Page 91 of Trapper Road

I turn to go, but I’m surrounded. Reporters push in from all sides and they’re calling my name. Some of them are even using my old name, Lily Royal. It makes my stomach churn to hear. That’s not who I am anymore.

I’m trying to push my way free, but they won’t let me go. “No comment,” I tell them. “I don’t want to talk to any of you!”

They don’t listen. They shove cameras and microphones in my face, jostling each other and me for position. Eager to catch any words I might mutter, any expressions they can capture to analyze later.

My breathing grows tight. I’d forgotten what it was like to be hounded like this, to have so many people shouting at you and wanting something from you. I try to keep my expression neutral, but already I feel tears burning my eyes because it’s just too much and I don’t know how to make it stop.

I want out. I need to get away. Mom trained me how to fight back against an attacker. She even drilled us on defensive techniques in a mob situation. But if I start throwing punches, it will be captured on camera, and that wouldn’t be good. Given who I am, I wouldn’t get the benefit of the doubt.

Just then I hear an engine rev and a few shouts of alarm. The crowd of reporters parts and there’s a figure on a dirt bike. Because of their helmet, it’s impossible to tell who they are, but they gesture for me to climb on behind them, and suddenly I don’t care that it’s stupid to accept rides from strangers because I need out of there now.

I jump on and wrap my arms around the person just as they stomp on the gas. The dirt bike lets out a roar and with a spray of pebbles we take off. Instead of sticking to the roads, we veer toward the woods. I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face against the person’s back as we weave wildly around trees and thump over rocks.

I mentally begin to plan my escape, cycling through various options. I could try to incapacitate the driver, but that would likely cause us to crash, which could leave me in a worse situation. I could jump, but that’s still dangerous; I could end up hurt and unable to fight back if I needed. Ultimately I decide the current best option is to wait until we stop and reassess the situation once I have more information.

Finally, when we’ve gone far enough that the house is no longer visible, the figure stops the dirt bike and I immediately slide off on unstable legs. I stumble several paces away, putting distance between us so that I’m not in easy reach. I keep my eye on the driver, but scan my surroundings in my peripheral vision, taking note of anything I could use as a weapon and the best defensive locations.

I hold a hand up in front of me, gesturing for the driver to stay back, and shift my feet into a defensive stance. The driver seems completely uninterested. They make no move toward me nor do they protest as I shuffle another few feet farther away.

Instead, they take their time shutting down the bike and kicking down the stand before throwing a leg over the seat and turning to face me. They pull off their helmet and a cascade of curling dark hair tumbles down their back. The girl grins at me, familiar freckles dancing across her pale nose.

It takes me a moment to recognize her: Florida Belldene. A girl my age who just so happens to be the daughter of the local Hillbilly Mafia.

Just great, I think. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I may have escaped the mob of reporters, but I’d delivered myself into the hands of the family that forced us out of town and swore us never to return.

Not that I’m particularly worried about Florida. She helped us track down Connor after he’d been kidnapped by that cult, so she can’t hate us that much. It’s more her parents who don’t like us. They worried the media attention my family’s presence brought to the area might put their illegal drug business at risk. I doubt they’d be happy to hear we’re back in town, even if temporarily.

“Allo, Lanny,” she says in her fake British accent. “Looked like you were in a spot of trouble back there.”

I shift out of my defensive stance and let my hand drop to my side. “Hey, Florida,” I say. “Yeah, thanks for the rescue. I mean it.”

She nods.

“You’re not going to tell your parents you saw me, right?” I add.

“Nah.” Her grin turns impish, and she lets her fake British accent slide back to a rural drawl. “Then I’d have to explain about having nicked one of the bikes without permission. I figure what they don’t know won’t kill them.”

I let out a relieved breath. At least that’s one more thing I won’t need to be worried about. “Thanks.”

“What was that all about anyway?” she asks, pointing her chin in the direction of the house.

The reporters’ questions flash through my head, and I wrap my arms around my middle, holding tight. I’m suddenly aware of how cold I am — the combination of the long afternoon shadows in the woods and my wet jogging clothes making chillbumps erupt up and down my arms.

Florida notices and shrugs out of the jean jacket she’d been wearing before tossing it to me. She’s taller and narrower than I am so I don’t even try to put my arms through the holes. Instead I drape it over my shoulders. The fabric still retains the heat of her body, and I nearly groan at the delicious warmth of it.

She watches silently, waiting for me to answer her question. “I don’t know. Something happened at the house — they think someone was attacked and hurt, but they don’t know who. One of the reporters tried to say that my adoptive dad Sam was involved, but he wasn’t. It’s just them trying to make a story out of nothing.”

“I guess you’re used to that kind of attention, given who your first dad was.” At least she has the courtesy of referring to him as my first dad.

“I thought I was,” I admit. And it’s true. I thought I’d built up an armor against that sort of thing, but apparently, I’d let it slip in the two days I’d escaped into the life of someone else.

She crouches and picks up a twig, then proceeds to break it into smaller and smaller pieces. “Sucks only being known for who your daddy is and being judged by his crimes and not your own merits.”

She says it with such an air of authority that it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking from experience. Of course, she is. Her father is Jasper Belldene, resident drug lord. Sure, her experience is on a much more local level, but in some ways that’s even worse.

“Yeah, I guess you’ve got experience with that.”

She nods, her focus still on breaking that twig.

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