Page 7 of Torin

The white dress is bunched around my legs, its hem streaked with dirt. My scalp hurts. A few stiff strands of brown hair have worked loose around my face, and the stupid flower crown is digging into my head.

At the next straight stretch, I tug the bobby pins from my hair and toss them into the cupholder. Then I yank off the crown. For one glorious second, I consider throwing it out of the window. Then I picture Cade finding it at the side of the road. I toss it onto the floor behind my seat instead.

There. Out of sight and out of mind. A laugh escapes me, shaky and slightly deranged.

I made it.

I actually made it.

The realization keeps arriving in little waves as the miles slide by. I’m out of East Ridge. Away from my father. Away from the criminal who thought he owned me.

Then my phone lights up in the cupholder.

DAD.

I stare at it for two rings before stabbing decline.

It starts again almost immediately.

Dad.

Decline.

Dad again.

Decline.

Then Cade.

I let that one ring a little longer.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But there’s something deeply satisfying about picturing him back at the clubhouse, surrounded by all those men who were so jealous of him discovering his captive mate has disappeared.

I hit decline.

The phone goes dark.

A minute passes. Two. No more calls.

That worries me more.

By now they’ll have searched upstairs. They’ll know the truck is gone. Cade will be furious. Dad will be calculating.

I know which one scares me more.

The road curves sharply along the mountainside, the guardrail flashing silver in my headlights before the land drops away into darkness.

I crack the window. Cold air rushes into the cab, clearing out the stink of hairspray and perfume.

I want to stop somewhere soon and change out of this dress. But where? Half the county knows Dad, and the other half knows Cade. The last thing I need is someone recognizing me.

The dashboard clock creeps past eleven-thirty. The gas gauge is sitting just under half a tank. I glance at it again. Not ideal, but enough. It has to be.

The farther west I drive, the more remote it gets. Houses become few and far between, and miles go by without so much as a gas station. My cell signal drops to one bar, disappears, then comes back again. Eventually the radio dissolves into static between country songs.

I switch it off. Silence fills the cab.

A few miles later, a green highway sign appears in my headlights.