Page 5 of Never Fall for an Angel

“Ain’t no one going to hurt you.”

Double fuck.

I have to get away.

Slipping from the toilet, I stand on shaky legs and face the door. When I open it, I keep my gaze trained on my toes.

“There she is,” the one with the gentle voice purrs.

Never mind that he already has rope in his hand.

So, I stab him with my screwdriver.

“Fucking bitch!” he roars. Even if the screwdriver didn’t fully penetrate his skin, it still sliced him open, and that’s enough for me.

I dart for the door, swing it open, and get out before either can grab me as they clamber around each other in the tiny bathroom.

“Fucking bitch, stabbed me—”

Not so pleasant, now, are we?

I throw my full weight in the door, jamming the screwdriver through the handle in a brief moment of pure genius that surprises even me.

They crash against the door, the thud of their heavy bodies sending a shot of panic through me.

Hoisting my backpack up higher, I dart for my bus.

Pennsylvania, here I come.

The doors are just starting to close when I push through them, earning me a dirty look from the driver. I’m sweaty, and my legs are shaking as I make my way through the bus to a spot in the back.

I don’t let out the breath I’m holding until we pull away. And when I look back, the door to the bathrooms finally burst open with the men sent to kill me.

MILA

Kansas, July

I’m pretty sure someone’s died on the very bed I’m sitting on. Or, at the very least, a dozen children have been created on it.

There’s not much to Kansas. At least not in this area of Wichita. From New Mexico to Arizona. From Arizona to Pennsylvania. Then, a brief stop in Ohio—hated it. Another in Illinois—nothing but corn and beans as far as the eye could see. Then down to Arkansas—bizarre street names.

Now, I’ve made it to Kansas inMila’s Fantastic Fifty State Journey.

At least . . . that’s what I’m calling it. It sounds a lot more glamorous than saying I’m on the run from a bunch of men who want to kill me.

My stomach growls uncomfortably, and I glance at the clock. It’s still early. The sun hasn’t even set yet. Way too early to go to bed, but way too late to try and skip out on dinner for the second night in a row.

Damn.

Tossing the pamphlet left in my room about STDs to the dusty motel comforter beneath me, I slip off the bed and cross to my bag, sitting on the small table near the door.

Someone’s definitely snorted a line or four off this table.

“Well, shit,” I grumble under my breath. I’m out of granola bars. I’m out of canned ravioli.

Out of freaking patience . . .

Moving to my wallet, I check through the cash stashed there. If I don’t find a job soon, I’m going to be fucked. Life on the run is expensive, and I think it’s an epidemic in America that we don’t talk about enough. You should be able to disappear without a trace, without starving yourself to death.

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