The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  I hold up Ethan’s hand that I’m clutching. “I’ve got Ethan, okay? We’ll be back in a few minutes. Feel free to hold your breath till we return.”

  I turn on my heel and drag Ethan along. We trudge past Hatch and into the neighboring yard. Before us stands the remains of a three-bedroom ranch, but the back half has been eaten by fire. I pull Ethan in, stepping over what looks like a dead animal, but I don’t stop. When we get to the middle of what used to be the living room, now blackened and missing the roof, he pulls back. “Riley,” he says, crossing his arms over his narrow chest, “I do not want to watch you pee.”

  “You’re not. Listen, I need to ask you some questions. No fooling around, okay. We only got a few minutes.”

  He squishes up his face, but nods.

  I brush the hair out of his eyes. “What happened after I got shot?”

  Ethan frowns. “You were bad, crying and bleeding all over. I thought you were gonna die. Clay said we had to take you to the hospital. I didn’t want to, but we had to.”

  I nod rapidly. “How’d we get outta town?”

  “Clay found gas and we took a car and drove to that big hospital, the one with all the shiny lights.”

  My eyes flick out the open front door. Out there are men. “What else?”

  Ethan scratches his head and looks across the room. His eyes lock on a splash of red in the corner—a plastic toy car, melted and half-buried under a pile of fallen plaster. I lean over until my head blocks his view. “What. Else.”

  His eyes flick back to me. “After we dropped you off, Clay got us a room. We sat on our butts for days, trying to figure how to get you out once you was better. One day, Clay’s daddy just shows up at the door. Riley, I thought you and Dad were bad, but you should hear Clay and his daddy fight.”

  Arn. A mention of him still hurts like a finger dug into a raw wound. I twirl my hand in a hurry-up gesture. “How did they get me out of the hospital?”

  Ethan shrugs. “Clay just said, ‘We’re gonna get Riley.’ That was yesterday. We got in the van and drove to that big hospital. What’s it like in there?”

  “Later.” I stare up at the charred ceiling as I try to piece it all together. A cloud slips over the setting sun, plunging us into shadow. The birdcalls stop for a moment. I shiver. What does the Sheriff have to gain from getting me out?

  Clay’s voice calls from the front door. “Hey, you two in there?”

  “Yeah, Clay,” Ethan yells back.

  “It’s getting dark.” Clay’s voice sounds strained.

  My time is up. I grab Ethan’s shoulders and turn him around. “Look away if you don’t want to see me pee.”

  As we step over the broken concrete steps and into the open, Clay’s there. His hat’s tucked into the crook of his arm and his damp hair clings to his forehead. His shirt’s stuck to his body with sweat. His normally clean-shaven face sprouts a stubbly beard. His eyes flick to mine for a second and then swing uncomfortably away. He throws his arm around my brother’s neck. “Come on, little bro. Pa brought us some chicken.”

  Little bro? Pa? A flash of anger burns through me. He knows how to pile it on. I clench my hands and follow.

  Clay leads us back to the campfire the boys have constructed in our house’s backyard. They’ve even pulled out some seating: a log, a kitchen chair with three legs, a nightstand, and a fraying armchair. Hatch sets pink hunks of raw chicken on a cast iron skillet near the fire. The Sheriff sits in the armchair and tips a jar of brown liquid up to his mouth. Clay gestures to the log for Ethan and me. Then he sits down next to his father and takes a pull from the jar when it’s passed to him. The tart smell of homemade liquor fills the air.

  My eyes flick to the Sheriff. He lounges in his ratty jeans, the stains around his pits a dark yellow. His little paunch belly sags over his belt buckle. His jagged C-shaped scar crinkles when he lets out one of his big belly laughs. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “So, missus,” he says, leaning toward me, his thick hand on his knee. “Tell me what’s so special ’bout you that made my son run out on his ol’ man.” His smile is wide, but in the flickering firelight, his eyes look calculating.

  Clay's fingers tighten around the jar he’s holding. “Pa, don’t.”

  The Sheriff emits a dark laugh. “I’m just introducin’ m’self since you wouldn’t do me the pleasure.”

