Page 2 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy
Max shoved another bite into his mouth. “Pancakes are magical food. I bet even sorhoxes like them.”
He had no idea how close we were to needing magic.
Once he’d finished and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, I reached for the phone, finding a message. Frowning, I pressed play. A robotic voice crackled from the speaker. “This message is from the Department of Corrections Inmate Notification System.”
My hand clenched around the phone as I stared at the coffee steam rising from my mug.
“Melvin Carver has been released on early parole effective this morning, based on institutional good behavior.”
The world narrowed. He was free. I stopped breathing.
The voice went silent. That was it? Wreck my entire life with just a few lines and don’t even say goodbye? Damn them.
My knees quivered, and it was all I could do to keep from falling out of my chair. I wanted to curl into a ball behind the counter and sob quietly, something I'd done too many times in the past.
When Melvin got out, he'd promised he’d find us. Promised he’d finish what he started.
Eyes stinging, I forced myself to take slow breaths. Let them ease out. It wasn't like I hadn't known this was coming. I just thought I'd have a little more time.
Good behavior, huh? Like I believed that. If nothing else, Melvin was a phenomenal actor. He’d sure fooled me.
We had to move. Now.
I dumped the rest of my coffee down the sink, inanely rinsing the mug—as if that would matter. I'd be abandoning it like almost everything else inside this apartment. Being ready to runtaught you to hold on to few possessions. The only things of value were my getaway bag, our fake IDs, and money. Things that could be grabbed in a flash and carried into a new life.
The kitchen window creaked as I shoved it open. My corner apartment, in an old brick building across from a laundromat and a tea shop, faced the street.
People strode past on the sidewalk a few stories below, most wearing business clothing, their shoes clicking on the pavement as they talked on their phones, hurrying to work. A few kids waited for the bus, and usually, Max would join them, me hovering (not too close, Mom!) until the bus arrived, and he was safely seated inside.
I was about to close the window when I sawhim. Leaning against the streetlamp outside the tea shop. His hands in his pockets. Cigarette smoke curling around his head like fog.
He remained still. Watching this very building.
Seeing me?
Sucking in air, I ducked to the side, making sure my head was behind the curtain.
My stomach turned over. I couldn’t make out his features, but my body remembered before my brain did—how he held himself, the way his chin tilted up like a warning before he snapped.
I ducked down and closed the window with shaking hands. It was past time to move fast.
I sent a quick text, accepting the job in Lonesome Creek, telling the owner of the bakery, Sel Bronish, that I'd be there within a few days.
Rushing to my room across from Max's, I dragged our bags out from under the bed, already packed since the latest hearing. Clothes. Max’s favorite books. Spare glasses. Old birthday cards and drawings from when he first started school. Precious thingslike the emergency folder with papers. Shot records. Birth certificates. Social security cards. Passports.
Fake IDs.
In the kitchen, I lowered the bags by the door and rushed around the island to open the flour tin. I pulled out the cash I’d saved for years and tucked it into my pocket.
Max came out of the bathroom, reading from his book as he stumbled down the hall. His glasses sat crooked on his nose. “Almost ready to go.”
“You’re not going to school today.” I snagged his hoodie off the peg by the door and handed it to him.
He blinked, frowning at the bags, before his eyes searched mine, sudden fear blooming in the depths. “He's out?”
He remembered too much. My poor boy, who should only be thinking of the good things in life.
The yelling. The thud of my body hitting the floor. Melvin's guttural snarls.
