Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Josie
Gary and Jim sing along with the radio in the sedan as King and I cringe in the backseat. This is one rendition of “The Fate of Ophelia” I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing. What a horrible day to have ears.
“It’s bloody bad enough when she sings it,” King says, motioning toward me. “Could you two blokes put on something more dignified?”
“Silence could be good too.” I ease my fingertips to my temples and press until it hurts worse than the budding headache.
King’s hands find my shoulders, and his warmth relaxes me almost instantly. Then his thumb digs into the tight muscles, and my eyes roll. My pussy flutters, and my stomach clenches, and I think I just had a mini-O.
He leans in and whispers, “Why so tense? Is everything okay?”
“For starters, I haven’t slept well these past two nights on the road.”
King nods, understanding.
Knowing someone’s mother now haunts the halls of my reproductive tract has a way of keeping a girl up at night. Despite a lengthy irrigation of my nether regions, I’ll never feel clean again.
After a triple scrub and a dip in bleach—the toothbrush holder, not my vagina—we returned what was left of Bennett’s mother. We did not disclose how we came into possession of her.
Ugh. Possession. My poor polter-gina.
That’s it. We’re calling a priest the moment we’re back in Florida.
The increase in stress and the decrease in sleep have resulted in a headache. This little outing is the last place I want to be right now, but Chef insisted we go shopping because he can’t trust anything in his pantry.
The squash casserole was the last straw.
As it turned out, Bennett was willing to take the blame, but a shopping trip with Jim was a bridge too far. That left us holding the bag; he said if we didn’t go in his place, he’d tell everyone our dirty little squash secret.
So here we are, somewhere in West Texas on a mission to buy food to replace an entire pantry because we’re all hedonistic sex weirdos, I guess.
And yet, for the first time I can remember, I’m kind of happy to be around people.
I wanted to come on this road trip to get under King’s skin and get some kills .
. . and maybe get laid, but that’s always a goal for me.
What I didn’t anticipate was finding a group of people who just let me come in and be . . . me.
Jim sits forward, flailing his hand toward a set of golden arches in the distance. “Oh, Gary, look! Let’s go to McDonald’s. They’re still serving breakfast.”
“Oh, heck yes!” I say. I sit forward in my seat and peer past Gary’s shoulder as he flicks on the blinker. “We still have time to—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” King says.
Gary turns off the blinker and stays straight.
“But I want a Sausage McGriddle.” Jim’s lower lip pokes out.
I tip my head back and groan. “Those are the fucking best. Those little pockets of secret syrup. That herby, greasy sausage.”
“It’s pronounced herby. Herby,” King says, enunciating the living fuck out of that H. “You’re dropping the first blasted letter! And fuck your silly sandwiches. It’s not even real meat!”
“Take it back,” Jim wails. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”
King rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, and I wonder if he bought that black t-shirt a size too small on purpose.
I’m not complaining.
On the contrary. The next time I’m blessed with a bathroom featuring a detachable showerhead, this is the exact image I’ll think about.
Him, in that shirt, and those muscles—
After a deep inhale and overly loud exhale, King says, “If we weren’t already so far behind schedule, you lot could have stopped and gorged yourselves batty on your blasted Sausage McGirdles—”
“McGriddles,” Jim and I say in unison.
“Christ on a cracker,” King mutters under his breath. He turns to glare out the tinted window, unwilling to observe a second more of our tomfoolery.
Regardless, we push on to the store, purchase what we’ve been instructed to purchase, and then head back to camp without any delicious breakfast sandwiches.
I did, however, score ingredients for s’mores. I figure me and the girls can eat them while we chat over a campfire. I still plan to run my logic by them and see if the whole kissing rule is stupid.
If the girls think I’m being irrational, this belief I’ve held since my teenage years will dissolve. That just might break me. I’ve held on to it for so long. It’s been my lifeline, my bridge to sanity. The only thing that wasn’t borrowed without permission.
The last thing that’s still mine to give away.
If they meet me with anything less than understanding or support, I’ll be both grateful for their honesty and gutted by it.
But I’m trying not to think about that right now. That’s a problem for later Josie.
We pull into the campground, which is a wide-open stretch of America beneath the bluest sky I’ve ever seen.
Despite the state taking up a large swath of the country, I don’t get down here often.
Plus, Texans love their guns, as I stated.
I tend to pick targets I think I can take, and me against a bullet will never end well. Just ask fucking Blayne.
He’s been keeping a low profile ever since he shot me, but he’s throwing a football with Ice Pick as we pull up to the trailer hitched to the back of Chef’s bus. We climb out so that Gary can secure the car, but I keep glancing at the two of them. Something looks off about Ice Pick.
At this distance, it’s hard to tell, but his face looks puffier than usual. Almost as if he’s been crying. That twists my heart until I can’t keep silent. I grab King’s hand and pull him aside as Jim and Gary get to work on the groceries.
I jerk my chin toward the two men tossing the football. “Does Ice Pick look like he’s been crying?”
King squints, and I roll my eyes.
