Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DELLA
I was brave when it came to standing up to Leland, but right now, I’m so damn scared.
I’m not good at staying calm when there’s immediate danger.
Jensen doesn’t seem to be bothered at all.
His body is taut, foot on the gas, hand on the wheel.
Pale blue eyes make their rounds from each mirror to the windshield every few seconds.
There’s a gun strapped to his thigh and one in his hand.
I hope that’s enough.
The truck is going so fast, the engine is whining, but Jensen doesn’t let up. We’re in the lowlands, by the bridge outside Lexington. This is a strip of no-man’s-land. I hope he knows what he’s doing, because the further out we go, the lower the chances we have of getting help drop.
I open my mouth, needing assurance. Then, I shut it. I trusted Jensen, went all the way to Montana to beg for his help.
“Are you sure he can help me?” I asked Brothers months ago.
“Jensen is a cat,” Brothers said. “He always lands on his motherfucking feet.”
Abruptly, Jensen veers the car to the right. My teeth rattle as we blaze over rough gravel and into sparse woods. The SUV barrels past, hits the brakes, and spins once. My heart pumps in my throat. Not missing a beat, Jensen spins the truck with one hand and takes a left, heading up the hill.
“Della,” he says.
I glance sideways, still glued to the headrest. “What?” I gasp out.
“I need you to do exactly what I tell you, no hesitation,” he says, jaw tight. “You understand?”
“What are you—”
“I said, do you understand me?”
My fists ball. “Yes, I do. I will.”
We’re traveling up a road so narrow, it barely fits the truck. There’s a suggestion of gravel beneath us but not much else, and Jensen is going almost eighty miles an hour. Until he’s not. He slams his foot on the brake, arm shooting out to catch me as I lurch forward.
“Get out and ball yourself up behind the tire,” he says, ripping the gun from his shoulder holster and holding it out. “Do not use this unless I’m dead.”
I see him like a snapshot, bathed in sweat but not afraid.
That’s when something clicks into place that makes him so much less of a mystery. Jensen doesn’t fear death, not at all. I think there’s a tiny part of him that sees it, like the low whine of an incoming explosion, and knows he can’t sidestep.
The haunted expression in his ice blue eyes isn’t fear for himself. It’s for all the people he expects to lose along the way.
Right now, it’s for me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
We have half a second, and I take it, spending it the only way I want to: by kissing his mouth, so quickly, he can’t react. I want him to be the last thing I taste if we don’t make it out.
His arm shoots out, hand wrapping around my neck as I pull away. He kisses me back so hard, our teeth clash. Then, he’s reaching past me to shove my door open.
“Get down, baby,” he says. “Stay down.”
I drop, wrapping my arms around my knees.
He tumbles out of the passenger door and eases to the left, positioning himself behind the back tire.
From here, he scans the swampland below.
There’s a faint tearing sound from the SUV tires, getting close.
All my senses burn with adrenaline. My head spins, and I have to force myself to breathe.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
I glance to the side. He’s shoving the pistol in his holster and reaching into the bed of the truck.
Faster than I can follow, he’s pulling an AK from the truck bed and clicking a magazine into it.
I think I’m losing my mind, because he’s never looked sexier than he does right now: bathed in sweat, shirt plastered to his chest, wet hair curling.
AK locked into place and eye on the sight.
His focus is intense, the barrel of the rifle moving slightly.
“Fuck,” he murmurs again.
Something crawls over my foot. It’s a furry caterpillar, the kind we had all over the holler back in Harlan.
Bang.
My entire body lurches.
“Eat lead, motherfucker,” he says, like he doesn’t even realize he’s speaking.
My nails cut into my palms.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Brakes screech down below. There’s a colossal crash and a hissing noise like pressurized steam. Jensen lowers the sight and turns to the side, spitting the gum out of his mouth. He pulls back, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face.
“We need to go down and get the bodies out of the truck,” he rasps. “Kill any survivors. You’ll stay in the truck.”
He puts the AK into the back seat and holds his hand out to me.
I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.
I’m speechless. So this is why Brothers said Jensen was his most valuable asset back in the day.
He does not give a fuck about killing people.
There was no hesitation there, not a second of it.
“Della, get in the truck,” he says.
I can’t move. Everything is unsteady. He doesn’t shame me.
No, he just lifts me up and puts me in the passenger seat.
