The cops are dirty. The cops who can trace calls, and license plates are working with the Iron Vultures.
I’m so fucking dead.
“Hey!” Carter yells and I look up at him in a daze. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
I shake my head. He sighs before lifting his baseball cap and running his hand through his dirty blonde hair.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and before I can brush him off with a nonanswer he adds, “Don’t lie to me. Something’s got you backed into a corner and running like you’re scared for your life.”
I blame his eyes. Dark green with the smallest sprinkle of chocolate near the pupil, they undermine my defenses.
So, I tell him everything. He’s not going to marry me, and I’ve got no reason to keep my mouth shut. The stakes are too high with my life on the line. I don’t even care how desperate I sound.
When I’m done, he doesn’t immediately speak. He stares at me while leaning against the side of his truck.
“How’d you know where to find me?” he finally asks and I couldn’t roll my eyes harder if I tried. I’m dealing with murderous bikers and death threats, but he’s only concerned with how I found him in this tiny town.
A smartass remark is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t let it slip out.
“I stopped by the bakery and asked if anyone knew where I could find you.”
“You talk to anyone else?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good,” he says. “That’ll buy us some time. The Carmichael wives work atSugar Crossing,and they’ll keep your secret safe.Don’t worry about the guys either, they’ll keep their mouths shut too.”
He glances over his shoulder like he’s checking to see if anyone is watching us.
“Give me your phone,” he orders.
I slap it into his palm without a word of protest. He storms off, long legs eating up the distance between the row of parked vehicles and the semi-truck being unloaded.
A broad-shouldered man wearing a tattered blue baseball cap is talking to the driver and neither man notices Carter opening the cab door and sliding my phone underneath the driver’s seat.
“It’ll be in Denver by tonight,” he says when he rejoins me.
Stupid phone. It has my entire life on it. Photos, social media accounts, phone numbers of every friend I’ve had since I was sixteen. It has everything.
As if reading my mind, Carter mutters, “It’s not worth your life.”
He opens my car door for me, beyond ready to send me on my way.
“Thank you,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry your friend pranked you.”
He snorts.
“I’m not.”
The two words form a mantra echoing throughout my brain as I slide behind the wheel.
I’m not. I’m not.
What does that evenmean?
“I’ve still got half a shift left. If I give you directions, do you think you can make it to the cabin on your own?” Carter asks, snapping me out of my spiral.
“What cabin?”
