Page 2 of Love Me Dangerous

“You sure youcan’t stay on?” Sam, the pit boss, asks, his watery blue eyes fixing me with a calm but unwavering gaze.

“I’m sure,” I reply. The tour is headed west, to Alaska, and I can’t go back there. Not until my stepdad is out of the picture and it’s safe again.

“I’ll miss those sharp instincts ‘a yours,” Sam says, counting out my pay. It would be more if I didn’t insist on cash only, but I can’t risk exposing myself. It’s better this way. For him and for me. “I hope you put them to good use.”

“Yes, sir.” I fold the cash twice and slip the lump into my pocket. As soon as I’m in the clear, I’ll stash it in the usual way. If I get jumped, I won’t lose it all.

He extends his hand. I fight my hesitation. Sam’s a good guy. He’s not out to steal from me or hurt me. He likely didn’t believe my story about having credit problems, yet he didn’t challenge me or turn me away, and I’m grateful. It’s only by the kindness of people like him that I’ve survived.

I take Sam’s hand and give it a firm shake. The physical sensation of his palm against mine is a shock, but I try not to show it on my face. It brings up too many emotions, none of them safe to share. Just one more consequence of being on the run.

“You take care,” Sam says as our hands slide free.

“You too.” I turn away.

It’s four in the morning, with dawn just a pale pink blush in the eastern sky. It’s become my favorite time of day. It means I’ve made it through another night.

I walk to the back gate and slip past the guard to the parking area, whistling Springsteen’s “Preacher’s Daughter.” It’s sad, but hopeful. My dad used to sing it from memory, his eyes getting wistful. After he died, I couldn’t bear to hear it, but the melody finds me sometimes.

The concert ended hours ago, but hardcore fans stay the night in vans or tents in the nearby field, then follow the show to the next stop. A few are stirring, packing up tents, or making breakfast. My empty stomach rumbles. I could wander through the camp, maybe score a cup of coffee or maybe a scrap of someone’s muffin tossed in the trash, but this is the safest time of day to travel, and I best be getting on my way.

There’s a border to cross and, hopefully, a fresh start waiting for me on the other side.

It’s three miles to Sweetgrass. According to the Google map I memorized at the Kamloops library, there’s a diner and a trucker gas stop—a good place to size up my options. I’m exhausted from being up all night, but there’s no time to rest.

With the sunrise comes a soft breeze that bites my cheeks and sends the dust on the sidewalk skittering into the weeds. I pull my ball cap lower. Once I’m in Idaho, I can hitch my way south to someplace warmer before winter. Find work, a room. Wait for things to settle down back home.

Like my stepdad Kristov behind bars. Like Terrilynn’s murder solved.

Grief sticks to my insides like tar. If only I could have protected her. She was my friend, and I let her down.

I huff a breath and focus on moving forward.

The distant mountains sharpen in the hazy morning light. My empty stomach rumbles again, loud over the whoosh of passing cars. I kick at a weed growing through a crack in the sunbaked sidewalk .

Well I stole a kiss from the preacher’s daughter

Her daddy warned me to stay away

I take the street through the industrial district, humming the chorus. I kept watch for the rest of the show last night, but the tall guy and his aggressive friends did not reappear. The young woman in the white sundress stayed with her group until the final encore. I lost track of her after that when I left my post to monitor the west exit. The mixed look she gave me keeps playing in my mind. Gratitude, but edged with something else. Determination? Hostility?

Like I had robbed her of the victory of fighting that guy off herself.

I grimace. Three against one aren’t great odds. Even for a tough little thing like her.

The route through the industrial section of town leads to the giant parking lot with the tower advertising gas prices and a diner serving all-day breakfast. My stomach rumbles again. If the mood is right, I could order something while I wait for an opportunity.

The giant side lot reserved for semis is packed four rows deep. Hitching a ride with one of the drivers isn’t an option. I learned that the hard way in Prince Rupert. No stowing away, either. At border crossings, commercial vehicles are inspected from top to bottom.

Across the freeway from the diner, train tracks run parallel. That’s option B, but it’s risky in a different way, like the time I woke up in a boxcar with a knife to my throat. I shudder, even though the summer sun is warm on my shoulders.

Keeping my head tipped low, with the brim of my hat for cover, I scan the lot of parked cars while heading to the diner entrance. A good number of Idaho plates. That’s good. Camper vans, some probably from last night’s show, plus a mix of SUVs, trucks, and passenger cars.

Ideally, I hitch for free, but I’ll pay if I have to. Something else I’velearned since being on my own. Almost everyone can be bought for the right price.

When I pull open the heavy glass door, I’m hit with a warm gust heavy with the scent of flapjacks and fake maple syrup and the scrape of silverware on plates blending with the din of conversation. My eager stomach is like a pincushion, but I soften its bite with a slow inhale of the comforting scents of food. To the left, a large entryway in the shape of an arch connects the diner to the convenience store and cashier for the gas station. To my relief, my face isn’t on any of the wanted posters lining the left wall, their corners curled from age.

“For here or to go?” a waitress asks, snapping my attention away from the convenience store entrance. She’s holding a pot of coffee in one hand, and a heaping plate of eggs and hash browns in the other. The welcoming scents must have distracted me for an instant too long because the waitress releases an impatient sigh.

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