Page 21 of Savage Prince

Ignoring the way my tummy flips with excitement over being called “his girl,” I follow, fingers crossed that our luck holds. Stealing clothes and food from a guy who can spare them is one thing—grand theft auto is quite another. Call me crazy, but that seems like a good way to get even more trouble on our tail.

We reach Main Street and Ford slips down a narrow alley leading between the hardware store and a small café before continuing northeast toward the other end of town. “We’ll be less noticeable back here,” he says, leading the way through the parking lot behind the shops. “Bus stops are usually on the edges of town. I didn’t see one on this side, so we’ll look on the other before we ask someone for directions. Best if we can get out of here without leaving a witness behind who can share where we were headed.”

“How are we going to pay for the tickets if we find the station?” I ask, cursing myself for not thinking of that when I was at Mr. Oily’s house. “I should have looked for cash while I was inside, but I was too focused on food and clothes.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Ford says. “Maybe we can barter some of our food. Or that bottle of wine.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I was kind of surprised you grabbed that, anyway. You don’t drink.”

“I don’t? Huh.” I shrug. “I don’t know, something to take the edge off sounded kind of good. Why didn’t I drink?”

“You never said, but I’m pretty sure it was because you hated being out of control. Like…really hated it.”

I humph again. “Well, maybe the new me thinks control is overrated.”

His shoulders sag and some of the spring goes out of his step, making me think I’ve said the wrong thing, but I have no idea why.

Self-control is all well and good, I guess, but control freaks are pathological.

And kidding themselves.

If there’s one thing I know for sure after even a single day on this planet, it’s that most things are out of my control.

Like the fact that the last bus bound for Montreal—and connecting from there to New York City—is loading up just as we arrive at the bus station. Or the fact that the sweet old lady behind the counter clearly feels sorry for what she assumes are two homeless young people and gives us tickets in exchange for a box of granola bars without a fuss.

Luck is on our side tonight. If it weren’t, no amount of trying to control things would make one bit of difference.

But I don’t labor the point with Ford.

He seems…sad for some reason, even though everything’s gone as well as we possibly could have hoped.

“We should try to sleep,” he says, flipping through our paper tickets, the ones the woman seemed surprised we couldn’t just have sent to our phones. “It’s going to take almost thirteen hours to get to Montreal.”

My brows shoot up. “Really? I didn’t think it was that far.”

“It’s not, distance wise,” he says, slipping the tickets into the bag with our clothes and shoving the bag under the seat in front of him. “But with all the narrow roads, low speed limits, and bus stops, it’s going to take us longer to get to Montreal than it will from Montreal to New York.” He sighs. “And the connection from Montreal to New York doesn’t leave until 5 p.m. tomorrow. We’ll have about ten hours to kill at the bus station.”

“We won’t stay at the bus station,” I say, sinking lower in the seat. “We’ll go find a park and have an extremely long picnic. And maybe pick a few pockets while we’re at it. That’s what you were talking about before, right? When you said you’d ‘figure something out’ to get cash.”

“Maybe,” he says, his guard up again.

“So how do we do it? I distract the mark while you bump into them and take their wallet?”

“We never picked pockets together, but you used to brag about how good you were at stealing food. Even when guards were watching you the entire time and you weren’t supposed to get too close to other people. Maybe you still have the touch.”

“Maybe pick-pocketing is like riding a bike?”

He sinks lower in the seat beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. “Something like that.”

I roll this latest revelation around in my head before I ask, “So was I in prison? Was I an actual for real criminal?”

“No,” he says, his eyes sliding closed.

“No,” I repeat, glaring at his peaceful face. “That’s all you’re going to say? No?”

“Yep,” he says, leaning his head against the side of the bus. “Sleep. It’s good for you and makes the time go by faster.”

“So does conversation and telling your travel buddy all the things you’re hiding from her,” I shoot back. “I deserve to know who I was before, Ford. I might not remember it, but it’s still my life.”

He grunts, as if he isn’t so sure about that, and hunches deeper into his sweatshirt, making it clear the subject is closed. At least, for now.

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