Page 82 of Stolen Rebel

For the first time in years, there isn’t a red dot on a map following me. No check-ins. No digital breadcrumbs. Sorcha gave me more than a car; she gave me my privacy back.

I have nowhere to be, no one telling me where to go or what to do. I left the dregs of my fucks back in Mahoney Manor with a man who looks like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy with a temper and a kingdom.

Good.

I wish I had kicked him.

It doesn’t happen all at once, but as each mile passes, the blur of green countryside out the window becomes less of “yay freedom” cry and more “what the fuck am I doing?” Where am I going?

After five years of being controlled, the world being my oyster feels chest-crushingly overwhelming. Okay, not even the world being my oyster. County Kildare. All this wide-open space, a car, a black credit card with who knows how high a limit, and all I feel is… Fuck. Is that fear?

Should freedom really feel like standing in the middle of a motorway with an eighteen-wheeler barreling toward me?

I swing into the first petrol station I come across and pull into a parking space on the forecourt. I sit in silence, staring at the steering wheel. What does a person do with nothing but time and open road and five years of thoughts to revisit and analyze one by one?

A quick glance in the rearview shows a dark Land Rover that was behind me on the country roads about fifteen minutes ago. I know for sure because I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I can recall each vehicle I’ve seen since I’ve left the manor. A Mini that looked like a regular-sized car on the narrow, winding country roads, a tractor, a pick-up truck, and this guy.

Is he following me?

Or am I so used to being watched I feel weird without eyes on me.

I blink the thought away. It’s an area without much life about it. There aren’t many shops or garages or places to stop. It’s paranoia, that’s all. Which, let’s face it, is probably a rational reaction to my life right now.

I go inside the SPAR, use the bathroom, fill a shopping bag full of sweets, chocolate, and crisps—upcoming period, anyone?—grab a Club Lemon for the drive, and by the time I’m sitting in my car, the Land Rover is gone.

A tightness in my chest loosens. I toss a coin to decide which direction to go in and set off. Maybe it’s okay that I don’t know where I’m going, or where I should go.

Ten minutes later, something dark cuts across my peripheral vision as I drive through an intersection. My heart rate spikes. The Land Rover. Shit. Shit. Is it the same guy from the garage? Is he following me?

Fuck.

I used to know these roads like the back of my hand but with panic rising up inside me, everything looks the same.

I take a couple of turns, double back on myself, and remember a dead end Liam and I used to visit when we wanted some alone time on the way home from a date night. I turn around so I’m facing the only way in.

Immediately, I have regrets. What has possessed me? If he comes this way, I’m trapped.

Okay, fine. I square my shoulders. Let him think that’s true.

Whoever’s following me doesn’t know I have nothing left to lose. Sorcha would rescue me, right?

Right?

I touch the burner in my pocket. I’m not a complete idiot. Breaking down in rural Ireland without a phone and only miles of rolling hills, sheep, and cows for company would be minus craic.

It takes a few minutes of staring, waiting, and convincing myself I’m not losing my grip on reality to feel a little more stable. But just when my heart rate returns to the normal range, the car appears.

Gotcha.

Except, now what?

My stomach drops. I grab the phone and, with shaky hands, dial Sorcha.

“Rowan?”

“I know it sounds a bit out there, Sorcha, but I swear someone’s following me.”

She takes a breath like she’s going to say something, but I keep going.