Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Josie
The pen scratches across the paper as I circle the final letters on the second word search I’ve completed. How did anyone ever consider this a valid form of entertainment? I didn’t enjoy them when the teachers gave them to us as busy work in school, and I don’t enjoy them as busy work now.
With a sigh, I toss the booklet onto the floor and stand to stretch my back. I wish King would hurry up. After he sat by the fire for an hour, he came back with a beautiful ring and a promise to return the moment he showered the smoke off his skin.
He seemed so much lighter. I guess the talk with Aven went well.
I slide the ring onto my ring finger. It’s a little big, so I slip it onto my middle finger instead. “You’ll get an adornment one day,” I tell my ring finger. “Even if we have to buy the damn thing ourselves.”
This ring carries no real meaning anyway. He won it in one of his silly bets. At least I get the satisfaction of knowing he took a priceless heirloom from that asshole Blayne.
I stroll to the closet and open the door.
Might as well change into something more comfortable while I wait.
A slight drizzle started a few minutes ago, and the distant thunder tells me there’s more to come.
We won’t be chasing each other again tonight.
When we get to Nevada, though, I think I’d like to give it another go.
There was something so insanely freeing about trusting King to keep me safe. My trust wasn’t misplaced, either. He took very good care of me.
Both times.
I smile as I pull a soft pair of cotton shorts from my bag in the closet. It’s nice to be with a man who gets me, who understands my needs, both sexual and sadistic—sometimes simultaneously.
And the end of the trip might not be the end of us.
It’s something I feel more than something I know for certain, but the ground King and I stand on is shifting. Unlike the first time the universe brought us together, this feels like something real. It feels like I can finally take a deep breath for the first time in a long time.
I step into the gray shorts. Then I swap my top for a loose cami. Nothing too sexy. For once, I’m kind of tired. Something tells me I won’t be awake when the sun comes up.
Just as I’m about to close the closet door, I realize the vests aren’t where I left them. I pull down the box and find them tucked behind it. King must have hidden them, hoping I’d forget. If he thinks I won’t drag these out again, he’s in for a surprise.
As I reach up to pull them from their hiding spot, the box falls from my hands.
The papers spill out, and now that I don’t have a horny man waiting on the bed behind me, I take a moment to pick through them.
Whatever this box contains isn’t any of my business, but the most interesting things usually aren’t.
Besides, if King didn’t want me snooping, he should have hidden it better.
But as I unfold the first slip of paper, I feel sick. These aren’t just any papers.
These are the letters meant for Daddy Carter.
I hurry to fold the paper again, unwilling to read whatever private thing has been written. It was fine when I thought I was snooping on King, but I don’t want to betray my new friends’ trust. If I’d discovered something truly private of King’s, I’d have done the same.
Before my curiosity can overtake my morals, I shove the papers into the box, push the box back onto the shelf, and hurry to the bed to sit on my fucking hands.
It doesn’t take long for the questions to start, however.
Like wondering why King has the box of letters and why they weren’t left for the intended recipient.
There must be an innocent answer.
Maybe Carter is dead, and they’re just letting the children think he’s out there.
But that doesn’t track because they’ve assured them—numerous fucking times—that this trip ends with killing their father.
They might’ve let them send letters to Santa Claus, but they wouldn’t have promised presents on Christmas morning if there were none to be had.
So that brings me back to the original question. Why does King have these letters?
I bite my lip and think harder. “Maybe these were copies of the originals. For posterity or something.”
There’s one way to find out.
I pull my hands from beneath my thighs and scurry back to the closet.
I won’t actually read the letters. Nothing more than a quick glance to verify ink pen versus printer ink.
Then I’ll leave it alone and just wait until King gets back.
Never mind the glaring neon sign reminding me no one has a copy machine sitting in their RV. I cling to hope.
My hands shake as I ease the thick cardboard rectangle off the shelf. If he catches me digging around in this box, he might actually get mad at me in a way I can’t brush off with a promise of pleasure. When I’m this close to finally getting my man, is it really worth it?
I look down at the box.
Fuck it.
I pull off the lid and pluck a folded missive from the top. I set the box on the nearby counter, then open the letter. My eyes land on random words in the center of the page.
you said on the cliffs that day
I snatch my eyes away from the paper before I can read any more of the message. That should have been just enough to tell if it was a copy or an original. It should have been.
Had I been paying attention.
“Fuck, Josie. Get your shit together.”
I close my eyes, shake out the jitters, and remind myself I must look for clues, not people’s private, intimate words. With a shake of my head, I open my eyes and look at the letter.
cliffs that day so long ago. You said,
With a quiet squeal, I close the letter and look away.
It’s just unfortunate that my brain betrayed me and chose to jump right back to the same spot.
Now that I’ve gotten more of the same sentence, I have to see how it ends.
Then I can try to process the next alarm bell blaring in my mind: These aren’t copies. These are originals.
So again, why does King have them?
“Just satisfy your curiosity and close the box, you nosey bitch,” I whisper.
I unfold the paper, find my spot, and stuff down the guilt as I satisfy the aching need to know what was said.
Father, we’ll be traveling to the Grand Canyon come tomorrow. I’ve written my letter in advance, as I already know Jim will ask it of us anyway. And for once, I have something to say. Best I get it out now—
Okay, so I went back a little too far. So sue me. It’s not like I’ll read the whole thing and discern which Carter sibling wrote it. That will still remain a secret.
