Chapter 25
Charlie
It’s five o’clock on Saturday, and I’m once again smiling at my phone like an idiot, having watched the video Jessica just sent me.
She is an incorrigible troublemaker.
A fact confirmed by the incoming text from our all-male group chat. The women kicked us out, and now there’s a running commentary on their pre-party activities.
Evan
Did anyone else get a video of their wife engaged in a pillow fight?
My eyes snag on the word wife, my heart beating inexplicably fast. Before I can think too much about it, I get a text from Jessica.
Jessica
Pretty hot, huh?
My lips tug wider. Very hot, but as much as I’d like to agree with her, that’s not the game we’re playing. Jessica needs a lot of stimulation; she needs friction. I can’t agree with her too much.
Charlie
Have I not objectified you enough yet? You’ve gotten my friends involved too?
The group chat goes off.
James
How have they managed to lose more clothes since the last time?
Shane
I blame this on Charlie. We were just getting these women under control, then he had to get pussy-whipped by a hellion.
Ryder
May I remind you that’s my sister?
Mitch
Then this is your fault.
I continue to ignore work, opting to watch the video—a stylized, slow-motion, giggling, dancing, tipsy pillow fight set to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!”—for the third time.
Shane’s right. I am pussy-whipped. How could I not be?
I filter out every other woman on the screen as I watch Jessica’s hips swaying in tiny jean shorts and a crochet bikini top, her hair a wild mess of dark locks. It was hot today, and from the pictures I’d seen throughout the afternoon, they’d spent time by the river and hadn’t bothered to change.
Everything about her captivates me.
I want to get out of here and go watch her. I don’t even want to interrupt her. I just want to be in her orbit. Let her surprise me. Soak in all that pulsing life and vitality.
Back when I was a kid, when I wanted to shake off some beating I’d taken because I breathed the wrong way, I’d walk deep into the mountain trails. And with each step I’d take, I’d lock away a blow and replace it with a dream of another life.
When I look at Jessica, she is the embodiment of that dream.
The group text goes off again.
Evan
Charlie, looks to me like your girl’s gonna even the score one way or another.
James
Agreed. Perhaps you should reconsider your stance and let her kiss me so we can put an end to her retribution.
Charlie
For the last time, you cannot kiss Jessica.
The woman in question texts me.
Jessica
Here I am, making sure everyone is jealous of you & providing a community service by ensuring people are loosened up and ready to donate money to charity, and this is your response?
You can’t say the woman doesn’t know how to make a good argument.
Charlie
You realize I’m getting blamed for your actions, don’t you? But I don’t think you’ve thought this through. You’ve gone and gotten everyone worked up, and now they’re all going to get fucked, and you’re not. Hope the charity is worth it. XO
Jessica
1. I orchestrated an event that banned all men for the simple, spiteful reason that if you couldn’t be here, then none of them could be either. YOU’RE WELCOME!
Jessica
2. I’m saving these women from boredom.
Jessica
3. Those men were getting complacent and needed a shake-up.
Jessica
4. Later, when they are all getting fucked, they can thank us for coming extra hard. So yeah, I’m fine taking the blame for everyone having a fantastic night.
Jessica
5. Like I’m not going to get fucked later. You’re delusional.
It’s official. I can no longer deny it. Jessica Moore has my number.
After last night, when she’d confronted me about my relationship with Gracie in the most public way possible, I’ve been forced to reckon with a truth I’ve been ignoring.
I fucking love her drama.
And she somehow gets this about me.
Jessica has managed to tap into something I hadn’t known I was missing. Something I hadn’t even known I wanted.
The past I’ve thought more about since I confessed to Jessica than in the last five years keeps shifting and changing as I look at it with the perspective of an adult.
Because my childhood was full of instability and chaos, the only way I survived was to swing to the opposite extreme.
I picked rigidity and structure, a career filled with rules and hierarchy that would provide context to the tragedy of my parents.
I avoided attachments because I viewed emotions as unsafe.
Until her.
The truth settles into my bones.
I might have never felt it before, but I still recognize it.
I’m in love with Jessica.
The man I was before her would think I’ve lost my fucking mind.
It’s too fast. I get it’s crazy.
Obviously, I’m not stupid enough to say that to her because, in theory, we hardly know each other. But the notion came to me the night she drew me that bath, and I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it. But deep down, I know.
