Page 11 of Dirty Grovel

I've got no money, no ID, and nowhere to go—but I’ve survived worse. Sydney and I learned young how to make do with nothing.

And right now, freedom is worth every risk.

I can call Sydney once I'm safe. She'll help me figure something out. She always does.

Oleg makes eye contact with me. He snaps his fingers and gestures to the car. Like he thinks I’m a dog who follows commands.

Gritting my teeth, I slip into the Mercedes and the driver sits up a little straighter.

“Morning, ma’am. Good day to you.”

I return his greeting with a half-hearted smile, checking to see if Oleg is still preoccupied with his cop friends.

Yup, still deep in conversation.

And here’s me—a sitting duck, an obedient little prisoner. The only silver lining is that I spot a spare charger sitting in a cubby at the back, between our seats.

Seizing the moment, I lean forward. “What’s your name?” I ask.

While he makes eye contact with me, I pocket the charger.

“I’m Chad, ma’am.”

“Chad,” I smile, doing my best to appear sincere. “Do you happen to have any mints on hand?”

He starts rummaging around in the console, looking flustered. While he’s busy searching for mints, I slip out the other side of the car.

I don’t dare look in Oleg’s direction. If he or one of his cop friends spots me, my whole escape plan is blown.

Then I race away, slipping repeatedly in my flip flops.

"Miss! Stop!" Chad yells, his voice shifting from confusion to alarm. I hear a car door slam and heavy footsteps behind me. "Mr. Pavlov! She's running!"

Shit.

I dig deeper, forcing my legs to move faster.

The realization that Oleg and his buddies now know I've bolted sends a fresh surge of desperation through me.

I push harder, weaving through startled tourists, ignoring the stares my bikini-clad body attracts.

I'm hyper-aware of my surroundings—every potential exit, every cluster of tourists I can blend into. My time with Drew taught me something useful after all:

When you're prey, you develop instincts.

I make for the most populated area of the marina, hoping to disappear into the crowd. Sweat drips down my back despite the sea breeze, my breath coming in short, painful gasps.

My body hasn't fully recovered from days of hiding and barfing on that yacht, but fear is one hell of a motivator.

I hear male voices shouting behind me—Chad, maybe the cops, possibly Oleg himself.

I don't waste energy looking back.

I keep going until I find a window of opportunity to duck behind a food stall, breathing hard.

I have no money, no passport, barely any clothes, and a dying phone—but I have freedom.

For now.

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