Page 1 of Runaway Road (Runaway 1)

Chapter One

Londyn

“Londyn, please. Please, don’t do this.”

Please, don’t do this.

If I had a quarter for every time I’d heard that sentence from this man in the last eight years, I’d be a richer woman.

“Goodbye, Thomas.” I ended the call. Since he usually called back five seconds after I hung up on him, I turned the damn thing off and tossed it across the bed to my best friend, who stood on the other side. “Here.”

“Ack.” Gemma fumbled it, she’d always been a butterfingers, and it fell unharmed onto the fluffy white down comforter. She snatched it up. “What do you mean, here?”

“Keep it. Smash it. I don’t care. But I’m not taking it with me.” I folded another T-shirt and laid it in my suitcase.

The entire thing was packed with brand-new clothes, most with the tags still attached. There wasn’t a stitch of silk or satin to be found. Nothing I was taking required a press or steam and there sure as hell wasn’t a pair of heels stuffed inside.

I had jeans. Normal jeans. I hadn’t owned a pair in years. Now I had ten. Some had distressed patches by the knees. Some had frayed hems. Some were slouchy—or boyfriend, as the labels read.

Along with my denim, I had tees. White. Gray. Black. Navy. All the same colors as the suits I’d worn for years, but this time everything was machine-washable cotton. I might even wear them without a bra.

My wardrobe would no longer be a prison. Neither would this house. Neither would my phone.

“You have to take a phone, Londyn.” Gemma planted her hands on her hips. Her cream suit was perfect—I used to have the same one. Her dark hair was styled in a tight chignon, exactly how I used to style my blond mane.

“No.” I folded the last T-shirt. “No phone.”

“What? That’s—it’s . . . insane. And stupid.”

I shrugged. “We’ve both done it before.”

“And we were both stupid before. We’re lucky we didn’t end up as skin suits.” She threw her long arms out at her sides, huffing as she shook her head. “Take your phone.”

“No.”

“Londyn,” she snapped. Gemma acted angry but her anxious gaze spoke otherwise. She was simply worried. If I were in her Louboutins, I would be too. “How will I find you?”

“You won’t find me. That’s the point.” I rounded the bed and took her pink-manicured hands in my own. I’d missed our standing date at the salon for the past three weeks and my nails were wrecked. I’d ripped off my shellac and chewed them to the nub. “I’m going to be okay.”

She looked at me, standing three inches taller. “Please, don’t do this.”

“No,” I whispered. “Not you too.”

“Londyn,” she whispered. “At least take the phone.”