For Fillies and Monsters (The Trauma Bonded #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

AUGUSTUS

February 14th, 2014

“Get in the fucking truck.” McCrae’s palm slaps against the side of the rusted green Ford and I continue to stare at him. I hold all emotion hostage from my face, my eyes twitching to roll, but I refuse. This blank expression especially pisses him off, and I want to see how far I can push him. “Damn it Gus, get in the truck!”

I sigh, exaggerating with a slump of my shoulders. And I sigh again, louder this time, to emphasize my point. He growls, like a fucking bear, and I hang my head forward so my hair covers the triumphant smile I cannot control tearing across my face.

He slaps the truck again. I sigh again.

We can go round and round, but I’ll always win when it comes to matters of determination. I am made of equal parts determination and bull-headed stubbornness with a dash of obsessive personality tendencies. My older brother? He’s made of doubt, distrust, and a healthy dose of deep-rooted hatred. Hate for me, for himself, and for the life he has.

Where the wind blows, he follows. But only if it benefits him. He has nothing and no one he believes in, least of all himself.

“So help me God, Augustus. If we don’t leave tonight, we will not make it in time to enter the rodeo tomorrow.” I shrug my shoulders.

What I really want to say is, “Thank God, I’m so sick of being your meal ticket, anyway.” But I don’t. I shove my tongue into the side of my cheek and keep my eyes on the dusty sidewalk.

“Is this really over some stupid tail? You get ass everywhere we go. Hell, if we head over to that stupid podunk bar right now, I bet you could get a quicky in and we’d still have time to leave and make it to the rodeo.” His voice almost sounds hopeful, and I have to strangle a laugh.

McCrae just doesn’t get it. He can sniff out a bar in a desert, find a willing woman in a nunnery, chart a course to a new rodeo in the dark—but he doesn’t understand love, doesn’t have the capacity for it.

It’s not just stupid tail—it’s the girl, and I will not leave this town until I get her name. I refuse.

“Get in the truck, Augustus.” His voice is a deadly whisper now, the one reserved for meaning he’s serious . I’m getting closer to cracking him. Now all he needs is a little push.

“No.” I lift my eyes again, my face perfectly neutral once more, and pin him with my most hollow stare. McCrae always tells me staying in one spot too long makes him ‘itchy’, and by his calculations, we’ve been in Moztecha, Texas three days too long—we’ve been here four total. I’m several paces back from the truck, just out of his reach, or I know he would have slapped me by now, and I can see his skin crawling. His face, although mostly covered in shaggy blonde hair, is beat red and glistening with sweat. His jaw works angrily, popping over and over—I wonder if you can burst a blood vessel in your brain doing that? I hope so.

“You are a waste of my fucking time and energy. I would have been better off if you had died with Mom and Dad.” His eyes, sharp and all seeing, scour across my face to see any crack his words might have created.

But he won’t find any. After the millionth time hearing them, they just don’t land the same, ya know?

“Enjoy your whiskey,” I singsong and turn on my heel. I don’t actually know where I’m going, but my dismissal of him will be the final straw that breaks him.

“Fuck you!” He hurls the words at my back, and I shrug my shoulders and saunter farther down the street. The truck revs, and he punches the gas, spraying gravel across my back. I wait until the truck can barely be heard over the creaking wooden sign overhead, one of those like you’d see in an old western— how fucking cliche —and turn back around to watch him leave.

He won’t go far; the bar is just around the corner. I will pay for this tomorrow morning, but it’ll be worth it.

At least that is, if I can find her tonight. If not, I will have to find a new strategy because I’m under no impression he won’t hog tie me and throw me in the bed of the pickup tomorrow if I don’t get in myself.

But I don’t know where to start.

Cars no longer line the dusty sidewalks, the small shops are all closed down, and the people are either home doing whatever they do in the evenings, or at one of the four open bars or restaurants available to them here. It’s pathetic—who in their right mind would want to live in a place like this?

Not to mention it’s February, and it’s already hot and humid.

I shove my curling hair back behind my ears, and readjust my cap to hold the dark spirals off my face. The smaller ones, frizzy in the humidity, cling to the sides of my jaw, and refuse to be contained—the locks are practically suffocating, but I can’t chop them off—I don’t have the heart to. No reason really, other than it is the only thing I have done for myself, and myself alone.

And they piss off McCrae.

So, win-win.

I wipe my sweaty hand down the front of my faded jeans. It is no doubt muddy now, with the mix of sweat and dust that covers every surface in this fucking place, but it’s whatever.

