Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
WHEN A MAN LOVES A STUBBORN ASS WOMAN
HENRY
After leaving Bangers, I head home, the weight of my decision settling in. I know Lou will be more rigid than ever, more stubborn, and fuck, I am looking forward to that. She has always controlled the terms of our relationship—always kept me at arm’s length, always calling the shots.
Well, not anymore.
I am done following her lead, done being the one to chase after her on her terms. It is my turn now. Time to flip the script, rewrite the rules. This is going to be on my terms, and I’m not going to let her push me away anymore.
But then I think about that little move she made—dipping her finger in my whiskey before bringing it to my lips and then hers.
The memory hits me like a shock to the chest, and something inside me snaps.
She thinks she can keep me at arm’s length?
Keep me chasing her? Fuck that. I can’t get that image of her finger dragging through the whiskey, then sucking it off her skin, out of my head.
All I wanted in that moment is to make her feel as desperate as she made me. To remind her just how fucking far she’s pushed me. I wanted to fuck her desperate little mouth until it memorized every vein, until they were imprinted in the back of her God damn throat.
I start showing up at the bar every night after that, making sure she can’t avoid me, even if she never says a word. I don’t need her to. I need her to feel me there, to know I’m not backing off. Lou might be able to shut me out, but she can’t erase my presence.
I know Lou loves me. The thing is, she’s been hurt too many times, lost too many people she cares about.
And once Lou feels betrayed, once she feels vulnerable, she builds walls so high even I can’t get over them.
But this time, I’m not going to let her push me away.
She can keep running, keep hiding behind those walls, but I’m not going anywhere.
And this time? I am about to demolish them all.
Something deep down tells me this is about a hell of a lot more than what happened the night of Murphy’s funeral.
That is just the tip of it. If I want even a sliver of what this could be, I’ll have to break her down—strip past every layer of armor she’s welded to her damn skin.
I am ready to pull every dirty trick I have, because that venom-tongued viper has her walls reinforced with barbed wire and gasoline, daring me to strike the match.
Lucky for me, I call this foreplay—because I live for the burn. Crave it. Want her fire wrapped around my throat until I can’t fucking breathe without it. I’ll let her scorch every inch of me, gladly go up in flames, if it means she looks at me like I am the only thing she wants to ruin.
Then Cece waltzes in my office door stomping out all anticipation I’ve had of the long-legged hellion.
I don’t even look up. “What is it now?”
As much as I love my job, I would sell my soul for five God damn minutes without chaos.
But no—this town runs on batshit energy.
One minute it’s grandpas gone wild at the retirement home, the next I’m chasing a God damn goat down Main Street in full uniform.
Then just yesterday, my sweet baby brother—my favorite liability—called in to report an active “break in” at his shop.
Turns out it was just Maddox. Chasing him. Through his own damn garage.
Because, and I quote, “he asked my fucking wife if her breast milk would be as sweet as her and if he could drink it straight from the source.”
I walked in to find Mercy dangling mid-air from an empty car lift like a pissed-off raccoon, flailing and cussing. Maddox was below, pacing like a bull that just spotted red, murder in his eyes.
They were going at it—louder than a bar fight on payday, and just as messy. After about three minutes of listening to them scream over each other, I pulled out my phone and called Mama to come deal with her children.
I swear, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.
Mercy loves giving us all hell—but Maddox catches the worst of it, always has.
He’s been that way since we were kids. The loud one.
The shiny one. Quick with a grin, quicker with a jab.
Could charm the teeth off a snake if he wants to.
And after damn near getting his head blown off on his last tour, watching him back to his usual pain-in-the-ass self?
Feels good. Familiar. Like something in the world has clicked back into place.
“If it’s Merc, tell him to call Mama,” I mutter without looking up, scratching my signature on the last of the paperwork.
Cece doesn’t answer right away—just plops her ass down on the corner of my desk, right on top of the papers I am still working on, like she owns the place. Like she hasn’t just crumpled a warrant request with her denim-clad thigh.
