You Can Run by Betty Banks

Three years ago, I tossed my American passport in a trash can at JFK airport and never looked back.
Running from my past means I can’t trust anyone.
Especially not the handsome flame-haired stranger who enters my tattoo parlor with ten thousand dollars and a strange request:
A line.
That’s it. A tattoo of a small line, no bigger than my fingernail.

He said he’s a tourist.
White tourists don’t visit Tolonia in Monsoon season.
He says he’s Swedish.
His accent says otherwise.

I don’t trust him.
But that doesn’t stop me falling in love with him.