Pre-Approved
Identity Theft
Nellie K. Neves
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Thank you for reading
Pre-Approved
Identity Theft
Other Books by the Author
For my mom, Linda-
May the jewels in your crown sparkle bright.
We shimmer because of your love.
Thank you for always putting us first and helping us believe
that nothing is impossible if your faith is in the right place.
Couldn’t have done it without you.
I love you, mom.
“Of this be sure: You do not find the happy life—you make it.”
—THOMAS S. MONSON
Chapter 1
I just climbed out a bathroom window in a $20,000 wedding dress. I've never done something so cliché in my life. But in my defense if they hadn't blocked my door with bodyguards I might have gone out a normal door.
Or any door at all.
I glance back at the tiny window for a second. I must have looked like Pooh Bear in Rabbit’s hole as I wiggled out of that thing. But now my feet are in the grass and my hands are gripping heaps of satin and tulle and all I can think to do is run.
Run as fast as I can away from this prison they’ve crafted for me.
Run as fast as I can from this town, and from all the people who know me, or at least they think they know me.
Run from my father.
Run from expectations and preconceived notions of what my life should be.
And run from Reginald Barker III.
Dear Reg, he’ll never see this coming.
Who would run from a future senator?
Me. That’s who.
I never wanted this, not really, but when your matriarchal genealogy is made up of trophy wives, and your father owns one of the largest alcohol distribution companies in the state, Devil’s Harp Ale, your life is basically mapped out from the moment you start cooing.
At least mine was.
I lose the $500 white heels somewhere along the way. My $400 veil is the next to go. There’s something poetic about watching it catch the wind and soar free. They’ll find it. Hopefully not any time soon, because I don’t want to be caught, not when I’ve tasted freedom for the first time in my life. I never knew it could be sweet like honey straight from the hive.
The dirt path is cool under my bare feet, but I don’t have to go long because my boots are stored just inside the tack room of the country club barn. This morning, I tucked my locker key, passport, driver’s license, and as much cash as I could find, into the crevice of my strapless gown’s bodice.
Yes, this was premeditated.
Yes, I have a feeling my mother knew and any second she’ll set loose the hounds.
Literally.
The country club has an excellent hunting team, and one whiff of my clothes and I’ll be caught. But I knew that in advance, and that’s why I have a plan.
I jam my boots on my feet and my locker squeaks open. It takes a bit of a struggle, but I weasel that rock off my finger. Yes, it could fetch me a pretty penny wherever I’m going, but I won’t wear it another second; 4 carats are heavy, especially when it might as well be a noose.
Reg comes from old money. His great grandpa was a governor. His grandfather, the CEO of a fortune 500 company. His father, the great senator Reginald Barker II. Reg is hot on his heels for taking over his seat. Meanwhile, my parents saw it as an opportunity to create a power couple.
“She’s pretty enough,” I heard my mother say to my father during my freshman year. “She should hold his attention, as long as nothing dreadful becomes of her face.”
It hadn’t bothered him the way she’d talked about me. I knew because he said, “Well, we better get started now before some other family snatches him up.”
They’d spoken as if it was early entry to an Ivy League school, and that was the first time I realized that my choices had never been my own.
The locker clangs as I shut it, and the relief I feel as I leave the ring inside is liberating.
I’m not his.
I’m not theirs.
I belong to no one.
The laces to my boots are stiff in my hands. Years of sneaking off on the trails behind the club have caked in the rivets. In spite of the stable hands efforts to keep the leather of my boots clean, they never had much control over the laces.
Silent rebellion.
That’s all I’ve had for years. But now, this here and now. This is outright rebellion and it feels like I have wings.
Stable number four holds my girl. I heft my saddle, the western one because I can’t gallop as fast as I need to in my English saddle. Not to mention, all this tulle and satin in a slick saddle might land me on the ground and back in the clutches of the hounds. The latch grates and grinds as I slip it open. Cadence, my gorgeous Hanoverian warm blood, dances at the sight of me. My reins slip over her neck, and because it’s my voice, she allows me to slip the bit into her warm, sticky mouth. There’s power in her shoulders. She knows how I love to run. For years I’ve held her back, but not today. Today I’ll let her soar.
The saddle comes naturally to me. It’s frowned upon to ride western at this place, but I’ve never cared. Again, a silent rebellion. Cadence ducks her nose around to stare at me, to ask why I’m there, and not where I should be. Why the ball gown? Why now? Why? Why? Why?
“You've got to understand,” I whisper as I touch my nose to hers, “I can't be caged. I can't do this like they do. I won't be a trophy on a shelf.”
She nickers and I know she gets it. Some of us are meant to be free. That must be why she doesn't even need to be tied as I saddle her. Because we need to be free.
Cadence follows me out to the clearing of the barn runway. She whinnies once because she can feel my fear. As much as I want this, it’s like my first steps, the first time I’ve even been on my own. My hand brushes over her strong neck and smooth coat. Is she really the only true friend I’ve ever had?