  Clay glowers at his father. “Riley doesn’t want to talk.” Then he takes a big drink from the jar, swallows, and winces.

  The Sheriff snatches the jar out of Clay’s hands, takes a long pull and wipes his mouth across the back of his arm. “See, here’s the thing. I paid for this filly—”

  Clay stiffens. “She has a name.”

  The Sheriff cackles and slaps his knee. He tilts his head toward me slightly. “Beg yer pardon, missus. Force a habit.” His smile widens to let us all know he’s not one bit sorry.

  “All’s I want to know, Riley,” he says exaggeratedly, looking at Clay. “Exactly what feminine wiles you worked on C-boy here,” he slaps Clay on the shoulder roughly, “to make him pick a cooz over his own pa.”

  My cheeks burn red at what he’s insinuating. Clay’s jaw is a rock.

  “‘Cause, see, I’m not sure she’s worth what we paid, but you’re the one who got a taste, not me.” He elbows Clay in the ribs and cackles. “Might have to have a taste m’self, just to see.”

  Clay stands, his arms ramrod straight at his sides, fists clenched. “I swear to God, Sheriff, if you don’t shut up—”

  The Sheriff barrels upward, both elbows plowing into Clay’s chest. Clay topples back, landing hard in the dust beside the campfire.

  Everyone goes silent. The Sheriff hovers over Clay, fists clenched. Clay lies on his back, shock spreading over his face. Then his hands curl into balls. He pops up and stands a foot from his old man.

  The Sheriff points a thick finger in Clay’s face. “Lest you forget who you speakin’ to, boy.”

  Clay holds his father’s gaze, venom blazing in his eyes. “I didn’t forget.”

  Their hands stretch toward their hips like they’ll draw guns, but the Sheriff lets out another dark laugh, thumping his thigh with his hand. He turns to Hatch and points to Clay. “Boys, this stallion needs to stud or he’ll buck his rider. Let’s give the lovebirds some privacy.” He turns to me with a disgusting smile. “You call me Daddy from now on. Make me a proud grandpa and we won’t have no trouble.”

  Hatch lumbers up and follows the Sheriff out of the circle. Even Ethan gets up. I want to protest and grab his arm, but he’s gone. The Sheriff hollers as he turns the corner. “You kids behave.” I hear him cackling long after I can see him.

  I feel like a tornado has just torn through the campsite. My hands shake as I curl them around my knees. I glance up at Clay. He’s still standing between the fire and me. In the wake of his father, he looks as shaken as I am.

  He stares at the flames a long time, his hands squeezed into fists. Finally, he turns to me. “Sorry.”

  “What did he mean by make me a proud grandpa?” My voice trembles more than I’d like.

  The log I’m sitting on rocks as Clay settles beside me. He keeps his eyes to the fire, his face slack, and his hands still in fists. “My goddamn father.” He rubs his hands over his face. “That S.O.B. doesn’t understand why I wanted you back so bad. Why I couldn’t just take one of the infertile girls the Breeders ship us. He thinks …” his eyes flick to my face and then away. “He thinks I’m in love with you.”

  “Oh.” I clutch my hands together at my knees and stare at them.

  Clay shifts on the log beside me. “Anyway, I just thought it’d be easier to let him think that.”

  “Right.” My ears burn red. “So when we get home,” I say slowly, “you and I would be what, exactly?” It feels as though the fire’s burning hotter each second.

  Clay flicks at a bug crawling up the log. “According to my pa,” he pauses and swallows, “you’d belong to me.�
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  I look at his face. “I’d belong to you?”

  He shakes his head, holding up his palms in an it’s-not-what-you-think gesture. “Only according to my pa. It wouldn’t mean you’d be mine, I mean, to, you know … We’d just be the same. As before.” He clutches at the log as if he might fall off.

  I stare at the cooking chicken on the skillet, once pink, now singed. I can’t meet Clay’s eyes.

  Clay stands abruptly, rocking the log back. “Just don’t worry about it, okay? Everything will be fine. I, uh, I gotta go help … I’ll get Ethan to show you to your room.”