My blue pearl snap is clean, and my silver buckle is shiny.

I look down at the oval of silver and pointless aspirations, shaking my head. I won this particular Saddle Bronc buckle at the National Western Stock Show earlier this year, with two thousand dollars I never saw a penny of.

McCrae claimed it was needed for gas and groceries— more like beer and cigarettes. Doesn’t matter, I never have had much to live for or care about. McCrae always made sure of that.

On the outside, it might seem strange—a twenty-five-year-old man letting his older brother leash him to a life he hates. But no one knows my story, no one knows why I feel like I owe McCrae my life, and I plan to keep it that way.

So, I’ve always just carried on, there hasn’t been anything worth changing for, anyway.

Until I met her.

I don’t believe in love at first sight; that shit is for fuckers who write poetry and dance under the stars naked. I can’t say I’ve ever really believed in love at all, except I know what my parents had was love. Unfortunately, they’ve been gone so long now, their memory is a faded and dusty version of what it previously was.

But when I saw her, it was like something inside of me melted—or rather, caught fire. I felt every nerve ending come to life, every worn out, dusty spec of my existence turn to face her. Like two magnets, or a moth to a flame, or the tide to the moon—whatever stupid analogy suits your fancy, but whatever it was, I saw her and knew she was it.

Not just my next conquest, but it, as in the big it . The kind of it my parents used to have, and I never realized how much I wanted such a thing until the feeling was welling in my chest so fully that I felt like a dam ready to burst. The second I saw her, I knew nothing in my life would be complete without her by my side.

Which is a fucking crazy thing to feel for a man like me.

She looked young, eighteen or nineteen—still so soft and new to the world. But unlike other girls her age, she didn’t have that same blissfully ignorant air about her; she didn’t seem to care about fashion, or what the girls next to her were gossiping about. She looked sad, knowing—like she had seen the worst of the world already, and was ready to fold her deck. Which only called to my ragged soul more; someone to see and be seen by that would understand.

She paid me no mind, and when I had walked up to her as if on autopilot, she hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. She saw me, but looked right through me—her eyes darting around nervously, always checking the door and her phone.

What had she been looking for? Or rather, who? And why had they made her so nervous? Who had hurt her, and how could I hurt them?

She left without a goodbye to the girls she was standing next to, or without a backward glance toward me. I hadn’t even opened my mouth to speak; all thoughts robbed from my brain as I had taken in her sad, yet perfect face.

I wanted to chase her or grab her or ruin her. Preferably all three. But I was frozen.

I couldn’t stop the image of running my calloused, dirty, work-roughed hands over her soft, raspberry pink lips just to feel their plumpness give way to my hardness. I daydreamed about shoving my thumb in her mouth, my tongue, my cock—anything to fill that perfect little porn star mouth of hers.

What noises would she make? How much would she be able to take?

“Fuck.” I kick at a pebble and scrub a hand over my face.

Even when I close my eyes, I am plagued by her image haunting my every thought. Her large, gray-green eyes, rounded and shining with tears as I make her gag. Droplets of water clinging to and dripping past her pale eyelashes and over her rounded cheeks.

“Get it together, you fucking psycho,” I hiss to myself. “You’ve had more women than any twenty-something year old man has the right to.”

It is true; being on the circuit, a cowboy, and a decent one, at that, means I get plenty of ass. And my type has always been older women— mommy issues, am I right —the experienced ones who always appreciate the attention, know what they want and love a good story.

So, why can’t I stop thinking about a girl? A fucking girl I’d only seen for moments?

“Porn star mouth.” I huff and shake my head. It definitely can’t be because I am already in love with her. No, I don’t even know her name.

Just thinking about her mouth makes my dick pound aggressively. I know I should feel dirty thinking about a girl like that.

But I don’t.

And I want to be the one to ruin her.

I’ve always been a sick fuck, and she is just one more piece of evidence to that fact. I am who I am, and most women like that fact about me. The cowboy they can do and say and be their most depraved selves with, and then leave the next morning to return to their pure little lives.

The wind howls around me, pulling me from my thoughts, and I look around. The sun is setting, tearing pink and orange gashes across the pale blue sky. Sunsets in Texas are always beautiful, if I am being honest with myself.

And I don’t find much in this life “beautiful”.

Hot, yes. Sexy, for sure. Fuckable, always. But beautiful? I rarely say the word aloud. It’s too soft for a man like me.

