Page 5 of His Wicked Revenge

Waves crashing a few feet in front of me bless my ears as I sit in the beach chair, my face tilting to the hot sun and my toes hidden in the warm sand.

There are people laughing and music is playing next to where I’m set up. All the different noises fight with each other to be louder than the ocean, but I concentrate on the water.

Along with the waves rolling up to the shore, seagulls are squawking above me, adding to the peacefulness. Being at the beach is the first time I’ve felt at peace in a long time.

It’s only been three weeks since I escaped from Black Lake, but I know they are still looking for me.

That’s why I don’t stay in places longer than I need to.

After the harmless stoned man picked me up, I asked him if we could make a pit stop, which he was more than happy to do. We stopped at a gas station off the state route, where the man I called earlier in the van met us.

I had met Slater a couple of years before my altercation with my sister’s boyfriend. He would come into a dive bar I worked at for a month. Slater, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, was pretty to look at. I always gave him special attention because he would tip well.

Then, one night, when he got super drunk, he told me about the sketchy business he ran. Slater helped criminals start a new life—new identities and new passports.

A fresh start. That’s what he gave me.

First was a prepaid phone to get ahold of him and an old laptop. This was to send him a photo of myself after I changed my look. Along with the phone, he provided me with some cash and a card with money on it that was connected to a bank account he set up for me.

As soon as we made it to Bend, Oregon, after our five-hour drive, I said my goodbyes to Lance—because, of course, the stoner’s name was Lance—and found the most high-end salon I could find in that part of Oregon.

My first decision was to change my hair. If the police were looking for me, my dark curls had to go. I told the stylist I had experienced a rough breakup and desperately needed a change. It didn’t take her much convincing.

She lightened my hair a lot to make it blonde and added some lowlights to create a dirty blonde look. After the color was done, she treated it to hide the curls. Whatever chemical she used worked like magic. Now, my hair has a soft wave to it.

Once my hair was done, I did something different with my eyes. This wasn’t necessary, but I still wanted to switch it up. I felt that my round, brown eyes would give away who I am. My vision is perfect, so prescription contacts were out of the question, but I did find a costume store that sold colored contacts.

Green.

That’s the color I chose as a little souvenir of Leo. I stocked up on the contacts, and the clerk looked at me funny but didn’t question it.

I applied makeup, which I hated, but it covered my freckles. I then sent a picture to Slater, who mailed my new license and passport to the nearest post office in Oregon.

Camille Saunders is a twenty-nine-year-old woman from a small town in Colorado who works at a boutique. She is single with no children, obviously, and loves traveling.

I didn’t have a choice in the name or the fact that he aged me three years. That one hurt a little. The traveling, however, was a perfect little touch he threw in there.

After receiving my new identity, I ditched Oregon and took a bus to California. I spent a few days in Sacramento and then took a bus to San Francisco before moving on to Los Angeles. There, I saw all the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame but then grew bored. Why on Earth would I be interested in staring at famous people’s names on the ground?

Malibu was calling my name, and I couldn’t wait to sit on the beach and enjoy my freedom. I had heard the beaches there were beautiful, but I had to experience them for myself, which is why this is the longest place I’ve stayed.

I arrived five days ago and have been really enjoying myself. Except one thing has been ruining my time here.

I’ve been at the beach for an hour, reapplying sunscreen on my fair skin, when the bubbly brunette plops down into the empty chair beside me—the thing that has been ruining my time here.

We met the night I arrived in Malibu when I went into a very nice bar for a much-needed drink.

She introduced herself, even though I was trying to look unapproachable, and talked my ear off the entire night. I debated smashing my glass against her skull, but despite the strong urge, I held back.

Francesca insisted on a beach day that night. How could I resist a day in the sun?

“I swear, they charge an arm and a leg for coffee out here,” she pouts and hands me an iced coffee. “You’ll pay me back, right? Your coffee alone was $8.”

“Totally,” I lie.

“Cool. So what are we doing tonight?”

Why must she want to hang out every single second of every single day?