  When he leaves, I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the flickering fire. Even in its glow, I feel chilled to the bone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Clay says this is your room,” Ethan says, pointing to the nine-by-nine square of musty carpet, cobwebs, and spiders. The walls in here are a faded pink. On the floor, I see a wallpaper border that used to circle the wall, yellow ducks. A long time ago this was a baby nursery.

  “What about you?” I ask, batting away a cobweb that’s tickling my cheek.

  Ethan frowns and looks back down the hallway to where Clay’s voice floats toward us. Oh, I see. They’ve been bunking together. I pretend to be very interested in the pile of bedding they’ve left me as I swallow back the pain.

  “I’ll get my stuff.” Ethan scampers off.

  I tread carefully toward the bedding set in the corner so as to not disturb the dust. Three threadbare blankets each smell of body odor and mildew. At least fresh air blows in from the shattered window facing the dying campfire. The firelight will soon be gone and I’ll lie awake on the hard floor, listening to the rats scurry through the crawl space.

  “Eh hem.”

  Clay’s lean shadow darkens my open doorway. He’s clutching a two-foot tall metal barrel to his chest. He hefts it up slightly. “Found this. Thought you could have a fire in here if you wanted. Make it a little cozier.”

  I could reject his gift, but a little warmth might make this night bearable. I point to the corner. “You can put it there.”

  He nods and drops the barrel with a metallic clang. He goes out and returns with an armload of wood and lights the fire. I stand off to the side, arms wrapped around my body. Being alone with him sends goosebumps over my arms.

  “I got it from here.” I stride to the woodpile and pick up a splintered chair leg. When I raise it to toss it in the barrel, Clay flinches.

  A tight laugh bursts from my throat. “Did you just think I was going to hit you?”

  Clay shrugs and lets his fingers stray to his jaw where I punched him. “You got a hell of a right cross. Hate to see what you can do with that.”

  I smile, but remember how angry I am. I toss the chair leg in the barrel with a clunk. Clay tosses in his log and dusts his hands on his jeans.

  “I only hit people who deserve it.” I study his face in the orange flickering glow. His expression is hard to read in the weak light.

  “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he says, “but if you punch me again, I don’t care if you’re a girl, I’ll have to defend myself.” He leans in to warm his hands over the blaze and there’s a smirk on his face. He’s trying to be playful. And he’s just called me a girl. It’s been a long time since anyone in the real world acknowledged that fact. Chills run over my arms. I’m still wearing a hospital gown and pants. Suddenly I feel naked. I cross my arms protectively over my chest.

  Clay points to the pile of clothes next to my bedding. “They’re some of my old duds. Probably be too big for you, but it’s better than that flimsy thing.” His eyes flick to my gown and back to the fire. Is that blush on his face or heat from the fire? We fall silent. The crackling fire and the hushed voices of Hatch and the Sheriff supply some background noise. The air feels charged. I keep my eyes on the flames that waver in the barrel.

  When Clay speaks his voice is low and tremulous. “You’d have died if I didn’t take you to that hospital. I’ve spent every second since trying to get you back.”

  I bite my lip and watch the flames lick up a speckled log. “I thought you sold me for the money.”

  He shakes his head, his mouth a tight line. “I don’t care about money.”

  I squeeze my hands around my arms, holding myself together. “Most people care about that much money.”

  Clay shrugs. “I tried getting in without my pa. That place is locked up tighter than a bender’s twat.” He blushes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear in front of a lady.”

  I rock back on my heels. “Don’t do that. I’m not any different than I was.”

  Clay runs a hand down his chest and then tucks it into his jeans pocket. His eyes stay on the firelight. “But, it is different,” he says quietly. “Everything’s different now.”

  And it’s broken, the friendship we had. The room feels hotter, my head lighter.

  I grab a stick from the pile and use it to shift some logs that haven’t caught. “How’d your dad get me out of that damn hospital?”