Best I get it out now before I ask Kindra to elope in Vegas.
“Fuck.”
Okay, so I know who wrote this letter. So what? I’ll just stop reading it. My fingers are already folding it up, and I’m stepping toward the box to stuff it back inside. And I’m opening the fucking paper because I have so many fucking questions.
I’ve decided I don’t need to finish this trip. I’m no longer bound by the desire to take your life. A funny thing happened when Jim told us where we’d be going. After I tried to get him to change venues, that is.
Yes, I’m still terrified of heights, Father. But it reminded me of something you said on the cliffs that day so long ago. You said, “Ezra, whenever you’re scared, just remember this moment. I might have steadied you, but you walked to the edge.”
The paper falls from my hands as an uneasy feeling snakes through my guts. I’ve heard that somewhere. Who said that? And when? Is it from a television show? I hear it in a familiar British accent, but is that just because this is Ezra’s letter?
Then it clicks.
“King said that to Ezra today when we stood by the canyon. Holy shit.” I lick my lips. My mouth has gone dry. “Is King . . . Daddy Carter?”
I steady myself on the counter and raise the letter to my face.
I no longer need you to steady me. The woman by my side has healed wounds she didn’t know about. When I feel like I can’t step to the ledge, I lean on her. So I don’t need the rage anymore.
I fan myself. I think I’ve read enough. He’s letting go of his anger, and good for him. But now I’m not sure how to feel about anything anymore.
My brain goes to war, with one side fighting for King and the other side telling me it really might be my turn to show King what it feels like to wake up to an empty bed after sleeping with the porch light on.
Yeah, all those dreams of ending up with him are kind of sliding down the drain right now. He wasn’t falling in love with me. Grantham Carter loves no one but himself. He was only doing what womanizing, deadbeat assholes do—fucking around until something breaks, and then cutting bait.
Fuck. Him.
I fold up the letter for real this time.
I don’t need to keep going. King couldn’t have gotten these letters until after they’d been hurtled over the canyon edge, so he couldn’t have merely read what was penned on that paper, then repeated it.
He knew what to say to Ezra because he’d already said it.
King is Daddy fucking Carter.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and my stomach clenches. A wave of sickness pulses through me, starting in my abdomen and radiating outward. I love him, and now I can’t. I don’t even care that I lost the bet. I love him, and now I have to let him go.
The lid slides back onto the box with a quiet hiss. I place my hands on top and just stand here for a moment. I was right when I said the ground was shifting. It’s sand under my feet, and the tide is coming in. I can’t fucking swim. Now I can’t fucking breathe.
He wanted me to stay. Didn’t he? Wasn’t that real?
Or . . . is he simply trying to bring about the next generation of Carter children?
Well, fuck that. I’d attach a permanent lidocaine drip straight to my precious clit before I’d let any man knock me up.
Considering my murdery extracurriculars, pregnancy is the last fucking thing I ever need to think about.
The RV door swings open. My eyes widen, but I manage to snatch the box from the counter by the lid. I turn away from King as he steps into the space, brushing a towel through his hair.
Unfortunately, I turn a little too hard, and when I said I snatched the box by the lid, I mean that very literally.
Combine those two things, and you have a mess.
Letters scatter across the RV. The box scoots sideways and smacks against the closet door, and I’m left holding the lid.
My shoulders rise up to meet my ears as I envision King’s disappointed face behind me.
I hate it when he gives me his disappointed face.
Dude, maybe I do have daddy issues.
“Josie,” he says, and I can’t tell if that was gravel or growl in his voice just now. Either way, goosebumps rise on my skin.
I turn to face him, lid held out like some sort of shield. But when I see his face, when I realize that he isn’t mad at all, I drop my arms to my sides and try to rationalize what I’m looking at.
Because King stands before me, and he doesn’t look mad that I’ve been snooping through his things and discovering his super-secret identity. He doesn’t look like he’s three seconds from wringing my neck until I resemble one of those honking chicken toys. On the fucking contrary.
As King stands before me, with his hands at his sides and a towel at his feet, he looks like he’s about to cry.
“Josie,” he says again, and this time I know it’s gravel. He’s breaking on the inside, and it pains him to say my name.
“Are you Grantham Carter?”
He takes a step toward me, but I match it by taking a step back.
I straighten my spine. “Answer me.”
“I planned to tell you everything. I swear it.”
“Why?”
He runs his hands through his hair. “Because you deserve to know.”
“And they don’t?” I motion toward the window. “I think they deserved a helluva lot more than just knowing who their fucking dad is, though. Like maybe every other weekend and a week or two in the summer?”
“You don’t understand. There’s more to it than you realize.”
“Then help me understand. Tell me why I should ever let you touch me again after you abandoned those women and children.”
His chest rises and falls beneath a cobalt-blue t-shirt as he unleashes a heavy sigh.
I’m disgusted with myself for noticing the way the shirt’s color sets off the steel in his eyes.
I’m disappointed in myself for hoping he can actually do as I suggested and make this make sense.
I want there to be some reason I don’t have to hate him.
I just don’t see how that’s possible anymore.
He motions toward the bed. “You might as well have a seat. If you want to make any sense of it, I’ll have to start from the beginning.” He licks his lips and folds his arms over his chest. “We’ll start with the experiment.”