Page 1 of A Beta Protects

1

KIRA

We eloped after graduation.

An eight-hour drive to Las Vegas, vows exchanged in The Little Chapel, and I came home a wife.

Years later, I can’t remember if it was my idea or his, if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, or something we’d always planned. I think I created a block in my mind in case it was my idea, because I would never forgive myself if it was me.

I just know one thing.

It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life.

There are different kinds of control, just like there are different ways of twisting a person into doing things your way without ever lifting a finger to them.

I know all about those ways. I’ve had five years of knowing them.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I jump, ripping my mind from the past as I blink the tears from my eyes and hurry to finish up in the highway rest stop bathroom. Now I’m no longer lost in the past, the pungent stink of piss makes my nose twitch and eyes water as it did when I first walked in.

I swing the door open as a mountain of a man with a protruding belly and a trucker’s hat is getting ready to bang again. I take in his size and immediately retreat.

I don’t know what he sees in my face, probably the same alert, always on edge Kira Matherson I was since I left Missouri three days ago.

No.

That isn’t right. I was still alert, still watchful, even before then. But for entirely different reasons.

The trucker’s hard expression melts away, and he raises both hands, palms to me. “Sorry for the banging, miss. Wasn’t looking to scare you. Just in a hurry, that’s all.”

Sure.

There’s a massive rig that wasn’t there before. I think I’m looking at an eighteen-wheeler belonging to this big trucker. Hot red front, a dusty stainless steel bumper, and an endlessly long white canvas style back with who knows what he’s hauling.

I’d be less jumpy if I hadn’t spent my first night huddling under a musty blanket in a Walmart parking lot, reliving every true crime show about serial killers I’d ever watched.

Skirting around the trucker’s bulk, I stay on high alert. The moment I’m past him, I hurry away, peering over my shoulder. My long, strawberry-blonde hair swings into my face, briefly blinding me, so I nearly run right into my car. It’s nearly 8 and the last thing I want is to be near strange men so late in the evening.

The trucker watches me, hands now lowered, frowning slightly.

As I get into my car and start the engine, I try not to notice how badly my hands are shaking, or how naked my finger is without my wedding ring on it. There’s still a pale band of skin where it should be, and I yanked it off three days ago. How long until that band fades? Weeks? Hopefully not months.

Tonight I won’t have to sleep in my car. Soon, I’ll be in a place I’ve dreaded and looked forward to arriving for days now.

Will Dom slam the door in my face? Or will he peek through the peephole, see someone he couldn’t have made any clearer he wanted nothing to do with, and just not answer?

You’re stupid, I tell myself, as I pull out of the rest stop and onto the highway. Who drives hundreds of thousands of miles to reach someone who won’t want to see them at all?

But until you know desperate, you have no idea how low you’re willing to go.

I’m fighting to keep my eyes open when the sign for Wylder, upstate New York, flashes past. I change lanes to make the turning for it. As I drive, I think of how tense I always was as I prepared dinner.

Bryce’s hours were regular unless something happened that meant he couldn’t finish work when he said he would. I think he preferred that.

He liked to surprise me.

I’d turn to grab something from a cupboard and jump out of my skin.

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