The Runaway (Barrett Boys #1) - Jordan Ford Page 0,7
eyes and don’t even bother pocketing half of it. Dean gets pissed enough that I don’t bring in decent tips. If only he knew.
A shudder runs through me, but I shake it off, dashing upstairs to hide the notes Franks just gave me. I know I tell her that I’ll be fine when she’s gone, but the truth is I’m gonna be destroyed. She’s about one of the only people in this town who actually likes me. Who sees me as more than Violet Birdman’s bastard daughter.
One day. One day I’m gonna be free.
I grip the money in my apron pocket, willing myself to believe it.
5
Small Town Comfort
Freedom is supposed to feel better than this. I’m sure of it.
My torso is burning. Red liquid fire has demolished my white shirt.
Gripping the wheel, I blink and try to focus back on the road.
It didn’t take too long driving like a maniac before I found the peace of mind to pull into a secluded alley. A warning in the back of my brain kept screaming at me, “Don’t bleed out! Don’t bleed out!”
I had to assess my wound.
Thankfully, there was a first aid kit in the trunk of the car, which I used to patch myself up as best I could.
Blood has always made me nauseous, but I fought the dry gagging and the pain, letting out a muffled cry as I pressed the gauze dressing against the bullet hole in my side. There were actually two holes, which took me a minute to discover. I was so busy dealing with the wound in the front that I nearly missed the fact that I was shot in the back. I think the bullet zinged right through me. Or I got shot twice. I’m not sure.
One thing I do know is that stopping the bleeding is vitally important.
So that was what I tried to do.
The only medical training I have is from TV shows that Chanel always has on. She loves Grey’s Anatomy and Code Black. I listened to the character’s voices in the back of my mind as my shaking hands tried to tape the gauze over my slick skin.
“Bullet wound to the torso.”
“Internal bleeding?”
“I can’t be sure. A vital organ could have been nicked. Let’s get a scan…”
Then they’d start going on about CCs and IV lines.
Yeah, well, I won’t be getting any of that. It’s not like I can park a stolen car outside the hospital and saunter in there with a gunshot wound.
I have to stay low to the ground and figure this out on my own.
If Sloan catches up with me, I’m a dead man.
My best bet is to go into hiding until this thing blows over. Sloan will never stop looking, but I’ve always been an ace at hide-and-seek. My brothers could never find me.
My brothers.
A pain in my chest nearly doubles me over, and I clutch the wheel a little tighter.
Giving my head a shake, I spot an exit and veer off the highway. I have no idea how long I’ve been driving for, but I made it out of Texas, so that’s a damn good start.
As I trundle down an Oklahoma off-ramp, I spot another sign telling me that Buckland Springs is fifteen miles away. I’ve never heard of the place, but it sounds small-town, and those places often have a diner or at least a gas station.
I need a break, a new shirt, some sustenance. Maybe if I can eat and drink something, this feeling of wanting to pass out will go away.
Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pounding in my head and manage to find Buckland Springs without any trouble. It’s a sleepy little place that immediately reminds me of Harborton, Montana. My chest starts to hurt again, and I push the memories aside. They’ll destroy me if I let them linger.
I swore I’d never return to that idyllic place. To the ranch that saved my life when I was a kid.
How could I possibly go back there after what happened?
The ranch without Grandpa Ray is just a shell.
So why the hell am I missing it so much?
Cruising past the police station, I keep a wary eye on the building, praying no cops stroll out. Checking my speed, I make sure I’m driving like I’m not on the run and pass a general store that could help me out.
A couple of pedestrians wander past the yellow YATES GENERAL STORE painted across the window, and I change my mind about pulling up in front