I’ve wandered to the end of the street, the single street light flickering on the other end beckoning me to take another pass. Turning on my heel, I plan to take one more slow stroll up the street, in hopes that a fucking sign will fall from the sky—at this point that seems more likely than running into someone helpful, anyway. I know I’m becoming desperate, crazy even. I mean, who fucking wanders around an empty town, hoping to run into a girl who is close to ten years younger, and a hundred percent not interested, only to get their name so that I can find her again?

I thought if I waited around, I’d see her, or maybe someone who knew something about her. But people here are so closed off, and unwilling to talk about one of their own to an outsider. I’d hate to come from a place like this and then betray it—the people here would never forgive you.

One more reason I hate small towns like this.

It is fucking depressing really. Who would willingly choose to live in this hell?

“People wanting to disappear. Or stop existing.” As if the tired town heard me, a heavier breeze sweeps down the street, pelting my face with red sandy grains. “It’s fucking true.” I look up at the sky, daring it to disagree with me again. “People come here to die. ”

A huff sounds behind me, and I whip around, ready to argue my point, but stop dead.

She is standing there, as if I willed her from thin air—not another person in sight. In the fading evening light, her light jeans and white t-shirt look more like a beacon than the simple clothes I am sure she intended them to be. They cling to her curvy figure like water around a rock, and I stare at her perky, small breasts, unable to tear my gaze away from the curves of her body. I drink every bit of her in, like a thirsty man in a desert—desperate and unashamed.

Dirt clings to her clothes and the bare skin of her arms—she looks like she’s rolled around in it. Why would she have done that? She brushes a hand over her arms, as if trying to wipe away the evidence of… what? I don’t know yet. But I plan to find out.

I groan, raking my eyes back up to her face, taking in the anger snapping in her own. Her plump lips are pulled back in a snarl, and she looks like she can’t decide if she wants to slap me or spit on me. Can’t say I’d be upset about either option. Her being pissed is only making my dick ache more, and I shift, trying to relieve the growing pressure against my zipper.

She looks like the kind of girl used to hiding in plain sight, but I see her. I see her, and I can’t look away.

“Geez, I thought maybe you were rude because you hadn’t had enough coffee the other morning.” She places her small fingers on her hip and pulls her blonde, braided hair over her shoulder with the other. Several strands of her hair are torn loose from the braid, adding to her disheveled appearance. “Now I know you’re just rude.” Her gray-green eyes crack with fire at my obvious stare and silence, and her large pouty lips, still that impossibly bright shade of pink, pull down farther at the corners.

I’m not normally at a loss for words around women. But my brain cells aren’t firing, and the only thing rattling around up there are the two words “ruin her ”.

I can’t help it.

“Hello?” She waves her hand in my face, and I shift, my unruly curls falling over one eye with the movement.

“Is there a question in there, sweetheart? You came up to me without a ‘hey, how’s it going’ or nothin’. As far as rude goes, you sure are painting a vivid picture,” I drawl, my voice gravelly and strained. Her nose scrunches, pulling her blonde brows together.

“I am most definitely not your sweetheart,” she hisses.

“You could be. I can go find your boyfriend and solve this little problem right now,” I state, only half joking. The sudden thought of someone else’s mouth on hers making my blood boil. Is that why she’s all dirty? Was she rolling around in a hay pile or something with someone?

“I don’t have a boyfriend. Never found a use for one.” She huffs, looking at me pointedly.

I take one small step toward her, my anger getting the better of me, and her back straightens.

“You obviously haven’t found the right one then,” I challenge, taking another small step closer.

“I guess I’ll just have to keep trying then, won’t I?” A small smile takes over the corners of her full mouth. “You don’t happen to have a brother or friend with you, do you?”

Fucking brat. Is she challenging me?

I can’t stop the growl from ripping from my throat, or my feet taking another involuntary step toward her. Her smile falters, just a fraction, and I notice how close I am to her now. On the humid breeze, I catch a hint of lemon and sweat and fear. I suck in another ragged inhale, imprinting the smell into my lungs like a brand. I look down, watching her pulse hammer in her throat like a trapped bird. She swallows, and my eyes track the motion—two magnets following each other.

I want to sink my teeth into the soft flesh there, where it is hammering the hardest. I want to feel her pulse in my mouth. I want to taste her sweat and fear on my tongue.

My hands shake at my sides as I try to keep from grabbing her.

She swallows again and moves to step back, but my hand snakes out, as if on instinct, grabbing her wrist. She will not get away so easily this time. I don’t know where she came from or why she is here, but fate is giving me a second chance, and I will fucking take it—I’ve never been a humble man—I take what I want and never apologize. And God help me, I want this girl.

As my hand touches her skin, she freezes like a deer in headlights, her eyes rounding.

