Serengeti Sunrise

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Zoe King was screwed—in the least fun interpretation of the word.

You break one little rule and it bites you on the ass. Every. Damn. Time.

She glared at the white smoke billowing out from under the jeep’s hood. Lately, her luck sucked donkey balls.

So much for her secret, back-before-anyone-knew-she-was-gone trip into town. She hadn’t even made it out to the main highway before the jeep decided it would rather be a fog machine.

Stranded on a dusty country road. Zoe King, kickass rock-star goddess of the lioness persuasion, had been reduced to a Texas Chainsaw Massacre cliché.

Pathetic.

She could’ve hoofed it back to the ranch, but she’d still have to explain how the jeep had come to be broken down on the side of the road, four miles outside the property boundaries. Confess later or confess now—at some point there would be shit hitting fans.

Zoe wasn’t the kind of girl who put things off. She lived her life by the motto: now or never, preferably now.

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