Free Bad Boy Billionaire: F#cking Jerk 3 by Tawny Taylor

front porch, pacing back and forth, anxious to hit the road early. We had roughly nine hundred miles ahead of us. And she wanted to get at least half of them done today.
    “Almost!” I called out as I smoothed my hand over the folded letter I’d left on Clay’s bed.
    I couldn’t believe I was leaving, even for only a week or so. Since arriving, I’d figured I’d be living in Dawson for at least five years. I’d actually grown comfortable with that plan. Now…? Everything was up in the air. My inheritance. My future. And, most of all, my relationship with Clay.
    I couldn’t leave him wondering where I’d gone or why. Thus the letter. And its placement, on top of the sales contact for my ranch.
    Even though I wasn’t making a permanent decision yet, I still felt awful. A part of me felt defeated. I’d lost the ranch so quickly. Was my luck that bad--that I’d failed so fast? Or was I just a really, really bad business owner? I hoped (and yes, prayed) that my future efforts wouldn’t fail so miserably.
    And then there was this thing with Clay. Early on I’d sabotaged our relationship with my inability—no, unwillingness—to trust him. I’d vowed to work on trusting him more. But now I wondered if that had been a stupid move. Maybe there was a reason why I shouldn’t trust him.
    Then again, maybe, once again, I was jumping to some kind of crazy conclusion when I shouldn’t. I’d done my share of that recently. But even Harper hadn’t been able to tell me I was off my rocker this time. No, she’d reaffirmed what I’d concluded. Clay had taken possession of the ranch. And he’d sold it. Already.
    My heart was brittle, and every time I closed my eyes I pictured Clay’s face. I heard him say, “Trust me. I love you.” And little pieces of my heart broke off, crumbling to dust.
    Hollow. I felt hollow. And cold. And eerily calm. I wasn’t angry anymore. Or hurt. I just felt empty.
    I took one last look around Clay’s mansion as I made my way to Harper. Her car was running in the driveway. Unlike my junker, it would get us to California. I slipped into the passenger seat next to her and buckled in.
    And off we drove. South.
    Out of BFE Nowhere, Wyoming.

 
     
     
     

Chapter 8
    A few hours later we parked outside a dusty old family diner in southwest Wyoming. My stomach was so empty it was digesting itself. But I was broke until the insurance money came in. Until then I was relying upon my (very generous) bestie to feed me. And so I would go light on the food. I would never take her generosity for granted.
    Inside, she claimed an empty table while I made a beeline for the bathroom. I’d learned one thing about traveling through Wyoming: when one found a bathroom, it was extremely wise to use it. We had traveled for hours before stumbling upon this place. My bladder was about to explode. I didn’t even care that this dump looked like a filthy public restroom in a truck stop.
    I locked myself inside a stall and coated the grimy toilet seat with at least a half roll of TP before daring to sit. Outside the little stall, I heard the bathroom door thump shut and footsteps. No doubt it was Harper, taking care of the essentials too. I was so glad she had suggested this little trip. Already I was starting to feel better—less bogged down and stressed. I was breathing easier. Smiling easier. Just relaxing and enjoying the little things—like singing to our fave tunes on the radio. At the top of our lungs—because what other way was there to sing Adele’s “Hello”? Adele we weren’t, but we didn’t care.
    After taking care of business, I nudged my makeshift seat cover into the toilet with my toe, flushed and pushed open the door. The instant I stepped out, I was jumped from behind. By someone big. And strong.
    It wasn’t Harper.
    One anaconda-like arm wrapped around my waist while a hand slammed over my mouth, instantly muffling my shriek of shock. Terror knifed through me, sharp and cold as ice blades.