Page 3 of Pretty Broken Wings

During my shower, I can’t keep the anxiety away. I don’t like the way the minty guy looked at me. And the way he had his hands all over my purse.

My purse. I didn’t check it. I just grabbed it and ran.

My stomach twists, and I turn off the water, ripping the towel from the rack that never stays up.

Paranoid. I’m being paranoid. No reason to rush.

But I do. I towel off quickly, my hair still dripping wet, and jump into my old sweats and oversized T. Then I dart to the kitchen, snatching up my purse from the counter. I rip it open, feeling around inside, my hand meeting nothing.

No. No, it’s gotta be in the corner. I feel around frantically, but it’s not there.

My wallet is gone.

CHAPTER TWO

I feel like my brain has been unraveled roughly and shoved back together. I’m fucking exhausted.

By the time I realized my wallet was missing, the bar was already closed. Still, I walked all the way back and banged on the door with no luck. When I got back to my place, I was too jacked to sleep for more than an hour or two.

So, now I’m out the last bit of my paycheck that was supposed to go for food. But worse, my wallet had my driver’s license in it.

With my real name.

Panic surges through my body again, making the tips of my fingers go numb.

I came to this middle-of-nowhere town and started using my middle name to try and disappear, and I’ve already lost it?

The man in the bathroom took it, the tall playboy who was listening to us in the stall like a fucking pervert. There’s no way it fell out.

I pace my studio apartment—sixteen paces down and twelve across.

Why in the fuck did I keep my license in my wallet? I spin on my heel.

Because I told myself that most of the people here don’t care. To them, I’m the side character in their story. The most they’ll do is give me a pity look and move on.

But that’s not what the man from the bathroom did. He looked at me like he could see me, which is unacceptable. No one sees me.

I pace back and forth, back and forth. When people see me, I always end up getting hurt.

A sharp knock at the door makes me jump. I whirl on my heel, staring at the door.

Who the fuck is that? Could it be the man from the bar?

Then, my thoughts get darker. It’s my ex. He found me after all these months.

My legs tingle. I could run. I could slip out the back door, get in my car, and go.

But as soon as I think that, I shoot it down. I don’t even know who’s at the door.

The knock comes again, and I straighten. If he’s here, I will not hide.

Marching to the door, I grab my pink aluminum bat. Then, I check the peephole.

It’s the hot man from the bar. The wallet thief.

Fuck.

A mix of relief and shame rushes through me. Of course, I was being dramatic. My ex isn’t here. This is ridiculous.