Brazenly, I reach out with my other hand, brushing her braid from her neck, and trace my calloused thumb down the side. We’re both holding our breath, my eyes glued to where our skin meets. I couldn’t stop myself, even if I wanted to.

I pause, rubbing harder, right at the base of her neck, and over a smudged patch of makeup. She hisses and yanks her wrist from my grip, breaking the trance.

“Is that a bruise or a hickey?” I hiss the question, the words trembling as they fall from my lips; the thought of anyone’s hands, or mouth, on what is mine , burning like a forest fire unchecked in my chest.

“Which would you prefer?” Her eyes blaze back at me, challenging me to push her. She might be sad, but she’s full of fire—and I’ve never wanted to be burned so badly in my life.

“Which is it?”

She drops her eyes and I think she’s about to ignore my question, but then whispers, “A bruise. ”

Two little words, and just like that, someone is going to die tonight.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” I step toward her again, uncaring that I sound like a lunatic. She doesn’t know me, but that won’t stop me from killing the fucker who thought they could lay their hands on her.

I don’t even know her fucking name, and here I am, ready to murder for her. Die for her.

What the fuck is happening to me?

But I can’t stop the boiling, insane rage inside of myself—consuming me. The thought of someone laying hands on her. My, her . Because that’s what she is, has been from the second I laid eyes on her.

I shake my head. No, it’s been longer than that. From the moment Fate began spinning our stories, we were destined to cross each other, to find each other. She has been mine from the beginning of time, and I hers. That’s the only explanation I have.

There’s no rhyme or reasoning to it, no proof that she was made for me. But it is a fact, just like the fact that I need air to breathe, and horses to ride.

“He does it often. It’s not a big deal. No one notices.” She says the words, her previous anger sputtering out like a doused flame. I hate seeing her like this—defeated by the thought that no one cares what happens to her. I care, even if it makes no sense.

“Tell me who it is, and I will kill them,” I hiss, meaning every word. She laughs at that, lifting her eyes to mine. They are clear, no tears or fear swirling in them, like I expect to see; only sadness and steely resolve.

“No. Thanks, though.” She steps back, over and over, until she’s well out of my grasp. I can barely breathe, the oxygen in my lungs arrested by the mysterious, sad girl standing before me. It’s like I’ve been plunged into water with a live wire pulsing in it; full of pain and fear, and yet unable to move.

I watch her continue to retreat, this simple, innocent conversation feeling like both the beginning and the end for me. I know if I take a single step toward her, I will not be able to stop myself from grabbing her and stealing her from this place— from this life.

Her eyes remain locked on my face, a sad smile spreading over her pale skin.

I keep my hands at my sides, clenched in steely fists. The muscles in my arms quiver beneath the fabric of my shirt. I know it looks terrifying when I’m mad, but I’m more than mad. I’m furious. But she doesn’t look the least bit scared of me. She sees me and does not cower the way the world does.

Pulling her braid back over her shoulder, she pauses. I have to do something—say something—before she’s gone. I know what a scared animal looks like before they run for their lives.

“What, what’s your name?” Is my voice really trembling?

She only shakes her head, that small smile slipping from her face. “Maybe next time.”

“Why did you stop me, then?”

“I saw you,” she lifts her chin at me, pointing, “at the stock show. You were really good.” She whips around then, turning the corner of the street into the night.

I stand there, only for a moment, before jogging after her. I have to watch where she goes; I have to get her out. Or at the very least, kill whoever is hurting her. She deserves someone who will protect her; even if that someone is a fucked up cowboy with no life to offer her beyond one free of the violence she is currently suffering.

She is perfect in every way. I don’t care who she is or what has happened to her in this life. And I will make her mine in every way possible. Maybe not today, but before this life is over, she will be mine completely.

I strain my eyes as I round the corner following her footsteps, unable to see much, but I don’t miss the red flash of tail lights bouncing down the road in the distance.

I clench and unclench my fists, my teeth grinding so painfully that my jaw pops. An owl coos in the distance, and I fight every instinct telling me to yell and run after those fading tail lights. She is in danger and genuinely thinks no one notices or cares. And maybe they didn’t, hadn’t until now. But that has changed.

I care. I care more than is rationally possible.

I continue to stand there, the red taillights becoming nothing more than darkness, before I turn around to head toward the bar. I know I can find my brother and take the truck. I can go after her. But in this town, in this darkness, I don’t have a clue where to start. I’ll just have to wait for her no matter how long it takes; tomorrow, a week from now, or years.

But I will find her.