Take It On The Run

Chapter 1

POV: Sloan

I'm not sure how long I'd been running, but I was tired. Tired of never laying down roots or making friends. Tired of lying about who I was. But the alternative to that was being caught by the same men who killed my mother in cold blood a decade ago.

I stared up at the old, rundown shotgun house I'd rented in a historic neighborhood of New Orleans. It wasn't much to look at, but it was all mine. Like the other homes here, it was also painted a flamboyant hue—a shade of pink that reminded me of Pepto Bismol. Normally, I'd avoid that kind of unwanted attention, but it managed to blend here.

My pitt bull, Misha, cocked his head to one side, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as he happily panted, oblivious to our ongoing predicament. I took slight joy in knowing that I'd managed to shield him from the darkness that followed us from city to city like some dark wraith.

I grabbed a tall, cardboard box from the trunk, and a medium-sized picture frame fell out, landing inside the SUV. Seeing that it hadn't shattered, I breathed a sigh of relief. Typically, I didn't keep photos lying around the house in the off chance someone stopped by. There was the one of my mother and I that I'd cut my father out of long ago. And then there was the picture of me and the four boys I'd grown up with.

While we weren't related by blood, the foursome had watched over me as I imagined brothers would. It'd been ten years since I'd last seen Deacon, Avery, Sumner, and Reed, and I missed them every single day. When my father had left initially and the other kids at school began bullying me, the boys had been my fiercest protectors. Too bad they couldn't save me from the hit men who came to collect on my father's debts when I was sixteen.

I still had no idea who or what The Collectors actually were, which was ironic considering my entire life now revolved around the organization. My father hadn't been a gambler or an alcoholic or anything that might bring unwanted trouble to our front doorstep. As far as I knew, he'd been an accountant. All I could think was that he'd somehow gotten mixed up with The Collectors professionally, and he left my mother and I to deal with it.

I managed to evade capture, thanks to my mother's sacrifice, but my life was far from idyllic. My mother was the only reason I kept going, kept trying to survive. I wouldn't let her dying efforts be made in vain. I had to stay positive and try to live the best I could, even if I was in hiding—even if I was so incredibly lonely. It's what she would've wanted.

At twenty-six years old, I had no college degree and few professional skills to speak of, but I was one hell of a bartender. I also knew that New Orleans was the kind of place a bartender could make amazing tips while disappearing. Online forums had already led me to a few places that paid under the table, and I was eager to submit job applications.

After I finished unloading my few possessions into the pre-furnished house, I let Misha into the backyard to use the bathroom, then I got back into my car and headed for Bourbon Street.