Tell Me Something Real (The Runaway #1)

Prologue

Rowan - five years ago

If I had a dollar for every time a beautiful stranger in a wedding gown and four-inch heels sprinted toward me on a sidewalk, I’d have exactly…one dollar.

“Wait!” she shrieks.

I take her in through the tinted black shield of my motorcycle helmet. White, shimmery material molds to her figure, waist-length veil floating on air behind her. Honey-blonde waves hang around her shoulders all the way down to the deep V on the front of her dress.

She closes the distance between us, breathless from her run. “Sir!”

The absence of other people in the general vicinity and the fact she’s headed straight for me means I’m sir.

I lift my visor to see her clearly as she comes to a stop in front of me. Her urgent expression and the air heaving into her lungs leaves no room for pleasantries. “Can you help me, please?”

“Um, sure…yeah, okay,” is all I manage before a man’s voice bellows from down the street. Her face turns furious and she yanks me by my jacket toward an alcove at the entrance to the bank I just came out of a few steps away.

“Shit!” she whispers, tucking us behind a pillar.

Mystery bride uses me like her own personal rag doll, jostling and shifting me into position so she’s fully concealed from view. Over my shoulder, a tuxedo-clad man with coifed black hair and a clean-shaven face barrels around the corner of the swanky hotel two doors down.

He looks like a William McDouche III…or a Robert Robertson. I decide I hate him.

“Hannah!” the man shouts, eyes darting all directions. He yells her name over and over with mounting frustration—not panic, but anger. Every time he calls out, she tightens her grip on my jacket.

My jaw ticks. “Are you in trouble?”

Desperation clings to every speck of brown, green, and gold that make up the depth of her hazel eyes. “I need to get outta here. Right now. I don’t have any money on me, but I have my phone and I can find a way to transfer some to you eventually.”

The five thousand dollars tucked in my pocket begins to burn—not to mention the life insurance payout set to hit my bank account in a few weeks. I don’t need her money.

Three more men in tuxedos—all named Chad, I’m sure—and a platinum pixie in a black dress rush onto the sidewalk, joining Tuxedo McDouche in his pursuit. Something about Pixie’s proximity to the man shouting Hannah’s name puts me on edge.

“Please,” she begs.

I don’t think a moment longer as I strip off my riding jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “Put this on.”

She yanks the veil out of her hair and passes it to me before pushing her arms through the sleeves. I step back, careful to keep my body as a barrier in Tuxedo McDouche’s line of sight. I give her a once over. “Um…”

“What?” she asks, sweeping her waves free from beneath the collar.

“Your dress might be a problem.”

The white gown paints the curves of her body like the work of a master sculptor. From the delicate shoulder straps all the way down to her knees, the material has zero give.

Damn this girl is stunning.

Hannah splits her gaze between my bike and her dress.

Without preamble, she fists the two pieces of fabric at the top of the slit above her knee and rips it wide.

I swallow past the sight of the lace garter hugging her upper thigh as she splits the seam well beyond scandalous territory.

She scoops the excess material puddled behind her and throws it over one arm, holding it in front to cover her exposed leg.

The wedding party gathering outside the hotel grows in number and panic by the second. Well, McDouche is still pissed, but everyone else looks worried.

“Stay here,” I say, handing the veil back to her. “I’ll motion for you when I’m ready.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Rowan, by the way.”

A small smile crooks her lips, and it’s the brightest thing I’ve seen since I arrived in Colorado five days ago. “I’m Hannah.”

“Nice to meet you, Hannah.” I give her a wink through the window of my helmet before dropping the visor. When I saunter up to the bike, it’s with all the nonchalance in the world.

I settle into the seat, rev the engine, and lift the kickstand with my heel.

Something about the prospect of stirring up chaos amongst a bunch of highbrow elites, the unknown of what comes after this, sends rapid-fire shots of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

I crank the throttle long and loud, grinning into my side mirror when the wedding party turns their heads toward the sound like a bunch of marionette dolls.

Hannah is a perfect stranger. I don’t know her story or why she’s about to run out on this guy. But every bride deserves to ride off into the sunset on her wedding day. Especially one as radiant as her.

I know sacrifice. I wear the dog tags and have the battle wounds to prove it. But this? This isn’t a sacrifice.

My engine purrs, pelting deep rumbles into the air. I take one final look at the crowd behind me. Then I turn to the drop-dead gorgeous woman dressed in white, hidden behind a stone pillar.

Time to put on a show.

I lift my visor again. The exhaust is loud enough I have to raise my voice to be heard. And maybe I yell louder than necessary so someone down the block might pick it up. “Runaway! You wanna get outta here?”

Hand held out, I crook my fingers toward my palm a few times. Her smile breaks wide over her face. Correction: that is the brightest thing I’ve seen since I got here.

She bolts from the shadows, eyes fixed on me.

Raucous shouts of “stop” and “come back” pierce through the mayhem.

Their cries go in one ear and out the other as Hannah hikes her exposed leg over the bike and slides in behind me.

McDouche is hot on our heels in an instant from the view of my mirror.

He looks mad enough to yank her off this bike if I don’t peel out soon, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.

Three heartbeats is all it takes.

One. She spreads her legs—smoothest legs I’ve ever seen—nudging herself closer to wedge the breadth of my hips between her thighs. I look over my shoulder for traffic.

Two. An arm slinks around my waist as I roar the engine one last time just to piss the guy off.

Three. I hit the gas and she throws her veil in the air, letting it fly free behind her. The wisp of tulle gets swept up in a breeze before drifting to the concrete at the groom’s feet as we peel away.

The next morning

My eyes flutter open under the piercing sun streaming through the blinds of the camper.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes and survey my surroundings.

Hannah’s gone, nothing but a ripped, grease-and-mustard-stained wedding dress, and a note scribbled on the back of a Target receipt in the spot where she was lying next to me only a couple hours ago.

Hey Soldier,

Trash it, burn it, dye it black like the color of your soul, I don’t care. I never want it back.

Thank you for everything.

Someday I’ll find a way to repay you.

Best,

Runaway