Page 2 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

T he first place I reach is called Fuel-Land—a rest stop with a diner, a gas station, and a stale, burnt coffee smell that hits me the second I walk in. My soaked hoodie clings to me, my socks squish in my shoes, and the lights overhead buzz like they’re seconds from dying.

A row of truckers slouches at the counter, all hunched over their mugs like they’re waiting for the will to live. I head straight to the bathroom, dry my face with sandpaper paper towels, and try not to cry.

When I return, one of the truckers—mid-forties, scruffy, semi-decent smile—gives me a once-over.

“Outlets are over there.” He points behind him to the bar. All taken.

“Here,” he says, handing me a cup. “Get a coffee on the house.”

I nod in thanks and move to the self-serve machine, pretending I’m not shaking. As I add cream, a guy in a green flannel approaches with a long cord.

“Phone looks dead.” He hands me the charger.

“Thanks.” I plug it in, but an alert pops up.

Liquid detected! Dry port before charging.

Of course. “Actually... I could use some help,” I say.

“Where you headed?”

“Teaneck. New Jersey.”

“That’s not far. I’m passing through there now, actually.” He smiles. “I can give you a lift.”

He doesn’t seem threatening, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that means absolutely nothing. Still... I have twenty-six bucks and no working phone. A cab would laugh in my face.

“My truck’s the red Kenworth out front. I’m pulling out in twenty. Get some snacks if you need ’em, and meet me there.”

I nod and murmur a thank you, though his eyes linger on me a beat too long.

As he leaves, I turn back toward the gadget aisle for a mini cloth and power bank. I grab a bag of chips, a Sprite, and make a beeline for the cooler to check for ice cream.

Then I’m grabbed from behind.

I’m slammed gently—but firmly—against the cold glass of the freezer. A hand pins itself beside my head, and my breath catches.

“Are you seriously this na?ve?”

The voice is gravel and steel. Low. Rough. Furious. The kind that rips through silence like a knife.

I look up and everything slows.

He’s beautiful.

Not pretty-boy, clean-cut beautiful. No, he’s rugged and sharp—tall and broad-shouldered in a black henley and dark jeans that cling like sin. His jaw is cut from stone, dusted in stubble. A thin scar curves at the corner of his lip like it has a story, and his eyes?—

They’re a shade of blue I didn’t know existed. Cold. Wild. Intense.

And they’re locked on me like I’ve committed a crime.

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to get into trucks with strangers?” he growls.

“I’m sorry—who the hell are you?” I snap, even though my heart’s about to break a rib.

“Someone trying to keep you from winding up chopped into pieces and dumped behind a dumpster.”

“I don’t need your help.” I try to twist away, but he’s already turning my face toward the window with two fingers under my chin.

His touch is rough, but not cruel. Still—my pulse jumps anyway.

“See that?” he says quietly.

Out by the pumps, a group of women in stilettos and short skirts linger near the rigs, laughing with a handful of truckers.

“You don’t know what a lot lizard is, do you?”

“A what?”

He huffs. “You’re following one of their scripts. Pretend to be lost. Ask for a ride. Blowjob. Cash.”

My stomach flips. “That’s not what I was doing. I didn’t know—he didn’t seem?—”

“‘No, thank you.’” He quotes the guy from earlier, and now I want to hurl.

He finally steps back, gaze raking over me like he’s still deciding whether to call the cops.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters.

I blink. “Thank you.”

He pulls open the cooler, grabs a bottle of sweet tea like nothing happened. “How’d you even get out here?”

“I was ditched.” I exhale. “My boyfriend left me.”

“He should be your ex-boyfriend now.”

“I doubt he cares.”

“I do.” He looks at me again, long and hard. Then he pulls a worn leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it to me. “Hold this.”

“What for?”

“You’re getting in my car. Best case, you make it home. Worst case, your fingerprints are all over my ID and I get caught before I even finish burying you.”

“Charming.”

“Realistic. Don’t you watch Dateline ?”

“ SVU .”

He smirks—just slightly. “Same shit. Open it.”

I do. And then pause.

Two driver’s licenses fall out.

One says Cole Dawson – New York. The other: Cole Banks – Pennsylvania.

“What the hell…” I look up at him. “This screams sketchy. Do you know how many heroines in horror movies die because they ignore things like this? I’m pretty sure I just became one of them.”

“Possibly.” He shrugs. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to decide.”

My instincts scream at me to run. But the truth is, if this guy wanted to hurt me, I’d already be in the trunk. And there’s something about him—something dangerous and dark, yeah—but also something... genuine.

He grabs a pack of gum and a protein bar and moves to the counter, paying for my things too.

Outside, his car waits. It’s not a truck like I expected—it’s a jet-black vintage Dodge Charger, sleek and deadly-looking, like something out of a movie.

He opens the passenger door for me and doesn’t say a word until we’re both inside. He doesn’t even ask me for my name.

As he pulls onto the road, I exhale for the first time in minutes and mutter under my breath:

“I hope my Dateline episode gets good ratings.”

He glances over, eyes flicking to my mouth. “You always this dramatic?”

“No,” I say. “Usually I’m worse.”