“Not your goofy little brother this time,” she says, flipping her hair like this is just another Tuesday. “Got a call from a surveyor out near Bunky’s. Says he found a makeshift campsite out by the old paper mill on the south side.”
I glance up, brows pinching. “A surveyor?”
Cece glances down at her hot pink nails, that easy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like this is just another gossip drop.
“Guess after everything that happened, the family finally decided to sell off that ratty-ass campsite. Truth be told, they should’ve done it years ago. Never was worth a damn to begin with.”
The silence stretches between us, thick as humidity in July.
We both know.
Nobody’s been out to Bunky’s since Evie and Allison were taken.
That place went cold after—too quiet, like even the trees held their breath.
Johnson and I started patrolling out there twice a week just to be sure.
And the junkies that used to hole up in those busted-out trailers?
Scattered like roaches when the lights came on.
We haven’t seen a soul.
Doesn’t mean there isn’t one.
I flash Cece a grin, wide and full of teeth, trying to shake the weight off. “Oh, come on now. You know damn well you were out there doing the same wild shit as the rest of us.”
She barks a laugh and shoots me a look, all spark and attitude. “Please. I started that wild shit. Don’t get it twisted.”
“I don’t doubt it for a damn second,” I say, shaking my head, chuckling low.
Cece winks, then slides off my desk and heads for the door like she’s done stirring the pot for the evening. “You want Johnson to ride with you?”
“Nah.” I wave her off, standing to grab my keys. “It’s probably nothing.”
She pauses at the doorway, that familiar glint back in her eye. “You want me to call up to Bangers? Let Lou know you won’t be there to sit and stare at her like she’s a prized pig at the county fair?”
I shoot her a look. “You know not everything that happens in Thunder Ridge is your business, right?”
Cece’s laugh echoes through the station as she walks off, heels clacking down the hallway.
Leaving me alone with the silence, and the creeping thought—what if it isn’t nothing?
The drive out to Bunky’s is short, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I glance at the old paper mill and then at the streetlamp where Evie had damn near bled out after her ex-husband sunk his blade in her.
It’s not a night we speak about, but as I roll down the gravel road toward the campsite, it all comes rushing back.
Finding Allison. Searching every inch of that paper mill, leaving no stone unturned as I hunted for Evie.
Then Maddox stepping out of the dark, carrying Evie in his arms—her body limp, soaked in blood.
His shirt red, his face white. The kind of look that never leaves you.
But what gutted me the most was that fucking drive to the hospital. Seeing my brother, who had already lost everything he’d ever loved, begging Evie not to die—pleading with death to leave her be as if death ever gave a damn.
“Because I need someone to call me on my shit. Right, Henny?”
Boy, it gutted me. Every tear he cried, I cried with him as I raced us to the hospital.
Since the day our father died, I told myself I’d be the one to keep this family upright. That I’d carry the weight he left behind and make sure we didn’t break under it.
But that night, it didn’t matter what title I wore or how many times I’d sworn to protect them.
I came up short.
Boy, that failure? It’s still sitting in my chest like a stone that won’t move.
I pass under the weather-beaten sign that reads Bunky’s and spot a short man in a polo shirt, his thinning hair barely hanging on like it’s clinging for dear life.
He’s standing next to an electric car that looks way too fancy for this godforsaken road.
The damn thing probably wouldn’t have made it if it’d rained.
That has to be the surveyor—sticks out like a sore thumb in a town full of wildcards and worn-out souls.
I park and step out, walking over. He looks up at me, eyes wide like I’m a bear about to swat him. Sometimes I forget Maddox isn’t the only big bastard around.
I throw on what I call my “friendly sheriff” face and extend my hand—trying my best not to intimidate the guy into dropping his clipboard.
“Henry Wilder, Sheriff of Thunder Ridge,” I say, voice steady. “Dispatch mentioned someone stumbled across a campsite out here?”
The man takes my hand, barely squeezing it. “I did, uh…I mean, yes, that was me who called it in,” he stammers. His voice has a nasally edge to it, like someone fighting off a sinus infection, making it sound like every word is a struggle.