Page 3 of Never Fall for an Angel

And I don’t plan on starting now.

MILA

Arizona, May

Fuck off, asshole.

The man watching me from the other side of the platform hasn’t looked away since I sat down, and I can feel his gaze roaming across my skin like a thousand little cockroaches.

I glance at him.

—Still watching.

I glance at the clock hanging on the wall.

—Three minutes until my bus is set to arrive.

The back of my neck feels sweaty, but it has nothing to do with the sweltering dry heat of the Arizona weather.

I tug the brim of my hat lower to cover my eyes. Slipping from my seat, I hoist my bag over my shoulder and walk in the other direction.

Careful. No need to draw attention.

Slipping through the crowd as casually as I can, I make my way down the platform, passing through families and people speaking on their phones.

I feel eyes on me everywhere I go, but I force a shallow breath through my lips and keep walking at the same leisurely pace when all I really want to do is run as fast as I fucking can.

I’ll leave and come back later. I’ll call an Uber and get to the station a few towns over.

I knew I was overstaying my welcome in this town. I should have left two nights ago when I was sure I felt someone watching me.

Heat trickles up the back of my spine, and I know, without turning around, that the mystery man is following me.

They’re all the same. Every man they send is just as dangerous as the last. Men twice my size, trained to deal with nasty little problems like me.

With my stomach in my throat, I approach the bathroom, slipping inside. The moment I’m out of sight, I let out a deep breath.

Great, now I’m trapped.

I scan the room, looking for anything I could use to protect myself. I can’t alert the security at the station. They’ll call the police, and then I’ll be a sitting duck in a jail cell, waiting for oneof their big, bad Mila-killing machines to find me and put me out of my lonely misery.

Fuck that. I’d rather die in a dust bowl bathroom in southern Arizona than in a jail cell surrounded by shitty, corrupt cops.

Think, Mila.

While scanning the bathroom, I spot an air vent in the back of the large stall.

Guess it’s better than being dead.

Internally gagging at the crusty toilet paper beside my left shoe, I sink down and pull out the small screwdriver I keep in my backpack.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

There aren’t even any screws. It’s just painted shut with years of cheap five-gallon bucket paint from the hardware store clearance section.

I try again, a desperate attempt to pry it off, but it just scratches off the top few layers of paint.

“Fuck.”

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