My fingers knot together. He settles himself into the driver’s side, clicks the truck in reverse.
His eyes flash as he pushes one arm behind my head, the other controlling the wheel with his palm flat, and hits the gas.
My stomach wavers.
The tires scream and gravel sprays, but he doesn’t flinch.
The muscles in his forearm ripple as he maneuvers the wheel, fingers flexing as it spins.
He makes a hairpin turn backwards at fifty miles an hour, then he hits the brakes.
I glance to the side. The silver SUV is crushed up against a tree, the entire front pulverized.
Inside, a man slumps against the steering wheel, arm hanging out the shattered window.
Without speaking, Jensen takes his pistol and shoots. The body on the wheel flops from impact, falling to the side. The second bullet goes into the second limp body, making it jerk. They’re both very dead.
“Jesus,” I gasp.
“Not taking any chances,” he says, pushing open the door. “Don’t fucking move, Della.”
There’s no world in which I’m going to disobey this side of Jensen.
I sit perfectly still, my hand wrapped around the extra pistol.
He wrenches open the door and hauls the driver out by his jacket.
Ignoring the seeping blood, he picks him up in a fireman’s lift and tosses him into the bed of the truck.
The other body is smaller but harder for him to dislodge.
I want to get out and help, even though I’m trying not to gag, but he told me to stay put.
I close my eyes. The sick thud of the second body makes the truck bounce as it hits the bed.
Then, I feel his weight in the driver’s seat. I open my eyes. He’s putting the truck in gear, and we’re heading backwards down the mountain.
Lord, I’m going to be sick.
My nails cut into my palms. We make it to the bottom of the hill, where the gravel road meets the state route. Instead of going back the way we came, he turns right and heads out into the swamp.
“Are you dumping the bodies?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, reaching into the dash. He’s feeling for something.
“What do you need?”
“I’d like a cigarette,” he says, voice hoarse. He’s got blood on his fingers, and it’s sticky on the gear shift.
I dig into the glovebox and find a pack of Camels. My hands are shaking, but I manage to light one for him. He takes it, leaving the paper bloody as he puts it in his lip. Warmth I’ve been too scared to feel until now floods through my body, pounding between my thighs.
Am I aroused by his violence?
If I am, what does that make me?
He stops in the middle of the swamp, miles out, and I sit in the truck and stare straight ahead.
There’s a distant splash. Then another. He stands by the door for a moment, finishing another cigarette.
Then, he takes off his shirt and goes down to the water to wet it.
Heart in my mouth, I watch as he washes the blood from his arms.
He gets back in.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For saving me.”
He’s shirtless, his tattooed arm resting on the wheel. I’m turning into some kind of feral cat seeing him like this, or maybe I just have an arousal response to fear, but out of nowhere, I’m crawling across the seat to him.
“Della,” he says, turning.
My fingers dig into his buckle, pulling his belt free. It’s thick leather, worn down. There’s the faint outline of a pattern burnt into it, bumpy under my fingers. It’s his initials, I think. God, I wish he’d wrap this fucking belt around my neck so hard, it would leave his mark on me the next day.
He doesn’t push me away. Instead, his rough hand comes down on the nape of my neck.
I yank down his zipper, and there he is, all big and thick, lengthening as I shove his boxer briefs aside. Head empty, I wrap my fist around the Ruger and push him into my mouth all the way to the handle.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes, legs flexing, pushing his cock further into my mouth.
He smells like blood, like sweat, but under it all, he smells like Jensen.
He’s all man, rough in a way Leland could never dream of being.
The hand that cradles my head is firm, steady.
His fingers weave in my hair and fist. He doesn’t force my head down the way Leland used to, but I’m surprised to find I like the thought of Jensen doing that.
I curl my tongue, stroking him. Up, down. Licking the sensitive underside.
“Good girl,” he grits out.
I don’t need his assurances. I need the flip side. Hands tangled in his pants, I lift my head to meet his eyes.
“Call me a bitch,” I beg.
He leans in, mouth grazing mine. “You want me to make you feel small, baby?”
“Yes.” I’m practically panting.
Leland made me feel so small, but not the way Jensen can. With my ex-husband, I was nothing but a body to use, a story told over and over again. A man who gets what he wants and the body he gets off in when the day is done. But when Jensen turns his pale eyes on me, I feel like I’m in the sun.
Beautiful, degraded, free to be depraved.