lend me their headlights. I catch a glimpse of the light way down the hill. I hear Thomas’s voice followed by Holden’s.
    “Are y’all okay?” I call out.
    “We got it!” Thomas