Page 1 of Wanted

PROLOGUE

Frankie

“Stop the car.”

Dillon looks over at me from the driver’s seat before returning his attention to the road. “No.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do this with you.” A sudden burst of courage wraps itself around my muscles and bones, swathing me in a newfound defiance. “I want to go back home.”

“Knock it off, Frankie. You’re just scared.”

Scared. Tired. Hopeless.

Check. Check. Check.

I’m all those things, but I’m also desperate. Desperate to get out of this car. Desperate to leave Dillon and his broken promises once and for all. I rub a finger over the trim of white lace on my dress.

“I mean it, Dillon. Stop the car. I’m not going to do this with you. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to get wrapped up in this.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to marry you. We’re breaking up. I’m saying I’m not going to California.”

Two days ago, Dillon offered me a glimpse of a new life. A job opportunity for us that felt too good to be true. He found a temp agency that offered him low-income housing and a stipend in exchange for our cross-country move. A chance to get out of the shitty town holding us both back. One rushed proposal and a cheap thrifted dress later, the minute we got far enough away from home, he ripped it all away from me.

The promise of a fresh start? Gone. Because once Dillon revealed what that new life involved, I knew I didn’t want it.

I swore to myself after the way I was raised, the way I was forced to grow up so young, everything that my parents did in secret, that I’d live a straight life. No drugs, no drinking, no illegal shit. Up until this point, I’ve kept that promise to myself, and I have no intention of breaking it.

“Calm down, will you?”

“I am calm,” I bite out, the anger buzzing through my veins like a swarm of agitated wasps. “Stop the car.”

“Frankie.”

“Stop it.”

“No.”

“Pull over.”

“I’m not pulling over.”

“For fuck’s sake, Dillon, pull the fucking car over!”

“Goddammit, just shut the fuck up!”

In the span of a blink, the back of his knuckles connect to my lips, shoving the soft flesh into my teeth. Pain blooms from the place his backhand connects. The taste of copper floods my mouth as a split forms in the middle of my lip.

He… hit me.

He actually hit me.

The tires screech on asphalt. The smell of burning rubber fills the car as he returns his hands to the wheel and corrects our course, slowing down on the shoulder. His hard stare flicks back to the road, and a heavy sigh leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Ah, the obligatory apology after physically attacking one’s supposed love of their life. How cliché.

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