DIRTY ANGELS
For the next five days, they planned to disappear.
Isla leaned her head on Chad’s shoulder, her hand resting casually on his thigh in a silent reassurance. The bus was only half-full, most passengers dozing or staring at their own screens. The driver had the radio on low, some classic rock station droning through the miles. She glanced up at him, eyes bright with that mix of adrenaline and mischief that had defined the last twenty-four hours—her heartbeat quick and her nerves buzzing.
“Still nervous?” she whispered.
Chad gave a small, uneasy laugh, but his fingers tightened anxiously around hers, betraying the anxiety he tried to hide.