Free The Billionaire and the Con Artist: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Girls Series Book 1) by Leanne Brice Page B
Authors: Leanne Brice
friend and I had considered her a true friend. I never suspected she didn’t grow an attachment to me as I did to her.
She faked everything between us—a connection never formed.
Tears continue to sting my eyes but I absolutely refuse to cry.
Nope—not letting her do that to me too.
Tears help nothing and will only make me feel weak when I now need to be stronger than ever.
I swallow back the tears, steeling myself against the emotions threatening to take over and eventually, my breathing returns to normal, and my brain is starting to think up a few plans.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be so worried about where my next meal is coming from or anything, but on top of Taylor’s betrayal, the full realization of how she left me starts to wash over me.
Taylor completely cleaned me out, taking things she didn’t even need, so it’s not even about her survival, is it?
It’s like she was deliberately setting me up to fail spectacularly, like she’s hoping I get caught in the simplest of ways due to lack of resources, but I refuse to believe that’s the case.
She probably thinks I’ll figure out a way to track her or lead someone to her with the number she’s been using, which I certainly didn’t memorize—I just plugged it in; we change them often enough. Maybe she took the IDs because her fingerprints might still be on them. Maybe she completely cleaned me out just to help cover her tracks, and it’s ultimately about survival after all.
The result is the same—I have nothing.
She taught me that too, by the way—get rid of all physical evidence. Leave nothing to chance—even if it seems like overkill, do it. Better safe than sorry.
I’ll have to get a new ID. New wigs, contacts.
With dry eyes, I consider my next step.
Yet again, I’m on my own, but I’m practiced—I can do this easily.
It’s funny how many lessons my mom taught me that later got enforced by Taylor but in more real-world, concrete ways.
I guess in a way, it’s natural that that’s where I head next. Now’s as good a time as any.
Maybe I’m looking for more clues about me from her.
Maybe I just want to remind myself there’s somewhere I belong.
At the very least, I can get some kind of closure.
Either we’ll get along and be friends or something, or I’ll finally take Taylor’s advice and harsh final lesson to heart and close my mother off for good.
She is, after all, the best example of why you can’t rely on anyone.
I mean, if you can’t depend on your mom, who the hell else can you trust?
I start formulating my plan.
The room is paid for for at least one more night—at least there’s that.
Hopefully, I won’t need it.
I memorized the heck out of my mom’s supposed location according to my research.
I figured out various ways to get there from various start points.
I might not have any cash or credit at this time, but I am never short on assets.
Free rides are pretty much Conning 101; transportation is one of the easiest things to figure out, especially when you look like me—a youthful, petite frightened-looking blonde disarms most people.
Without my disguises, I’ll end up risking being identified by people who will most certainly remember the blonde girl they gave a ride to, but I don’t have much choice at this point; I don’t have time to dye my hair or risk drawing even more attention to myself by trying to walk out of a store with a new wig using the five-finger discount.
It’s funny—this time, there’ll actually be some truth to the lines I’ll give my good Samaritans.
This time, well, I actually am a frightened girl out of money trying to get home.
* * *
I shower and wash and condition my hair so I’m nice and fresh, discarding my underwear but putting my other worn clothes back on since I don’t have any other options.
Before leaving the motel room, I rehearse several approaches, running over various scenarios and characters in my mind.
I don’t need anything
She faked everything between us—a connection never formed.
Tears continue to sting my eyes but I absolutely refuse to cry.
Nope—not letting her do that to me too.
Tears help nothing and will only make me feel weak when I now need to be stronger than ever.
I swallow back the tears, steeling myself against the emotions threatening to take over and eventually, my breathing returns to normal, and my brain is starting to think up a few plans.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be so worried about where my next meal is coming from or anything, but on top of Taylor’s betrayal, the full realization of how she left me starts to wash over me.
Taylor completely cleaned me out, taking things she didn’t even need, so it’s not even about her survival, is it?
It’s like she was deliberately setting me up to fail spectacularly, like she’s hoping I get caught in the simplest of ways due to lack of resources, but I refuse to believe that’s the case.
She probably thinks I’ll figure out a way to track her or lead someone to her with the number she’s been using, which I certainly didn’t memorize—I just plugged it in; we change them often enough. Maybe she took the IDs because her fingerprints might still be on them. Maybe she completely cleaned me out just to help cover her tracks, and it’s ultimately about survival after all.
The result is the same—I have nothing.
She taught me that too, by the way—get rid of all physical evidence. Leave nothing to chance—even if it seems like overkill, do it. Better safe than sorry.
I’ll have to get a new ID. New wigs, contacts.
With dry eyes, I consider my next step.
Yet again, I’m on my own, but I’m practiced—I can do this easily.
It’s funny how many lessons my mom taught me that later got enforced by Taylor but in more real-world, concrete ways.
I guess in a way, it’s natural that that’s where I head next. Now’s as good a time as any.
Maybe I’m looking for more clues about me from her.
Maybe I just want to remind myself there’s somewhere I belong.
At the very least, I can get some kind of closure.
Either we’ll get along and be friends or something, or I’ll finally take Taylor’s advice and harsh final lesson to heart and close my mother off for good.
She is, after all, the best example of why you can’t rely on anyone.
I mean, if you can’t depend on your mom, who the hell else can you trust?
I start formulating my plan.
The room is paid for for at least one more night—at least there’s that.
Hopefully, I won’t need it.
I memorized the heck out of my mom’s supposed location according to my research.
I figured out various ways to get there from various start points.
I might not have any cash or credit at this time, but I am never short on assets.
Free rides are pretty much Conning 101; transportation is one of the easiest things to figure out, especially when you look like me—a youthful, petite frightened-looking blonde disarms most people.
Without my disguises, I’ll end up risking being identified by people who will most certainly remember the blonde girl they gave a ride to, but I don’t have much choice at this point; I don’t have time to dye my hair or risk drawing even more attention to myself by trying to walk out of a store with a new wig using the five-finger discount.
It’s funny—this time, there’ll actually be some truth to the lines I’ll give my good Samaritans.
This time, well, I actually am a frightened girl out of money trying to get home.
* * *
I shower and wash and condition my hair so I’m nice and fresh, discarding my underwear but putting my other worn clothes back on since I don’t have any other options.
Before leaving the motel room, I rehearse several approaches, running over various scenarios and characters in my mind.
I don’t need anything
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