I hate to think about her leaving, but Oklahoma City is only a couple of hours away. She promised she’ll come back to visit, and I don’t want to acknowledge how much I’m gonna miss her.
My eyes start to sting, and I blink quickly so she won’t think I’m about to cry. “You better get out of here before Dean gets back.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
I force a grin. “Oooo. Date night at Duke’s?”
“It’s a Wednesday tradition!” she calls as she reverses around the garbage cans and takes off down the driveway. I wave to her and then head back into the kitchen.
The Righteous Three are gone, leaving me a measly tip. I roll my eyes and don’t even bother pocketing half of it. Dean gets pissed enough that I don’t bring in decent tips. If only he knew.
A shudder runs through me, but I shake it off, dashing upstairs to hide the notes Franks just gave me. I know I tell her that I’ll be fine when she’s gone, but the truth is I’m gonna be destroyed. She’s about one of the only people in this town who actually likes me. Who sees me as more than Violet Birdman’s bastard daughter.
One day. One day I’m gonna be free.
I grip the money in my apron pocket, willing myself to believe it.
5
Small Town Comfort
Freedom is supposed to feel better than this. I’m sure of it.
My torso is burning. Red liquid fire has demolished my white shirt.
Gripping the wheel, I blink and try to focus back on the road.
It didn’t take too long driving like a maniac before I found the peace of mind to pull into a secluded alley. A warning in the back of my brain kept screaming at me, “Don’t bleed out! Don’t bleed out!”
I had to assess my wound.
Thankfully, there was a first aid kit in the trunk of the car, which I used to patch myself up as best I could.
Blood has always made me nauseous, but I fought the dry gagging and the pain, letting out a muffled cry as I pressed the gauze dressing against the bullet hole in my side. There were actually two holes, which took me a minute to discover. I was so busy dealing with the wound in the front that I nearly missed the fact that I was shot in the back. I think the bullet zinged right through me. Or I got shot twice. I’m not sure.
One thing I do know is that stopping the bleeding is vitally important.
So that was what I tried to do.
The only medical training I have is from TV shows that Chanel always has on. She loves Grey’s Anatomy and Code Black. I listened to the character’s voices in the back of my mind as my shaking hands tried to tape the gauze over my slick skin.
“Bullet wound to the torso.”
“Internal bleeding?”
“I can’t be sure. A vital organ could have been nicked. Let’s get a scan…”
Then they’d start going on about CCs and IV lines.
Yeah, well, I won’t be getting any of that. It’s not like I can park a stolen car outside the hospital and saunter in there with a gunshot wound.
I have to stay low to the ground and figure this out on my own.
If Sloan catches up with me, I’m a dead man.
My best bet is to go into hiding until this thing blows over. Sloan will never stop looking, but I’ve always been an ace at hide-and-seek. My brothers could never find me.
My brothers.
A pain in my chest nearly doubles me over, and I clutch the wheel a little tighter.
Giving my head a shake, I spot an exit and veer off the highway. I have no idea how long I’ve been driving for, but I made it out of Texas, so that’s a damn good start.
As I trundle down an Oklahoma off-ramp, I spot another sign telling me that Buckland Springs is fifteen miles away. I’ve never heard of the place, but it sounds small-town, and those places often have a diner or at least a gas station.
I need a break, a new shirt, some sustenance. Maybe if I can eat and drink something, this feeling of wanting to pass out will go away.
Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pounding in my head and manage to find Buckland Springs without any trouble. It’s a sleepy little place that immediately reminds me of Harborton, Montana. My chest starts to hurt again, and I push the memories aside. They’ll destroy me if I let them linger.
I swore I’d never return to that idyllic place. To the ranch that saved my life when I was a kid.
How could I possibly go back there after what happened?
The ranch without Grandpa Ray is just a shell.
So why the hell am I missing it so much?
Cruising past the police station, I keep a wary eye on the building, praying no cops stroll out. Checking my speed, I make sure I’m driving like I’m not on the run and pass a general store that could help me out.
A couple of pedestrians wander past the yellow YATES GENERAL STORE painted across the window, and I change my mind about pulling up in front of it. Like I can stumble out of the door with blood all over my shirt.
I glance down at my torso and fight my gag reflex, sniffing and forcing my eyes back up to the road.
A bookstore and a barber shop appear, the candy-stripe pole so freaking small-town. A smile tugs at the left side of my mouth when I glance across the road and spot the movie theater.
OPEN ON WEEKENDS.
I bet they play old-school movies and the seats are hard vinyl with cracks down the middle. The kind that spring back when you stand up to leave.
The yearning in my chest continues to bloom, especially when I spot Duke’s Bar and Grill. The lights are on inside, turning the large front window into a TV screen. It’s busy with patrons, and I spot two waitresses delivering food with smiles on their faces. The short blonde one’s cute. I only see the side of her face, but her sunshine smile makes me think the restaurant is warm and inviting.
I want to go in there, to slide into a booth and surround myself with what looks like a comfortable small-town vibe. It’s a weird contrast to the bar next door. I should probably go in there. It’d be easy to blend into the wall, the dim lighting and loud music cloaking me.
Clearing my throat, I continue driving by, wondering where I can park or if I should even stop.
I need to stop.
My body’s telling me to take a break.
But I can’t leave this car looking like a shot-up criminal.
Which you are.
I scowl as I pass the gas station, a mechanic and a lawyer’s office. Then I’m out the end of Main Street. The highway to Oklahoma City is probably up ahead, but I’m not ready to get back on it.
Instead, I turn left at the stop sign and weave my way through the back streets of Buckland Springs. The residential houses are simple box designs, divided by straight driveways and trimmed lawns. This town isn’t a fancy one. It’s no doubt filled with uncomplicated farming families. I can picture farmer’s markets on Saturday mornings, and a Fourth of July parade down Main Street with fireworks when the sky turns dark. They probably picnic together after church, and everyone knows everyone else by name.
The street I’m on dribbles to an end, quickly turning into forest, the road narrowing and becoming loose gravel. I pull the car right and bump along a dirt track, steering the car farther and farther into the thick undergrowth. Shrubs scrape the side of the Audi, thin, low-lying branches tapping the window by my head. I keep going until I’m sure the car is hidden from the road, then veer right into a thick clump of trees and squeeze the car in behind a cluster of pines.