Does It Hurt? (2)

The employee sees me coming, and I swear to God, he deserves a blowjob for kindly stepping aside and allowing me through. Even as I run down the hallway to get to the plane, I’m checking over my shoulder.

My heart refuses to return to its designated area until the plane takes off.

Even then, I’m waiting for air traffic control to stop the plane and tell them a fugitive is on board.





Chapter 1


Sawyer



Cancer tastes like shit.

I suck in deeply, menthol gliding past my tongue and filling my lungs with manufactured chemicals. How many of these do I have to smoke before cancer invades my cells, metastasizing until I’m ridden with disease?

My throat tightens and revolts against the tobacco, forcing out a harsh cough. I pull the cigarette away and stare at it, my face twisted in disgust as smoke filters out of my nose and mouth. I rock my hand, viewing it from different angles.

A bright orange glow radiates from the tip, gray ash eating at the paper.

Fire is on the tip, flaring as if to entice me to wrap my lips back around it.

Nope.

Still isn’t appealing.

A tanned hand reaches out, nabbing the cigarette before I can stub it on the sand.

“Give me that before you waste it.”

I frown. How flammable is sand? I bet not at all. It’s too dense—nothing to feed the oxygen. Not unless I pour gasoline all over it. I bet it’d make the beach prettier, though.

Fire on the shoreline of a vast, blue ocean? Who wouldn’t want to see that?

The salty sea breeze blows softly, coercing the blonde, curly tendrils around my face into a sensual dance. I tuck the locks behind my ear, too tired to pull them back into the loose knot tied low on my head.

I look over to the guy sitting next to me. His overgrown sandy hair curls against the nape of his neck and the dagger tattoo behind his ear is alluring against his sun-kissed skin. All of his tattoos are—he's covered in them.

I still don’t know his name, but his cock is nice, and that’s all that really matters. Well, that, and his murderous nicotine. He’s not the type I usually go for, but I was feeling lonely and entertained the first guy who didn’t make me nauseous.

“What kind of cancer do you think you’ll get from that?” I ask, nodding toward the cigarette in his hand.

He quirks a thick brow, his pretty blue eyes sparkling in the morning glow. “I dunno. Lung cancer is too typical. Throat?”

“Do you think you’ll die?”

He barks out a short laugh. “I fucking hope so.”

I nod, reaching out my hand for him to give it back to me. He looks at me like I’m strange, a beat passing before he does as I ask.

Another inhale, and it tastes a little better with the reminder that I’m ingesting death into my lungs.

Yeah, that tastes much better.

Loud waves crash up the shore, rolling up and reaching toward my chipped baby blue painted toes with outstretched claws, before sinking back down and dragging sand with them.

The ocean is beautiful. But it’s also unforgivable. Within seconds, it can turn against you. Drag you down so violently, you don’t know which way is up, and feed you into its cavernous mouth until you drown or end up between the teeth of something much scarier.

I inhale again deeply, closing my eyes as I feel the smoke fill my lungs and stick inside of them.

Cigarettes are also unforgivable, with the way they eat at you from the inside out. Kill you slowly, and then all at once.

I decide I like the ocean, and I like cigarettes.

Because I… I am also unforgivable.



“That will be $68.10,” the cashier says pleasantly, a smile on his face.

“For a pregnancy test and a pack of cigarettes?” I ask incredulously.

The guy chuckles. “’Fraid so.”

“That’s literally robbery,” I mutter, but I’m not sure if he heard me because he’s still smiling.

I’d love to siphon some of that happiness for myself, but after three weeks in Port Valen, Australia, I don’t feel any safer than I did in America.

After landing, I checked the news online, and authorities were informed that I was possibly sighted at the airport and presumed to have escaped on a plane. The lady at the ticket counter may or may not be able to identify me and confirm my flight to Australia, regardless of using a different name. At the very least, she could say I was acting suspicious and give them a reason to look.

I’m not safe in this country—they’d turn me in to U.S. authorities if caught—but it’s too risky to fly to a country that’d grant me mercy. So, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m staying here for a while yet, and that it’s time to take on the life of someone else again.

There are worse places to be, I suppose.

Port Valen is a beautiful seaside town on the east coast, surrounded by a bright aqua blue ocean and crowded with tourists looking to shark dive or explore the coral reefs. Outside of the beach, it’s rich with massive waterfalls and diving holes surrounded by wildlife and miles of bright forests, attracting hikers from around the world.

It’s also expensive as hell here.

I dig through my ratty coin purse, strings frayed at the edges and getting caught in the zipper. I count out the bills and coins, berating myself for winding up in this situation. Precious money down the drain because I can hardly stand to be alone, plus the extra cost since now I feel the need to get a buzz just to take the edge off.