I slip my foot into the stirrup and swing up. Cadence pulls back a bit. It's the dress. This is not my typical attire, but my voice calms her and we head for the highway. It's the last time I'll ride her for awhile. Maybe for the rest of my life if I get my way.
Sad, she's all I'll miss of this charmed life of mine.
It’s tempting to tear away the fabric of my dress and let it fly in the wind like I had with my veil, but it’s part of my plan. Wherever I end up, I’ve got to be able to sell it for something. It’s a Borealis original. With Aria Borealis’ signature brand inside the bodice, I might as well be clothed in Benjamins.
The path goes all the way to the airport. I should know. Some days I ride to the outer gate and we watch the planes take off. Destination is not important to me. I realized that earlier this year, just away. Up, up, and far, far away.
It's got to be odd, a woman in a w
edding dress riding a Hanoverian mare on a path that borders the highway. Maybe that's why they're honking and calling out to me. Maybe they assume I'm on the way to the wedding, not the airport. Certainly, the smile on my face would make them all think I’m riding toward the love of my life, not away from, well, Reg.
The gates come up fast, and it’s hard to rein in all of Cadence’s power. I’ve never opened her up like this before. Sweaty foam gathers on her neck from her exertion.
“Lyle,” I call out to the security officer, “is that you?”
His cap tips up so he can see beyond the bill. “Miss Harper, what are you doing out here? I thought this was your wedding day.” As I come into focus his eyes widen. “Miss Harper, what in the Sam he—”
“There was a change of plans.” I ease Cadence from a trot to a walk. “I have a plane to catch. Can you keep Cadence for me? Someone will be by to get her shortly.”
“They know you’re here?” His accent is thick. My mother trained mine out of me. It was always a worry of hers that I might not land Reg even after all of her hard work, and in that case, I had to hide my southern roots.
“Gentlemen with money don’t like a woman that sounds stupid. Men may talk with an accent dear Harper, but never women. You’d be a second-tier housewife at best.”
I never knew what any of that meant, first tier, second tier, why did it matter? Why had she never taught me about love, or belonging like I’d seen in the movies? Because she’d never been taught, I suppose. Reg was fourth or fifth generation wealth, I was third generation trophy wife. Or at least I was supposed to be until I fouled the whole thing up.
“Yeah, Lyle, they’ll know I’m here soon enough.” I shove a hand into my bodice and pull a slightly damp hundred dollar bill free. “Here, take this for your trouble.”
He takes the money and only barely grimaces at its condition. Out of character for me, this whole day is out of character for me, and yet for the first time I’m comfortable in my own skin.
“Oh Miss Harper, no need for this. I’ve kept a hold of Cadence plenty of times for you. Not much goes on at this gate anyhow.”
I smile, but refuse to take the money. My goal is to get rid of all of it by the time the day is through. At the rate I’m going, it won’t take long.
“When does your plane take off?” Lyle asks as he lets me through the gate. “Do you need to borrow my golf cart?”
Better than I could have hoped.
“That would be great,” I say. “Can I drop it off at security? Someone will get it back to you, right?”
“Yess’um,” he says as I climb in and turn the key, “but where are you headed on your flight, Miss Harper? You never said nothing about that.”
The engine roars to life. Cadence pulls back and Lyle has to steady her. I can’t bear goodbye, leaving her might actually break me.
“I don’t know,” I admit as I shift into drive, “I haven’t bought the ticket yet.”
I’m sure he’s still staring after me, that dumbfounded expression plastered on his face even while I’m halfway to the airport.
Once more I’m the newest side show experience. Bride in a golf cart. It’s not particularly clean and I can imagine the dollar bills flying off me in the wind. Doesn’t matter, any bridal shop can clean the dress. And it’s never been used, at least not for its real purpose.
I pull up to security, and thankfully the station is empty. I grab a notepad from behind the counter and scribble out, “Keys for Lyle’s cart. Please return. Saved a damsel in distress,” before anyone can catch me. I only hear, “Hey, wait, you can’t—” before I dash through the doors and into the main terminal.
I’m a bit conspicuous. Perhaps that little aspect had never been factored into my plan. The ball gown is ridiculous in the real world, spanning more than the width of a Carolina linebacker. I’m like three people walking side by side, and it’s becoming an issue.
I can take my father’s jet. Neil, our pilot, isn't at the wedding and with one quick call he would take me anywhere. But I don't want anyone to know where I've gone. I need a little more of a head start than that. Besides, one call from my father, the great, Montgomery Sutton, and the plane would take a turn and burn quicker than a rodeo queen in a barrel race. No, I need to find my own way. I have to start thinking independently if I plan to survive.
“Hi,” I say as I step up to the counter.
My mother would be appalled at such casual language. She preferred, “Hello” or “Good morning.”
Once I asked her, “And what if it ain’t a good morning?” She’d nearly slapped me clean across my face. I stopped asking questions like that, at least out loud.
