Page 2 of Catch Me When I Fall

I grabbed the small Ziploc bag from the water that contained my new bank card, some cash, and a burner phone. It had taken me weeks to get them, but once Amara had given me my laptop a month ago, it made things a lot easier. My father had given me a trust fund when I’d turned eighteen, and he assumed I blew it all.

I didn’t.

I saved every penny, and continued saving well into adulthood.

I was saving for my happy ending. I never thought I’d end up saving to survive a nightmare.

I fixed the toilet, walked back into the room, and shoved my feet into the shitty tennis shoes I was provided with six months ago.

Then, I went to stand in front of the door.

The light in the hall was off, which meant the nurses were at the nurses’ station, scrolling on their phones. It was a routine, one I was very familiar with. I twisted my neck to look at the unmade bed in the moonlight, taking in the thin white sheets, lumpy mattress, and flat pillow.

Like hell I was rotting here.

I looked back to the door and stepped forward.

I opened the door, stepping out into the hall. I looked left and right—the coast was clear.

I walked down the hall, pulling the hood up and ducking my head.

I made a right, heading down to the employee entrance. Once at the door, I entered in the code I’d memorized two days ago. The door unlocked with a soft click, and my eyes stung at the music of it.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the night.

Then, I pulled out the burner phone and ordered a taxi, meeting it at the local pizza joint down the street.

The taxi took me to the airport and I paid the kind driver in cash.

Once inside the airport, I walked up to the counter and purchased a ticket for the first plane out of the St. Louis.

Eight hours later, I landed in Oregon, leaving my old life behind.

St. Louis was nothing but a memory now.

Chapter 1

Grayson

Leggings and a Cardinals hoodie.

“Fuck, I thought I was done with St. Louis,” I muttered, bringing my hand up to rub my jaw as I stared at my computer screen. I was staring at a photo of a woman wearing a fucking Cardinals hoodie, hands in the front pocket, backpack over her shoulder, head bent to conceal her face. With a sigh, my eyes lifted back up to the email, reading it over again and then two more times before a knock sounded on my office door.

I looked up to find Hayes standing in the doorway. “He has called four times now,” my right-hand told me, his voice laced with concern as his green eyes assessed me, his jaw tight.

I looked back to the screen, my eyes lingering on the security camera image of the woman walking out of a rehab center in the middle of the night. “He on the line?” I asked, looking back to Hayes.

He nodded once, doing nothing to try and hide the concern on his face. That was just who Hayes was: cautious.

“Put him through,” I ordered, rising from my desk and pucking the phone from its base before I faced the window behind my desk. A second later, the phone buzzed, ringing in my hand.

After the second ring, I hit the button and brought the phone to my ear.

“Mr. Jones,” I greeted, putting my other hand into the pocket of my slacks, my eyes scanning the city of Charlotte.

“Mr. Grayson,” the Oasis leader greeted.

Oasis was the underground street racing hub of St. Louis and the key to the Italian Mafia’s gun and drug business. Jeremy Jones, along with his three partners, ran Oasis, but there was something else Mr. Jones was in control of: the Crew, a street organization that handled things when law enforcement couldn’t.

---