Page 1 of Pack Rivals, Part One

1

Bea

My eyes flickfrom the empty road and back down to the tank meter. The needle hovers dangerously close to the red zone. How long until I run out of gas completely and this getaway grinds to a pathetic halt? I must be riding on actual fumes at this point, but there hasn't been a gas station on this lonely road for miles.

Lie. There was one sixty miles back, but I recognized old Mr. Whiterman's car lined up outside the pumps and I didn't want anyone spotting me as I made my escape.

I switch off the radio, hoping that will somehow make the gas last longer. The only radio station I could pick up was pumping out back-to-back love songs anyway, each one making me feel progressively sicker. If I listen to one more man wail about how much he loves the woman in his life, how devoted he is to her, how he'd give his life for her, I'll probably drive my car straight off the road and into the nearest ditch.

I've already cut the air con, resorting to opening all the windows down low and letting the warm breeze waft through the car. It's not working. I'm hot.

I drum my fingernails on the steering wheel and try to concentrate on the road ahead. I'm not going to think about love and heartbreak and everything I'm escaping. But even my nails are freaking distracting. Still displaying the beautiful pearly manicure I'd chosen for the wedding.

I should have ripped these stupid nails off my fingers and dumped them in the nearest rubbish dumpster along with the dress, veil and ring.

Ahh, shit. I really loved that dress.

I really loved that stupid man too.

But I'm not – I AM NOT – thinking about that right now.

Nor all the money that damn dress cost me. Plus the wedding too. Scrimping and saving for the last two years.

Yeah, that should have been my first clue. It was me doing all the scrimping; my ex, he didn't even do any saving.

No. I'm not thinking about it.

Eyes on the road. Keep driving.

I'm leaving all that behind. New city. New start. New life.

Fingers crossed, new me too.

My gaze flicks back to the gas dial. The needle is well and truly submerged in the red zone now.

I should have just risked old Mr. Whiterman. I should have packed a spare can of gas in the trunk.

Should have. Should have.

There's been too many of those lately.

What am I going to do if I don't find a gas station and my car breaks down? Who would I call? I don't even have AAA anymore.

Just frigging brilliant.

Bea Carsen, they'll say back home, even her getaway stalled.

'Did you hear she tried to run away?' they'll whisper. 'But she fucked up and had to come home. Didn't even make it 12 hours.'

That's the problem with small towns like mine. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows everybody else's business.

Which is fine and dandy until your life falls spectacularly apart, and you are the number one source of entertainment for the couple of hundred people that live in your town.

Yep, I'd rather starve to death at the side of the road than head back.

Luckily – so luckily, I lean forward and kiss Missy's steering wheel – we glide around the next bend in the road and I spy the glint of a gas station in the distance.

"Come on Missy, old girl," I tell her, stroking her dashboard. "You can do this. Just that little bit further. Don't let me down."

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