It’s not lust.
It’s not infatuation.
It’s not sex.
It’s not getting swept up in the moment.
It’s her.
I love her.
End of story.
I’m called out on an accident a couple towns over that has me too busy putting out fires to look at the running commentary about casino night.
Considering it’s ten thirty, I assume things are starting to wind down, and as I sit in the squad car, I open my text thread with Jessica to see what trouble she’s been up to.
I’d told her I’d be out of touch, but she’d continued talking without me, so there’s a lot to scroll through.
I finally reach the top and begin reading, lingering on the pictures she’s sent me in various states of undress that end with her looking very hot in a little black dress I plan on ripping off her later.
I laugh at her recap of the reunion between the men and their women and her pride in the orgasms she’s facilitating.
I read through her assessments of Revival’s citizens. Her explanations of how the patriarchy lost today because she and Gracie made sure the mob wife, Gina, only succeeded in making them BFFs and not the enemies she was hoping for.
She recounts the countless men who have tried to hit on Hailey, while Hailey remained completely clueless.
When I get to the end of her stream of consciousness, I shoot her a text telling her I’ll be done in thirty and to let me know where to find her.
I can’t stand one more second of not seeing her.
The need to touch her mixes with the adrenaline of the last couple of hours.
I put my phone in the holder, throw the car into reverse, and make the drive back to the station. When I get there, Jessica hasn’t responded, so I call her.
Only, there’s no answer.
The first slither of unease snakes down my spine.
I shake it off.
I’m being paranoid.
The hyperalertness suddenly rushing through me like speed is my conditioning mixing with the chemicals in my blood.
I call again.
Still nothing.
I look back at her texts, and the unease turns to a cold, inevitable dread I recognize.
The instinct I’ve possessed since I was old enough to remember.
Trouble.
A side effect of growing up with abusive parents is the ability to scent impending doom on the air. It permeates everything, and no matter how desperately you want to be wrong, you’re not.
Because you can feel it.
Feel the tension build with every second that passes.
How it coils tighter and tighter.
Every second edging toward danger.
Then, something happens.
A wrong look.
A loud noise.
The crash of a dish on linoleum.
The tension snaps, and everything turns.
And, how, in that one suspended moment of silence, you accept the inevitability of your fate.
That’s exactly what happens to me now.
Because the last message she sent to me was ninety minutes ago.
The logical part of my brain, not consumed with the volatile rush of emotions coursing through my veins, insists I’m overreacting. That there could be a thousand reasons she hasn’t texted or responded, but I don’t buy it.
She’s literally texted me all fucking night.
She wouldn’t just stop. She’d answer my call.
Her last message to me was about how she needs a key to my house so I can come home and find her naked in my bed.
My survival instincts are strong, having kept me alive this long, and I don’t hesitate.
I call Ryder, who answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”
By the loud din of background noise and voices, he’s still at the party.
Without preamble, I bark out, “Where’s your sister? I can’t get ahold of her.”
Ryder laughs. “Jesus, you’re not going to be one of those guys, are you?”
When I speak, my voice is low and deadly. “I’m not fucking around. Where is Jessica?”
“Whoa. Chill out. What’s wrong?” He recognizes my tone, but he still thinks I’m overreacting.
Through gritted teeth, I say, “I have about a hundred text messages from her that all stop at precisely 9:08, and she’s not answering her phone. I want eyes on her. Now.”
There’s a pause over the line. “Okay, I know she’s here. Just let me find her.”
I wait, listening to the background noise of Ryder asking people where she is.
But I already know the answer.
She’s gone.
I can feel it in my bones.
In the way the dread crawls like spiders over my skin.
Something has happened to her.
Now I need to call on every ounce of my training and remain calm.
Ryder comes back on the line, and there’s no longer any hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m still looking, but she has to be here.”
“I’m on my way.” I hang up on him, flip on the sirens, and hightail it to Sam’s. The panic has me in its grip as I speed through the streets.
She’s gone.
She’s gone.
She’s gone.
What if I lose her? A fear I haven’t felt since the day my parents died in that accident washes over me. I can’t lose her.
I just fucking found her.
The rational part of my brain trained to process information and compartmentalize insists I slow down and get the facts before I jump to the worst-case scenario.
But I know.
The way I always know.
The way I’ve been conditioned my entire life to know.