Does it Hurt?, an all-new thrilling, edge-of-your-seat dark standalone romance from international bestselling author H.D. Carlton is available now!
Who am I?
I've forgotten the answer to that question long ago. Ever since I ran from that house, so desperate to escape, I left with only the clothes on my back and socks on my feet. After that day, I've only ever walked in stolen shoes.
Could I be a girl who is searching for the meaning of life in faceless men? They were all so forgettable. Until he came along. He took me under a waterfall and made me forget my name, and in return, I took his instead.
Enzo Vitale.
An enigmatic man that will only ever love the deep sea. Or rather the predators that inhabit it. Turns out, he's not so different than the monsters he feeds. He lured me onto his boat like a fish in the ocean, seeking vengeance for my crime. Had I realized his intentions, and that a massive storm would leave us shipwrecked, I would've ran.
Now, I'm a girl who's seeking refuge in a decrepit lighthouse with a man who loathes me almost as much as he craves me. He wants to hurt me, but the old caretaker of the abandoned island may have intentions far more sinister.
It's no longer a question of who I am, but rather, will I survive?
I’ve put off leaving the country for so long, convinced I’d be caught, and that’s precisely what might happen.
Heart racing, I head directly to the gift shop, purchase a zip-up hoodie, along with sweats and a ball cap, then find a bathroom to change in, all the while checking over my shoulder.
Even the restroom is crowded, so I keep my head down and quickly duck into a stall. Hands shaking, I wind my hair into a low bun, shove the hat over the top, and then slip on the jacket, flipping the hood over my head to cover the rest of my hair. Lastly, I pull the sweats on over my shorts, already sweating from the layers and adrenaline.
Then, I wash my hands and rush to the ticket counter, out of breath and practically panting in the agent’s face. She looks up at me, startled by my sudden presence.
“May I hel—”
“I need a ticket to the next flight out,” I interrupt, nearly tripping over my words. She blinks at me, then focuses on her computer screen, clicking around with her mouse and tapping a few keys.
“A flight to Indone—”
“Not that one,” I cut in again. “A different one.”
She shoots me a glare. I’m pissing her off, but I’m sure a big glass of red wine will soothe her woes, whereas I will definitely be meeting my maker if I’m caught.
“A flight to Australia is departing in forty minutes.”
“Sold,” I say, slapping a wad of cash and my ID on the counter. Giving me an unimpressed look, she processes the ticket and counts through the money. Albeit very fucking slowly.
“You’re $ 8.09 short,” she clips.
I’m not usually a snappy person with customer service. They deal with enough shit. That being said, if I get caught over $ 8.09, I’m pointing directly at her and screaming she did it before bolting.
Muttering beneath my breath, I fish out a ten-dollar bill from my pocket and slap it on the counter.
Giving me the evil eye, she takes the bill and continues.
I’m constantly checking over my shoulder, but thankfully, the airport is crowded, and I don’t see any angry faces wearing a uniform and a gun headed my way yet.
“Do you have any luggage?”
“No, just my carry-on,” I reply.
After a few more minutes, she finally slides the ticket to me, along with my change and ID.
“Gate 102. Terminal B.”
I snatch them from the counter, clip out a quick thank you, and take off toward the shuttle, my duffel bag slapping against my legs.
My heart is beating nearly out of my damn mouth by the time I make it through TSA, off the shuttle that takes me to the terminal, and ultimately reach the gate. It took fucking forever, and they’ve already called my name over the speaker. I’m panicking that I won’t make it, and they’re literally about to close the door when I finally arrive at the gate.
“Wait!” I shout.
The employee sees me coming, and I swear to God, he deserves a blowjob for kindly stepping aside and allowing me through. Even as I run down the hallway to get to the plane, I’m checking over my shoulder.
My heart refuses to return to its designated area until the plane takes off.
Even then, I’m waiting for air traffic control to stop the plane and tell them a fugitive is on board.
H. D. Carlton is an International Bestselling Author. She lives in Ohio with her partner, two dogs, and cat. When she's not bathing in the tears of her readers, she's watching paranormal shows and wishing she was a mermaid. Her favorite characters are of the morally gray variety and believes that everyone should check their sanity at the door before diving into her stories.
