Chapter Eight #5
“No,” I say. “You’re speaking for a man who tracks phones and scares children. That makes you either ignorant or useful, and I don’t give a damn which.”
Her smile tightens. “This is why women of faith worry about men like you.”
“I ain’t worried about your faith, Ruthanne. I’m worried you’re about to fall into bad luck wearing church shoes.”
Amelia’s hand squeezes mine.
Not to encourage.
To stop.
I look at her.
Her face is pale, but her eyes are not empty.
They burn.
She turns back to Ruthanne.
“My husband prayed with one hand and bruised me with the other,” Amelia says, voice shaking but clear. “Tell him God saw both.”
The Fire Pit goes dead silent.
Even Cornbread shuts up.
Ruthanne’s face changes.
Only for a second.
Enough to show the ugly under the lace.
“He sends a message. You’ll regret humiliating him,” she says softly.
I move.
Amelia says, “Derby.”
One word.
I stop.
Barely.
Royal appears at Ruthanne’s side like her shadow decided to file a complaint. He smiles down at her. “Mrs. Peck, I believe your casserole is burning.”
She stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“That was me being polite. The impolite version is less suitable for ladies who weaponize Jesus before dinner.”
Cornbread calls from the bar, “You want me to box her up a regret sandwich?”
Royal’s smile widens. “Tempting.”
Ruthanne looks around and realizes the room ain’t with her. Not fully. Maybe some agree. Maybe some will whisper later. But right now, in the Fire Pit, with Kings at the walls and Amelia standing beside me, she misjudged the ground.
Neutral doesn’t mean empty.
It means everyone sees who breaks the rules.
Ruthanne lifts her chin. “This town has a long memory.”
Amelia’s voice comes stronger this time. “So do women.”
Damn.
There she is.
Not all the way.
Not healed.
But there.
Ruthanne leaves with her dignity tucked under her arm like a purse she might swing at someone.
The room breathes again.
Then Cornbread raises a glass. “To women with memory.”
Half the bar drinks.
Amelia looks stunned.
I don’t blame her.
She just stood up to Jeremy without Jeremy in the room. Sometimes that is the harder fight.
I lean down. “You want out?”
She nods once.
I guide her toward the back door instead of the front, my hand hovering near her back. Not touching now because her skin looks like one more sensation might shatter her. Royal catches my eye as we pass.
He nods once.
Meaning he has the room.
Meaning no one follows.
Good.
The back alley behind the Fire Pit smells like rain, bourbon barrels, cigarette smoke, and hot grease from the kitchen vent. It’s narrow, brick on one side, fenced gravel on the other, with a security light buzzing overhead. Not romantic unless your standards have been ruined by outlaw life.
Amelia walks three steps out and bends forward, hands on her knees.
I stay near the door.
Not crowding.
She takes one breath.
Then another.
Then she laughs.
Not happy.
Half-hysterical.
I frown. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Good. Thought I misread that.”
She straightens and turns toward me. Her eyes are wet, cheeks flushed, mouth still red and a little smudged from the drink and the night.
“She said exactly what I was afraid of,” Amelia says.
“That I want to own what he broke?”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
I hate saying it. Hate that the words exist.
But there they are between us, and pretending they are not doesn’t help.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I nod.
The alley goes quiet around us.
“I don’t want to own you,” I say.
Her mouth trembles. “Men say things.”
“Yeah. They do.”
“And then they want.”
I can’t lie.
Not about this.
“I want.”
Her breath catches.
I step away from the door and stop several feet from her. “I want a lot of things I got no business wanting.”
Her eyes darken again.
Fear.
Heat.
Confusion.
Same as mine, probably.
“But wanting ain’t taking,” I say. “Not if a man has any damn honor.”
“You think you have honor?”
“No,” I say. “I think I have rules.”
That lands better.
She steps closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“The dancing,” she says.
“What about it?”
“I forgot to be scared.”
My chest tightens.
“That’s good.”
“It felt good.” Her voice goes quieter. “And then I felt guilty because August is at your house and Jeremy is out there and I was dancing in a bar like I had a right to enjoy anything.”
“You do.”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Feelings lie.”
“So do men.”
“Yeah.”
She looks at me, and there is no joke left now.
No Cornbread.
No Firestarter.
No fake relationship.
No bar full of gossip.
Just Amelia and me in an alley behind a bourbon bar in Hell, Kentucky, with her husband’s threat breathing somewhere in the dark and her mouth looking like the worst decision I have wanted to make in years.
“I’m tired of being careful,” she whispers.
My hands curl at my sides.
“Amelia.”
“I know. I know I shouldn’t say that to you.”
“Probably not.”
“I’m still married.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I had bourbon.”
“One drink.”
“I haven’t kissed anyone but Jeremy in years.”
My body goes still.
There it is.
The road opening.
The cliff at the end of it.
She steps closer again, close enough now that I can smell the bourbon and peach on her breath.
“Derby,” she says.
My name in her mouth sounds different back here.
Not like a joke.
Not like an argument.
Like a question she is afraid to ask.
I move slow. Slow enough she can stop me with one breath. I lift my hand, not touching her, just giving her the chance to move away.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes stay on mine.
“You want me close?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I step closer.
Her breath shivers.
We are inches apart now. Her face tilted up. My hand still not on her. Every filthy, hungry part of me is awake and furious at the leash I put on it myself.
“You want my hands on you?”
Her eyes flutter.
Then open.
“Yes.”
I touch her waist.
Light.
She sucks in a breath like that alone is too much.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should step back now.
I don’t.
Because she doesn’t ask me to.
Because her hands come up and rest against my chest, fingers curling in my shirt.
Because the whole damn world narrows to her mouth.
I lower my head.
She rises a little.
So close.
A whisper from ruining both of us.
Then I stop.
Her eyes open, confused and dark.
“This part still pretend?” I ask.
The question lands between our mouths.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
I close my eyes.
Painfully.
Perfectly.
“Then we wait until you do.”
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Then her forehead drops against my chest.
Not a kiss.
Not surrender.
Something smaller and harder.
Trust, maybe.
Or the first terrible piece of it.
I keep my hand at her waist and my body still, while everything in me wants to pull her closer and teach every bad memory in her mouth my name.
Inside the Fire Pit, Cornbread yells at someone, “I said that bourbon is for sipping, not drowning your daddy issues.”
Amelia laughs against my chest.
I look up at the dark Kentucky sky over the alley and wonder what the hell Widowmaker brought me to tonight.
A fake woman.
A real want.
And a story loud enough now that all of Hell is going to hear it.