Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
JENSEN
I think I’m falling in love.
The last nineteen years have been a tough existence. My little sparks of light came from fighting, working, and my handful of friends. But every night was the same thing: a dark ceiling and an empty room. On weekends, a body I didn’t know and some liquor to get me through the night.
Then, I saw her in the stockyards.
Then, I touched her in my bed.
And it was like tasting a drug on the edges of my mouth for the first time. I keep pushing my face further in, trying to get more of it, trying to sink my teeth into whatever is so addicting about this woman.
It might be her body with her soft little curves, her lean legs that wrapped around my waist last night while I pounded into her pussy.
It might be her startling eyes surrounded by thick lashes that remind me of something.
Or the faint freckles I bit and licked on her tanned thighs, all the way to the naked pussy between her legs.
She’s so fucking good, all cinnamon and honey laced with something that’s got a hell of a kick to it.
It might be the way she talks, all soft and drawling.
Or the way she has these quick, biting responses that keep me on my toes.
Whatever the fuck it is, I want to keep it.
I carry her back into the house and to the bedroom.
Outside, I know I should check the animals, but I also know they’re fine.
So, maybe it won’t hurt if I just take one day off.
I don’t have any jobs today with the crew.
There’s one this weekend I can’t reschedule, so I think I’ll soak her up before I have to go.
We fuck, the sheets and blankets on the floor. She comes again, gripping my dick so hard, it pushes me over the edge. Then, she lays against my side and traces her middle finger over the cross on my ribs.
It’s a bizarre sensation, like when an old scar flares up out of nowhere. A little sore, but only when her nail scrapes it.
My dick is raw, but it still hardens halfway.
“What’s your name?” she whispers.
That startles me. Did we never exchange names? I wrack my brain and realize that, while we exchanged sweat, spit, and other things last night, our names never came up. She wriggles up and lays her chin on my chest.
For a second, it’s fine. Then, I’m on the kitchen floor, back to the cupboards, Holly in my lap.
My heart increases. Smoothly, I flip her onto her back, push her up on the pillows, and lay my cheek on her thigh. Her brows knit, but she doesn’t say anything.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She smiles, just a little. “Guess.”
I study her carefully. “You look like a Cassie or a Delilah. Something smooth, maybe ends on a vowel or something.”
“It’s Della,” she sighs, sinking into the pillows.
“I had the right idea,” I say, enjoying how warm her skin is under my cheek. “Mine’s Jensen.”
Her fingers slip into my hair. She has neatly kept oval nails, and they feel like heaven when they stroke through my hair. I think it’s giving me an emotional boner, because I keep getting hard even though I’m not really aroused from it. She’s just got magic in her touch.
“You look like a Jensen,” she says.
I don’t answer. My eyelids are getting heavy. She strokes my hair for a long time. The birds chatter outside. That sweet breeze is coming in through the window, and it feels good on our naked skin. Everything is gold, and I never want to move.
“Do you want me to go?” she whispers.
I open my eyes. She’s leaning over me, soft hair falling around her face.
“No,” I say.
She bites her lip, hiding a smile. “What are your big plans? Just lay around in this bed and fuck?”
“You got a better idea?” I ask.
She looks out the window, thinking. “Do they fight down at the stockyards every night?”
“No, twice a week. So yesterday and tonight.”
“You want to go again?”
There’s a hint of excitement in her face. Surprised, I push myself up on the pillows at her side. She gathers the sheets, pulling them over our waists. Her legs interlace with mine, and she slides her arms around my neck.
“Do you always fight when you go?” she asks.
I shrug. “Sometimes I do, sometimes not.”
“Why don’t you take me on a date?” she says, then freezes like she just did something wrong.
“To the stockyards?” I say. “I can take you somewhere nicer.”
She shakes her head, hard. “No, I don’t feel like going anywhere formal. I just want to be in a crowd so I don’t have to think.”
It’s been a very long time since I went out on a date.
My knee jerk reaction is to shy away—at least it was.
But looking down at her, I don’t think I want to fuck this up.
No, I’d like to learn what it feels like to pursue her properly, not like my catastrophic or very short relationships of the past.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure I’ve been on a real date ever.
“The fights usually start around seven,” I say.
“Seven is fine,” she sighs, sinking into my chest. “We should nap. We were up all night.”
“I’m pretty tired,” I admit.
