The Bite (Book 1)

CHAPTER ONE

I was done.

My foot pressed harder on the gas. My fingers clenched the steering wheel until my knuckles were white.

It was over. I was never going back to him. Never.

"I'm done," I commanded myself.

I checked the rearview mirror again, half expecting to see the headlights of Nate's cherry-red convertible tailing me. There was still a part of me that half wished he was. The shame and embarrassment of it had been riding shotgun since I'd merged onto the I-405.

It was just me and my beat-up 4Runner out on whatever highway this was now. I'd bought it as a trade-in for the sleek black Mercedes Nate had bought for me. He'd bought so many things for me that eventually my entire existence felt purchased. The diamond earrings in my cup holder? Anniversary gift. That tennis bracelet burning a hole in the side pocket of my Chanel bag? Birthday present. Even the French manicure and my overpriced blond hair were on his credit card.

Which reminded me—I needed gas soon. Panic prickled in my chest. My fingers tapped on the steering wheel.

I was too low on supplies and too close to the Canadian border. I needed to stock up before I crossed. I found a run-down Texaco at the next exit, but the only option I had beyond that was a sprawling Walmart two miles up. This was good, though. Nate knew I was a Target girl. If he was coming after me, he probably wouldn't look for me here. Still, I pulled into a parking space near the exit side. Close enough so I could get back to my truck fast if I needed to.

It was surprisingly busy inside for eight o'clock at night in upper bumfuck Washington State. Normal people everywhere buying normal-looking things. It wasn't hard to blend in with the crowd here, but even without the split lip and the black eye, I still would've stuck out like a sore, spray-tanned thumb.

I pulled my hood up and kept my head down as I tossed new clothes into my cart: practical leggings and a few long-sleeved T-shirts. Sweatshirt. Rain jacket. I grabbed the cheapest underwear I could find—comfortable cottons and a few plain, nude-colored bras. It was liberating to pass up the lace. Nate always wanted lace.

My mind kept wandering back to him too much today. Back to the sweet memories that went down like smooth whiskey instead of the ones that strangled my throat. He said he loved it rough, but too many nights had left me with purple prints around my neck for me to feel the same.

When I passed a mirror in an empty corner of the ladies' department, I forced myself to look at the black-and-blue map he'd left on my face. The gash on my cheek, angry red and puffy, would probably take the longest to heal. Hitting a dresser would do that.

I turned away and headed quickly to find the hair dye. Dozens of choices lay before me, but I had to think through what wouldn't turn out as orange as my ass. So I opted for my natural color—a dark brown, almost black, that I'd inherited from my mother.

Self-checkout was so slammed I thought about ditching my cart and bolting. I couldn't risk anyone seeing my face. I was already terrified of the trail I was leaving. Terrified the handful of bills I'd swiped from his wallet at three o'clock this morning wouldn't get me all the way to Alaska. I couldn't let him find me, but I also couldn't stand that I was still wearing clothes he'd bought for me. Every inch of my body felt like a transaction happening three states away. So I waited in line and ignored the concerned checkout attendant trying to catch my eye.

Fifteen anxiety-soaked minutes and $143.87 later, I was back on the road, debating with myself again as to whether or not I should find a rest stop to spend the night in or just keep driving until I couldn't anymore. I'd peeled out of Malibu sixteen hours ago, and technically hadn't slept in two days, but I refused to even consider the idea of sleep until I got to Canada. I'd stolen Nate's passport before I'd left, and chucked it and my pink iPhone into the Pacific Ocean on my way out of town.