“How can I help you?” the lady behind the desk asks. Her tag says Beulah, but she is prettier than the name. Probably not real kosher to tell her that though.
“Well Beulah,” I fish around in my bodice and draw a few glances from nearby customers, “I want to know how far this can get me. Time is a bit of an issue.”
The bills are wadded and sweatier than what I’d handed to Lyle as I smash them down on the counter. She picks through them with dainty fingers as if I’ve handed her trash. Okay, so they aren’t the cleanest, no, but sweaty money is still money, isn’t it?
“Looks like six hundred and fifty-three dollars. Let’s see what we can do.” Her lips are tight like my mother’s and I immediately withdraw my earlier statement. Beulah is a fitting name.
“I don’t suppose you have identification in there as well?” Her eyebrow cocks up on the left side, and I can’t wait to upset her a little more.
The driver’s license is easy to get, stuffed right between my cleavage, but the passport is harder because it weaseled itself down into my bodice, pinned between my underwire and ribcage. Nearly my entire hand vanishes like some cheap magic trick before it reappears, passport and ID in its clutches.
“Bet your sweet bippy, I do.” For once I let my accent pull through. Give it all to the wind, every last thing my mother ingrained into me. I don’t care one hoot about what she wanted for me anymore.
Beulah takes my passport and ID. I worry for a second that she knows who my father is because I share his last name and his features. Suttons are known for their slender noses, high cheekbones, and pale blue eyes. I’m no exception. For years, people in my father’s social circle called me Mini Max because of my strong resemblance to my paternal grandmother, Maxine Sutton. Not long after, it became Max. Not long after that, my grandmother died and I became Harper, my given name.
A name I’d never fully trusted.
“I can get you a seat on a plane for El Paso for four hundred and thirty-seven dollars. It leaves in forty minutes. Would that work?”
Work? I couldn’t have even planned something so lucky.
“That’ll be great.”
She sorts through my cash and pulls out what she needs. I might be wrong, but I swear she smirks when I jam the remaining change back in my bodice. The tickets print and Beulah is watching me carefully, stewing over the question she’s dying to ask. She extends my tickets to me, but keeps them pinched tight in her grasp as she asks, “Going to meet him, or moving on?”
I let my left eyebrow quirk up because I think I understand what she’s wanting to know.
“Escaping,” I say, and she releases the tickets.
I’m surprised that I’m not flagged at security. A random ticket bought with cash, one way, just an hour before takeoff has to be a cautionary sign. Maybe it’s the dress working in my favor for once. I do have to walk through the full body scanners twice, and a burly woman conducts a very through pat down of all my extremities, but at least I didn’t get pulled into a back room to figure out if I have connections to the Taliban. I never had the free time to become a terrorist, not that I’d want to anyway.
There’s a line at my gate before I get there, and I jump in at the back. I can’t help but worry. When did they figure out I wasn’t in my room? Did they really think to use the hounds? Could they
be at the gate where I left Cadence by now?
Some man at the front of the line can’t find his boarding pass and I’m one tick away from losing my ever lovin’ mind and screaming at him. I turned off my phone before I left. I read on the internet that if it’s turned off, no one can trace you, but I’m still not sure. Probably better to ditch it. But I have one last chore.
The phone buzzes as I turn it on. I wait for the glow and follow the group of passengers forward like cattle in line for dinner. There are twenty-three texts waiting for me. I can only imagine what they all say, but that’s not what I need right now. I find Uncle Jerry’s number, and I press call.
It rings once, twice, three times, then, “Yeah?”
He’s nothing like my mother, never has been, never will be, even if he’s her only sibling.
“Uncle Jerry, it’s—” I start to say Harper, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen him, I doubt he remembers me by that name, “it’s Max, Edith’s daughter.”
“Yeah?” he barks again into the phone. “Whatcha need?”
My breath is short, but it’s just enough to give me courage. “I’m coming to town today. I was wondering if you could meet me at the airport.”
The pause feels like an eternity to a sinner like me. Did my mother send an invitation? Does he know where I’m supposed to be right now? Maybe it’s a bad idea, maybe he’ll just rat me out.
“When ya landin’?” he asks, and I feel hope on the horizon.
I hand my boarding pass to the attendant and the chirping beep is better than any little bird I’ve ever heard.
“About two hours.” I decide to take a chance and I add, “I’m the one in the wedding dress.”
“I’ll be there,” he says, and the line goes dead.
I squeeze the phone tight in my hand. It’s a leap of faith, but I let it fall into the garbage bin and step inside the jet bridge. There’s not much left to lose at this point. I’ve been stripping my identity away like a frat girl on tequila. My dress barely fits down the center of the plane. I’m a rush of apologies as it billows up and brushes against every aisle seat passenger. I take a seat near the back because it’s relatively empty. I probably should have bought two seats. My dress is as fat as a tick on a coon hound.
Pre-Approved Identity Theft Page 1