We both slide beneath the sheets. Our mouths meet, and I’m lost, tripping, sliding all the way down to a place it took me ages to get out of.
I think it’s alright this time. There are no obvious red flags with her, the way there was back then.
She’s younger than me, clearly in her twenties at least. And odds are, she’s not involved in organized crime. That last time was a fluke.
No, she’s a perfect. Like somebody plucked my dream girl out of thin air and dropped her into my lap. No strings attached this time.
Our kisses slow until we’re both too tired to keep going. Her eyes close, and I stare at the feathery lines against her cheek until I can’t stay awake any longer.
My eyes close, but my brain doesn’t rest. For the first time in nineteen years, I dream, and it takes me back to the worst day of my life—the one that makes no sense because I still can’t remember how I got into that trailer.
BEFORE
The day after my twentieth birthday, I wake up in the aftermath of the end times.
Or at least, it looks like it.
I shake my head. There’s a pounding between my eyes and a taste like engine oil in my mouth.
The room spins. A naked woman is laid out on the couch, a blanket over her lower half.
One of Pat Pretty’s guys is out cold on the floor, hands draped above his head.
It takes me a moment before I remember who Pat Pretty is anyway—notorious drug dealer, the right arm of the Caudill family.
Two more women in their underwear are curled in the armchair.
Another Pat Pretty guy is slumped on the other couch.
I stand shakily, walking on the sides of my boots to the kitchen. My AK sits on the round kitchen table. I remember now—I put it there when I walked into the trailer around ten last night.
Shattered pieces of last night start to come together, Brothers’ face swimming before my eyes as we talked. I think we argued. I drank or took something.
Then, my foot was on the gas, the road bouncing the truck hard as I sped over the gravel. The creek rushing to my left. The clouds rolling in, covering the stars as they came out. My boots crunching over rusted beer cans walking up to the door of Pat Pretty’s trailer.
It was a job, a deal I’d been working on for a while. A momentary truce between Brothers and the Caudill family.
There was something I was supposed to collect—maybe money, maybe drugs. I remember the smell of body odor when I stepped into the singlewide. After living in luxury with Brothers, it was a shock.
Now, I’m wide awake in a nightmare, and I can’t recall how I got here. My stomach churns, but I keep it together. Slowly, walking over broken bottles and clothes, I move through the kitchen.
The hallway opens, and there’s a woman on the floor, naked. Silently, I roll her over with my boot, checking her for injury. She looks fine—at least she’s breathing.
I keep going to the bedroom at the end. The door is ajar, and it smells inside, like…gutting an animal, raw as open muscle hanging in a butcher’s shed. I shift the AK and bring my hand up over my nose, like that’ll do anything.
Then, I kick open the door.
Jesus fucking Christ.
There’s a body on the bed, cut in two. Not across the middle, but up and down, like the giant deli meat slicer of God took him out.
Fuck, I need to get out of here. I know Brothers and I are on the outs, but I’m not staying in this trailer with a body cut down the center, like he’s about to be laid on ice behind glass. I need to get my ass back to the Boyd Mansion before this whole thing blows up in my face.
I stumble into the hall and step over the woman. She moans, rolling her head. I stop, turning as her eyes flutter open.
“Help,” she whispers.
I need to go…but I can’t leave her. She’s pushing herself up on her elbows, terror in her eyes. I raise my finger to my lips, hunkering down to offer her my arm. She stands with my help, and I start hauling her down the hallway to the back door.
It’s sickly warm out. I drag her onto the metal porch and shut the door quietly.
Then, we both hear it—footsteps.
Quick as a flash, I push her off the porch and jump down with her.
It’s only a few feet, but she falls into the tall grass and struggles like she can’t get up.
The door bursts open, insulation exploding from where it was kicked.
Pat Pretty stands in the doorway, all six-seven of him, tatted up, bigger than a house.
He has a Glock in one hand, trained on me.
“Don’t you leave, Childress,” he snarls. “We fucking talked about this.”
Talked about what? I don’t know, but fuck all this shit. Nothing is worth this. I’m barely twenty. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, and now I’m sitting here, looking down the cold barrel of a pill pusher.
“Hey, I’m not here for nothing,” I say evenly. “Just let us go.”
He jerks his head at the woman in the grass. “That’s one of Harlan’s mules. You can’t take her.”