“I forgot. If I can’t see, how the fuck do I expect your geriatric ass to see?” I grab his hand and start toward the men. “We’ll just have to go over there.”
His heels dig into the earth, and I jerk to a stop. I try to pull him again, but he’s immovable.
“And if he’s been crying, then what?” he whispers. His eyebrows rise in that knowing look he has, and I realize he’s right.
I shrug and raise my hands. “I don’t know, but something is weighing heavy on his heart, and for some weird reason, it’s making me feel sick. It’s like watching your dog get ignored by all the other dogs at the dog park.”
“I get your point,” he says. “I just don’t know how we broach the topic without hurting the bloke’s pride.”
I bite my thumbnail and think. “I was gonna invite the girls to a bonfire tonight, but I guess that can wait. Let’s invite him to our RV for drinks. We can DoorDash some wine or something.”
“Better make it beer,” King says as he glares at Blayne. “And when you invite him, make sure Redneck Romeo isn’t anywhere nearby. I have a feeling he’s part of the problem.”
My stomach sinks, because I think he’s right.
Blayne didn’t give me any red flags when we first met, but that was probably because I was looking at him through pussy-colored glasses. Now I’m using my eyes, and I don’t like what I’m starting to see.
When he thinks no one is watching, he stops smiling. The cool demeanor drops, and his eyes take on a ferretlike quality. Wheels are turning, but the moment he makes eye contact with another person, the smoke and mirrors rise. He’s charming in all the wrong ways.
“He isn’t like us,” I whisper.
“No, my beauty. He is not.”
“He’s more like the Bundys or the Albert Fishs. He belongs with the Cattle, not with us.”
“I’m glad you’ve finally cottoned on.” King wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re up for this? There’s no telling what sort of state poor Ice Pick will be in, and there’s every chance he demands Blayne come too.”
I shake my head. “No, I’ve got this. You distract Blayne and leave Ice Pick to me.”
King gives my ass a pat before heading toward the two men.
I hang back and adjust my cleavage, pushing the girls a little higher.
The guy seems to enjoy a heaving pair of mommy milkers, so I can only hope these will distract him and keep his mind on anything but his friend.
I still don’t know if Blayne would stoop low enough to fuck his friend’s girl, but something is off about the guy, and I mean to find out what.
That starts with his best friend.
Blayne turns on the charm full blast when he sees King coming toward him. He acts as if he means to throw him the ball, which fakes King out. He flinches, looking like an ass. Blayne tosses the ball to Ice Pick before jogging over to King, guffawing the entire way.
What a prick.
I’m disgusted with myself for ever flirting with that big-nosed butt chin with a dick-sucking haircut.
Whoa. Where the fuck did that come from?
Am I that pissed he embarrassed King? It wasn’t as if anyone but me and Ice Pick saw him look foolish for less than two seconds, yet it set off a chain reaction of rage in my blood.
I’ve got to be more careful. The chinks in my armor are becoming gaping holes.
Ice Pick doesn’t see me moving toward him. He’s too concerned with catching up to Blayne. I raise my hand and give my fingers a wiggle. He spots me and adjusts course, heading toward me without a second glance toward his friend.
“Good job, ladies,” I whisper to my tatas.
Ice Pick comes to a stop in front of me. He puts his finger in the air, then leans over and places his hands on his knees. His bald head glistens, and sweat darkens his gray sleeveless shirt. After a few heaving breaths, he stands upright. Dude is winded after walking fifty yards.
“What can I do you for?” he asks.
Probably no less than fifty grand.
He raises his soaked shirt to dry his forehead, then realizes it’s pointless. “It’s hot out here, ain’t it? Drier than a cat’s crusty asshole, too. My side of Texas ain’t like this. I was feeling a little cooped up in the RV, but now I think that’s better than roasting to death out here.”
I see my opening, and I seize it. “Instead of hanging out all alone at your place, why don’t you come by mine tonight?”
“Oh, I’m not all alone. Blayne hasn’t left my side since the whole Charity—” His throat hitches. His face shows no shift in emotion, but he can’t get out the next word. “Blayne’s been helping me sort through some things.”
My asshole puckers because this doesn’t sound good at all. “What sort of things?”
“Well, God blessed me in the looks department, and I’m a lot smarter than people think I am, but I’m not any good when it comes to studying people.
I have trouble figuring out what folks are thinking.
But Blayne’s real good at that stuff. He reads people like books, and then he tells me what he sees. ”
I just bet he does.
“So would you want to come to dinner?” I ask him. I need to get his mind off Blayne. I can delve more into this line of questioning once I have King as backup.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says.
Shit. I’m losing him.
As he starts to turn toward Blayne, I take his hand and do something I’m certain I’ll regret later. I stroke it. Not too sensually, just enough to snatch his head back toward me.
“Hey now,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think King would like you touching me like that.”
That’s when another idea strikes me. One I’m sure I’ll regret far more than a simple stroke of his hand, but as King would say, needs must. I just have to hope King sees it the same way. Otherwise, my road trip might end tonight.