Page 6 of Never Fall for an Angel

I count through the few twenties I’ve and the three one-dollar bills. Sixty-three dollars and aChuck E. Cheesetoken from a little place out in New Mexico. That’s one more night at my motel before I’m totally fucked.

I chuck the wallet back in my bag and start pacing. It helps me think, even if it’s a pointless waste of precious calories. I’m afraid to weigh myself. I know I’ve lost weight while on the road, but I don’t know how much. Living off motel room ramen and dollar store granola bars will do that to you.

I push the noise of my growling stomach to the back of my mind and focus on the plan, which is . . . I don’t know. I never thought I’d make it this far.

It’s been a month since I’ve seen any sign of them. A month since I’ve had any contact. Six months on the run and a whole lot of sleazy motel rooms. I’m surprised I haven’t picked up any extrafriendssince I’ve been away.

The scent of something fried and delicious wafts through the vents from the restaurant next door, and my mouth waters involuntarily.

Fuck.I’m starving.

I look back at my bag on the table.

I continue pacing.

The scent grows stronger, and I contemplate jobs that I could possibly find in Wichita, Kansas, that will pay me under the table so I can afford to eat.

I could always dance. I had a friend who put herself through college that way.

Calliealso didn’t have scars covering most of her torso.

My stomach grumbles again, and my wallet beckons me like a bad friend.

I’m going to regret this.

“Fine.”

I’ll eat tonight and skip eating tomorrow. I’ll ask if there are any positions open for the back of the house, next door, and that will at least be a start to the job search.

I’ve done it. I’ve made a plan.

—Even if it’s only for the next twenty-four hours.

Grabbing my wallet, I peek out the curtain to my rented room. Nothing. No new cars. No men lurking in the shadows waiting to sell me off to the sleazy psychopath that wants to hurt me.

Slipping out into the evening air, I pull my denim jacket tight around myself and lock the door. Wichita is about what you would expect from a Midwest city. It’s calm. Less crowded than LA, and everyone’s been overly friendly. Where people would walk by you if you were on fire in the streets of LA, here, they would use their last bits of water to put out the flames.

I could stay in a place like this. Somewhere . . . different. Before I ran, I’d never been to half the places I’ve stayed, and if nothing else good came from my time on the run, then at least I got to see a different side of the world than the party dresses and wealthy socialites I’d grown up with under my stepfather’s reign of terror.

I peer through the windows of the diner attached to the motel before I step inside. It’s empty, save for a few older men sitting at the counter, a family down the way, and a dark-haired man sitting near the back, reading the paper.

“Hi, I’m June. What can I get for you?” An older woman, around my mother’s age, with brown hair and bright purple eye shadow, slides up to my booth when I take a seat. I jump when she speaks because I hadn’t seen her approach, but her gentle smile never moves.

“Sorry,” I murmur, my cheeks flaming as I stare down at the menu. Everything’s cheap, but I am still Broke, with a capital B. “Can I just get some toast, please? And a water.”

She eyes me like she wants to say something, but I’m thankful when it’s just to ask me white or wheat.

“Wheat, please.”

“Wheat toast, coming right up,” she smiles and takes my menu.

In probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, my stomach growls as loud as possible, like a hostage trying to alert the police that I’m starving it.

Asshole.

“Sorry,” I chuckle, brushing my hair over my face to hide the scar at my hairline. It’s not that noticeable, but I know it’s there. Unfortunately, her eyes catch on the mark, and now she knows it’s there too.

“Sure you don’t want something more than toast?” she grins, flashing a knowing smile at me while my cheeks feel like they’re going to melt at any moment.

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