Upgraded (Away We Go #1)

Chapter 1

EVANGELINE

AUSTIN, TEXAS

Typically, I’m an excellent multi-tasker.

But it’s proving to be harder than expected to drive one-handed while typing Am I about to be murdered by the moving company I hired?

into the internet browser on my phone. I’m going less than three miles per hour, which is the only reason I’m allowing myself to conduct this vital research in the first place.

But I could really use a little reassurance that following this unmarked van down a narrow tree-lined lane isn’t a terrible idea.

I swipe back to the map, homing in on the little blue beacon that marks the address Luca sent me after my third text to him this morning.

I’m getting closer.

But closer to what, exactly? Murder? Abduction? Or do I really expect to find a secret woodland storage unit at the end of this road?

Knowing Luca, he probably committed to some sort of multi-level marketing scheme that’s going to require me to recruit three other people to drive their belongings into the woods within the next thirty days.

Work that downline, baby.

My ex recently renewed his multimillion-dollar contract with Waytrek Racing and earned more than two million in bonuses last year alone.

But Luca’s always been cheap. At least when it comes to me. I deeply regret letting him be the one to put the majority of my belongings in storage. I was just so damn grateful that he offered to take care of something for once.

The reality of my situation has heat creeping into my cheeks. My warm flush grows when I consider how much money I let him borrow over the last twenty-six months.

“Borrow” feels like a silly word now that we’re no longer together. I’m fairly certain I’ll never see a dime of that money again.

He’d regularly take twenty dollars from me for the coffee run he begrudgingly agreed to go on. Other times he’d have me charge seat upgrades or baggage overage fees on my credit card when I’d join him on a flight, even though his team probably would have reimbursed him for those expenses.

The money issue was just a little ick in the beginning—something that didn’t sit right, even though I couldn’t identify why. I chalked it up to being too sensitive or reading too much into the patterns I noticed. That happens a lot for me, so I’m always paranoid I’m the problem.

We had a routine of sorts. When my credit card payment was due, I’d send him a screenshot of the balance. Plus, every few months, he’d remember to reimburse me on his own.

None of it felt like a big deal until I caught him balls deep in another girl on my grandma’s antique couch.

Then everything felt like a big deal. A big, balls-deep deal.

Last weekend my best friend and her sister sat me down and forced me to start adding up all the money Luca technically owes me. That was after he complained about being the one to coordinate storing my stuff. But he’s the one who convinced me to sublease my apartment in the first place.

I love my apartment. It was stupid to sublease it, honestly.

But when Luca invited me to travel with him this season instead of flying in for some of the races, I got swept up in his grandiose plans.

He offered to take me to every grand prix this year.

He said we’d look for a place together at the end of this season. Foolishly, I believed him.

Just like I foolishly swiped my credit card every time he tipped his chin toward a register.

One of his signature moves was claiming to have left his wallet at home, then nudging me to put my credit card down at the end of a meal. Most recently that resulted in me paying for dinner and drinks for us and two other couples after the last night of testing in Bahrain.

There’s $2,374 on my credit card from that meal alone because of Luca fucking Steele.

I can’t fathom adding up the grand total of everything he owes me.

Even when Mia and Shelby insisted, I couldn’t do it. I made it through five months of transactions before I gave up, electing to eat half a pint of Jeni’s brambleberry crisp ice cream to numb myself from the reality of the situation.

Because of him, I’m trailing behind a janky unmarked van, heading toward what I can only assume is a discount MLM storage facility. The least he could have done is rent a legitimate storage unit for my belongings now that I’m homeless.

We were supposed to see the world this year.

He promised me that after this year, we’d officially move in together.

I shake my head and banish the self-pity seeping its way in, the motion causing my cheetah-print hoops to hit my jaw. I was stupid to trust Luca. I was even more stupid to hyperfixate on all the touristy things I wanted to do at each of the grand prix around the world.

Probably would have had to bankroll my own high tea in England and dune bashing in Abu Dhabi anyway.

Brake lights illuminate in front of me, indicating the murder mobile is slowing its pace, so I slow as well, craning my neck to get a look at what’s ahead, though not seeing anything but trees.

The van stops, then the driver climbs out.

He’s a middle-aged man with a prominent bald spot and watery eyes. He doesn’t look threatening or give off murder-man vibes. But anyone can be a serial killer, right?

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch. My brain is telling me that keeping my hands at ten and two is the surest way to keep myself from becoming a murder victim.

Come on, Evan. Get a grip.

The driver stops at my car door, then raps his knuckle on the window.

Panic flares inside me. I’m only twenty-six. I want to do so much more with my life. I have a live stream scheduled for tonight and at least eight unfulfilled orders from my online shop waiting to be processed—

“Hey.”

I startle, jolting hard enough to smack my head on the car roof.

Ouch.

Wincing, I turn to the man, studying him through the window.

The driver makes a cranking motion with his fist.

At least he’s practical. It’ll be less messy if I roll down the window. That way he won’t have to break the glass to kick things off.

I deeply regret not packing and shipping the shop orders this morning so I could clear my queue. If I get murdered today, I’ll definitely lose my Speedy Shipper badge for the month.

Shaking his head, the man sighs. Then, with his hands cupping his mouth, he hollers, “Do you know the code?”

Code? I frown at him.

Oh. Wait.

Luca did send a string of four numbers last night. I figured it was the storage unit number or the start of the address he forgot to send. I suppose it could be a code.

“Hang on,” I mutter, holding up one finger.

I scoop up my phone from the passenger seat, open the text thread from Luca, and scroll through our most recent messages.

The scrolling isn’t necessary, I guess. The code is in the last text he sent me. But I can’t help but scroll a little higher, scanning all the heartfelt messages and sweet notes I’ve sent, then glowering at the one-word responses and thumbs-up emojis he’s sent back in the last few weeks.

It’s humiliating. Luca was never really invested in our relationship, while I was on a personal mission to prove to everyone, including myself, how perfect we were together.

Finally, I force myself to return to the latest messages, then lower my window an inch or two so I can speak to the van driver.

I peek up, squinting against the bright Texas sun. Don’t want my potential murderer to think I’m rude. “It’s 9902.”

With a nod and two thumbs up, he jogs back to the van. Rather than hop in, he goes beyond the vehicle and disappears out of sight.

A minute passes. Then another.

All the while, I’m gnawing on my bottom lip so hard it might bruise.

Finally, he returns, climbs into the driver’s seat, and pulls forward.

As the van rolls through the ornate iron gates, I blink, then snatch my phone from the seat. With nerves prickling every inch of my skin, I swipe back to the map with the address Luca provided.

This is it.

We’re here, driving through the gates that I now realize must have required a code to open.

This isn’t like any storage unit I’ve ever seen.

In fact, we’re not at a storage facility at all.

For some reason, I’ve found myself pulling into the circle driveway of an enormous, exquisite house.