Page 24 of Wanted

“I’ll leave you to it.”

The words are even, but my head screams at me.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

As I turn around, I pinch my eyes closed. I force myself to take measured steps until I cross the threshold and pull the door shut behind me. With my back pressed against the wall, the tenuous grip on my mind breaks free.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

My shoulders slump with a forceful exhale.

The tension leaks from my body along with a hefty dose of my energy.

Two days.

I just have to get through the next two days.

Then my life can return to my quiet normal.

6

Frankie

I’ll never admit to Jude how quickly I scarf down this sandwich. Or the fact that I intend to eat all three bags of chips he brought up for me. The tangy mayo combined with the bread tastes like gourmet cuisine after not eating for more than a day.

I lick my lips. The cap on the water bottle spins beneath my eager fingers. Before I know it, I’ve drunk half the contents, and the pang in my stomach silences.

As I stand and remove the sling to change, my reality threatens to knock me back down. Or maybe that’s the concussion. Nobody is on their way to rescue me. Of that I can be sure. I walked around those woods for hours, and Dillon never appeared. He didn’t turn the car around to look.

And until I can remember what happened in that car, I can’t be certain that’s a bad thing.

My ID remains tucked in my bags back in his car along with a meager amount of cash from my job at the grocery store I’ve worked at since the day I turned fourteen.

What I could really use right now besides my own clothes and a toothbrush is a phone and that fifty bucks to pay my way home.

I’ll have to settle for a shower and a nap instead.

A surge of frustration bubbles up as I reach for the tarnished zipper at the back of the dress. Having my right arm in a splint isn’t much of a problem since I’m left handed, but I can’t seem to grip the evasive little bitch with my fingertips.

I grunt and spin. The room swims in my vision as my concussion riots against all of the sudden, twisty movement.

“Goddammit,” I huff out of breath.

“Need a hand?”

I startle and stumble back into the bed, palm clutched to my heaving chest. The ridiculous overreaction to the sound of Jude’s deep voice deserves a scolding. “Jesus!”

“It’s actually Jude.”

I narrow my eyes into annoyed slits as his lips twitch.

“Can’t reach?”

“I think it’s stuck.”

“Turn around,” he orders. Slow, measured steps bring him closer.

I turn my back to him and drag my messy hair over my left shoulder.

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