Page 12 of Broken Bonds

An older man about her age, with his hair freshly damp from the shower, walks up carrying his own bag. “Damn, that feels better.”

His name turns out to be Patrick, he’s Connie’s husband, and sure, there’s plenty of room for me and my bike.

I even get to take a shower there after loading my bike into their trailer and the rest of my stuff into their cab. They’re returning home to Orlando for two weeks to attend their daughter’s baby shower and take time off.

Two hours later, I’ve got a full stomach, a clean body, and I’m curled up asleep in the bunk in their cab while they drive.

The next afternoon, I’m biking west across Florida with Orlando disappearing behind me. State Road 50 runs all the way across the state from coast to coast.

Even better? I stop for the night at one of several campgrounds along that route, pitch my tent, and take a shower. While it’s not as good as sleeping behind a locked door I know I’m far enough from Atlanta no one can find me as long as I don’t do something stupid.

Before arriving here I stopped at a drugstore and bought hair dye and trimmers. Once the campground settles for the evening, I return to the showers, buzz my hair down, and bleach it blond.

I’ve also stopped shaving. While I’m not nearly as hairy as my father and brothers, I do have a light scruff now.

I have no idea what I’ll find when I reach my destination. Who knows if I’ll even locate any shifters, much less ones who will adopt me into their pack?

It’s difficult not to look too far ahead with the future so tantalizingly close yet murky and impenetrable. Ideally, I’ll find a room to rent, a job I can work for cash under the table, and save up for several months. Let my hair grow out and then dye it dark so it matches a little better. My father’s never seen me with facial hair, much less long hair, because that wasn’t allowed.

If he doesn’t put out a missing persons report it wouldn’t shock me if he asks law enforcement friends to keep an eye out for me to show up in their system. So whatever I do, I need to be careful. I have no idea how to get a fake ID.

In a perfect world—I mean for my situation—I’d head out west to California, Oregon, Washington, or maybe even Alaska. It wouldn’t have to hook up with shifters out there because I can pick crops, I can work on a fishing boat, or do logging, construction—anything manual that will pay me in cash every day without asking too many questions.

But I can’t do that via ticketed transportation. If I buy a bus or train ticket, if he’s put out alerts I would expect him or Paul or my brothers, someone, to show up waiting for me along the route.

The next morning, I stop at another drugstore and buy a burner phone and activate it, then stomp my old one and toss it in the dumpster behind the store. I haven’t turned it on since leaving Georgia, and I’m damned sure not turning on my other two phones. I can’t risk being tracked if they manage to find the hotel I stayed at and then triangulate cell phone data. Yeah, it’d take them a while, but the risk isn’t worth it. I should’ve tossed the other two phones, but they don’t take up much room and I might have use for them at some point. Two miles down the road is a public library. I stop in there and use their wi-fi with the new phone and search for news stories about me.

Nothing.

Yay?

Either my absence hasn’t been noted—difficult to believe—or Dad hasn’t reported it yet.

I don’t log into my regular e-mail account. Or any of my social media accounts, for that matter. Not even to go in and delete them. I logged out of all of them on both phones and deleted the apps from the phones before shutting them down the other day. I want there to be no record of me checking those accounts. I won’t risk it. Not even using a VPN. I want it to look like I literally dropped off the face of the planet.

My father has money and resources and a deep well of anger—all with an even more tenacious thirst for revenge when he feels wronged.

The best I can hope for is that he disowns me, and as long as I never cross his path again he’ll forget he even has a fourth son.

Except I’m not that idealistic. I am Randolph Sterling’s smartest son, after all.

It’s more realistic to assume that with his campaign kicking off he has bigger fish to fry than my ass. If they dig into my actions it’ll soon be evident I willfully disappeared and wasn’t a victim of foul play. Once he wins the election, he might devote time and resources to tracking me down.

If he were to lose the election…

Well, I’ll hopefully have an even deeper hole to hide out in by then. Because his rage over losing will need an outlet, meaning I’m the perfect target. Hell, he’ll probably figure out a way to blame me for the loss despite my disappearance.

The road takes me through several densely wooded wildlife management areas, with excellent camping opportunities. So I opt to stop for a couple of days and rest. There’s spotty cell coverage at best, there aren’t many other campers right now, and I still haven’t scented any shifters.

I pick up a couple of paper maps and spend evening hours studying them. I’ll make my way through Brooksville and stop at their public library to use their computers and check news reports.

I hike during the day and spend a couple of hours each night shifted and running before jerking off, taking a shower, then collapsing into deep sleep. While biking has been great to help me expend energy that my brothers usually only burn in a gym, I love shifting and running.

That was something else I always knew irritated Dad. That the skinny, shortest, and omega son could outrun and outlast not only his Alpha sons but him as well. I got to where if I had to attend a family run, I’d deliberately sandbag and let them win because there’d be hell to pay if I didn’t. Easier to ignore my brothers’ taunts after than to have them roll me while shifted and forcing me to submit, or punch or trip me when we weren’t.

Wisely picking and choosing my battles is something else I excel at over my brothers.

Which is also why they’re all married and basically miserable bastards, and I’m on the run for my life.