Epilogue
EPILOGUE
CARSYN
“I don’t get how they don’t care. How no one seems concerned that he’s free, running around doing God knows what, God knows where, harming God only knows who!” I shout, an ugly vein bulging in my forehead, my throat aching from use.
My rideshare driver eyes me in the rearview. “That’s… a lot.”
“I know,” I hiss, slamming myself into the seat, turning to watch the road tug by out the window. “That's why I need a drink, Martin.”
“Sounds like you do,” he says, nodding.
I realize that I probably shouldn’t share details of an ongoing FBI case with a rideshare driver, but you know what? I’m at my breaking point.
No one is looking for Forrest at all.
He helped transport and held human beings. He starved and beat them. Raped some of them. Sold children off, and their moms to others. He’s a despicable human and he got away with it all.
My brother saw him ride off and let him go. He chose to save Kinleigh instead, and I get that. I love how much he loves his wife, how much he loves being a new dad. He’s a great brother, and seeing him with his family now, I understand why he had to leave back then. Colton loves Kinleigh so thoroughly, so bone-deep that existence without her was too cruel to bear.
I’m happy for them both.
And Nash and Genevive have bonded similarly, finding comfort in one another as she heals. I am happy for both of them, truly.
But I haven’t lost focus on the fact that Forrest is still fucking out there.
No one seems to think he’ll ever come back, for fear of being caught. They also say they are more focused on moving forward, but it just doesn’t sit right with me.
That piece of shit needs to pay, and if I have to be the one to cut his dick off, so be it.
The driver throws his Corolla into park and I pass him a wad of cash. There’s more than enough and since I was drinking out front while I waited for the driver to show, I’m too buzzed to worry about the exact dollar amount.
“Good luck with finding the tree guy,” he calls out the window as I steady myself on the gravel, slowly advancing toward the bar’s double doors. I wave Martin off because the bar lights are flashing and I am so ready to shelve my consciousness for a few hours.
Everything inside is just as I remember, though in truth I haven’t been here more than a few times. I’ve never been a bar hopper or a big drinker, and in a small town, there isn’t much else to do.
I guess I refuse to conform.
I have been here, though, and I suppose I should be proud to say at age twenty-three I’ve only been here a few times versus being a regular already.
I slide onto a maroon leather-covered barstool, and perch on the edge of the gold bar. A man walks up and puts a coaster down. He’s older. Fifties or sixties, maybe. His hair is black and worn in a ponytail. “What can I get you?” he asks, his voice flat.
“Whiskey,” I tell him, unimpressed with him and this place, if I’m being honest. I catch a hiccup with my hand. “The cheap stuff.”
He walks away, but a man takes a seat at the bar, smelling like cedarwood and sex. “Two of your best, on me,” he tells the bartender before turning to face me.
“I’m fine drinking Wild Turkey,” I tell him as the bartender returns with two glasses of amber liquid.
I narrow my eyes on him. “If this is Wild Turkey and you’re charging him for the good shit, I’ll know,” I warn, the buzz in my veins kicking up to a light drunk. The bartender smiles sardonically.
“I’m shaking in my boots.”
He walks away, and I turn to my new friend and sip my drink, smacking my lips as the first taste goes down smooth. “Not Wild Turkey,” I admit.
His smile is wide and toothy, his beard and mustache framing it perfectly. My pussy tingles as I envision running my fingers in that beard before tugging at those luscious waves he’s sporting and shoving him between my legs to lick my lonely little pussy.
I slam the drink that isn’t a shot and more of something to sip over the course of an hour. But I need it.
His gorgeous eyes widen. “Did that burn?”
I clutch my throat as the burn finally comes and shake my head. “Not too bad. And thank you,” I tell him, already feeling much drunker. “Damn, that went straight to my head.”
He sips his drink and I notice how big his fingers are. He’s wearing a standard outfit for men of his age in Wyoming: a button-up flannel, boots and a belt, with his hat sitting beside him like a prize. He’s fit and big at the same time, making me clench on the barstool.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he questions, still sipping his drink. He’s not wearing a ring, so I slide nearer, onto the empty barstool that was between us. He smirks.
“Hi,” I say, my voice low.
“Hello there,” he says, lowering his drink to the napkin as he fishes out a money clip from his back pocket. Casually, he drops bills onto the counter, his big, green eyes never leaving mine.
“How old are you?” I ask, hiccupping into my hand. “I guessed forty.”
After finishing his drink, he twists on the stool to face me. I have the strongest urge to touch his beard but I know that would be weird. And I’d likely get kicked out.
“Add three.” He smirks and suddenly, my life goal is to fuck the brains out of this old guy. “Nightcap?” he offers, pulling keys from his pocket.
“You read my mind,” I murmur, my body going fuzzy as I get to my feet. All the booze kicks in at once, and the world goes a little sideways. “A glass of water before we go?” I ask, because I want to see what this sexy man looks like eating me out while I’m on all fours, and that’s not going to happen if I’m puking or blacked out.
He orders the bartender to bring water, and we each drink a glass, fast. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling more feral than ladylike. He winks, then leads me out of the bar, with his hand on my lower back the entire time.
My panties are drenched, and when I shift in the passenger seat to get comfortable, I can feel how swollen I am. I’m so horny right now and thank God for Beardy. I came here to forget and I am not only going to forget, but I’m going to get a good dicking down.
The moonlight pours into the cab as he drives us to his place, which he says isn’t far. Good, I don’t want to wait any longer.
I consider asking his name or what he does but I don’t really care. It’s not like I’m looking for a date. I’m looking for a night, and that’s it.
When we get to his place, he turns on a dim light and tells me he’s going down the hall, to use the restroom. I kick off my shoes and wave him off, already working on the button of my pants. Stumbling, I reach out and grab the countertop that divides the kitchen from the living space. My hand connects with a stack of bills and papers and I duck down to scoop them up, refusing to be a messy drunk.
Adjusting the envelopes on the counter, pants half down, something catches my eye.
I pick up the envelope on the top of the pile.
The return address is a mortgage lender. The name it’s addressed to is typed in all capital letters.
GARRISON CONWAY.
My throat bobs as my mouth goes dry. Garrison Conway. My mind flashes to Kinleigh, knees pulled tightly to her chest as she rocked in front of the fireplace, whispering her trauma to us the night she was rescued.
Her uncle. Or… I don’t know, considering Forrest wasn’t actually her father. God, that situation was so fucked up. I bring the envelope closer, staring at the name, willing it to change. Gunther Cleveland? Geoff Chester? Anything but Garrison Conway.
But nope, there it is.
He beat my brother. He beat Colton many, many times.
But he also showed them mercy.
Kinleigh believes Garrison wanted her and Colton to be freed.
Still, he was part of it. In on it. He fled with Forrest—fled—and good men don’t flee. I drop the letter and bend down, in a rush to pull up my pants. But when they’re up and I’m standing. Garrison is there, He holds out a syringe. The last thing I hear before my world goes black?
“Don’t scream.”