  “He’s in pretty tight with ’em. He’s always making trips there, trading with ’em. Sheriff said they were eager to get rid of you. Guess you were giving ’em some trouble.” He smirks at me. “Can’t imagine you giving trouble.”

  I can’t smile. “Yeah, I was giving them trouble. When that guard wanted to rape me, I gave them some trouble.”

  He holds his hands up defensively. “Riley, I didn’t have a choice.”

  I turn on him, my hands tightening into fists. “That’s bullshit, Clay. You had a choice. You had a choice when you took me to the hospital—and a choice when you gave that boy to the Riders. There’s always a choice. You just don’t want to believe you’ve made the wrong ones.”

  Clay gives me a wounded look. “Yeah, I’ve made wrong choices. Tons.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a barrier between us. “But everything’s not as easy as you make it seem.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” I push past him to get to the door.

  He grabs my arm and whirls me around, his face wild. “You were bleeding out from a gunshot wound,” he says angrily, pointing to my stomach. “When you were conscious, you were screaming and begging me to kill you.” He stops, looks at the hand that’s gripping my arm and releases me. “I couldn’t let Ethan watch you die.” He stares morosely out the window. “I …” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I couldn’t watch you die.”

  My hands drop to my sides. “I don’t remember any of that.”

  “I do.” He turns his sorrowful face up to mine.

  We’re standing so close. Electricity jumps from his skin to mine. My heart starts to pound. Clay reaches out and traces the brand on the flesh of my forearm. The touch sends shock waves through my flushed skin.

  “I’m glad you’re back.” He locks eyes with me. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. I smell the sweetness of liquor on his breath. “I went crazy the whole time you were gone.”

  A wellspring of desire washes over me. My fingers tingle, my lips. He’s so close now I can smell the aftershave on his neck. I take a step closer. My eyes lock on the curve of his lower lip. He steps toward me.

  Hatch appears in the doorway. “Boss want you.”

  Clay takes a step back. The gap feels like miles. He drops his eyes from mine and gives Hatch a nod. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

  Hatch lumbers off. My eyes trail after him. “Not sure I like that he’s sleeping one room over,” I whisper.

  Clay’s face creases with anger and he bares his teeth. “If I had my way, he’d be taking thumb rides back home. He’s a motherless bastard.” He glances at me when he swears, but continues. “My pa says he’s worth his weight in muscle. I say he’s taken one too many kicks in that boulder he calls a head.” The veins pulse down Clay’s forearms as he squeezes his fists. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  Clay takes a step to the door, but I grab his arm. My fingertips trace over the skin of his wrist before I let go. My hand’s on
fire.

  “Wait,” I say, breathless. “What happens now?”

  His eyes track from my face toward where his pa waits for him. “We got an errand and then we’re going home.”

  “Home?”

  “When my pa found us, he tried to sweet talk me first. Guess he knew force wouldn’t do no good. I’m a better shot than both him and his man put together and he didn’t want it to get to that. So …” He pauses and blows out his breath. “We struck a deal.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  Clay curls his fingers over the hem of his shirt. “My pa said I won’t have to go on raids or trade with the road gangs. Just keep order in town. I told him he’d have to take you and Ethan in.” He lets his eyes wander back to the fire before they flicked up to my face. “Everything’s worked out okay, though. You’re free and Ethan’s got a place to grow up. And all I have to do is agree never to run away again.” Clay’s eyes are distant, looking out my window onto the moonlit landscape.

  I shake my head. “We can’t go home. My mama’s at the Breeder’s hospital. They have her knocked out in this room with all these half-alive girls.” How can I describe the horror? I think of her in the pitch-black room, wires hooked to her chest, the tube taped to her mouth. I wince and shake the image away. “We gotta get her out.” I look up, pleadingly into his eyes. “We gotta.”

  He blinks, processing. He reaches for my hand. “Riley, I’m sorry—”

  The Sheriff’s voice cuts through the room. “Clay!” his father bellows. “Get your ass in here!”

  He shoots a look down the hall. His hand, hovering inches from mine, drops to his side. “I’ll be back,” he says, turning.

  “Clay, wait.”

  He glances back with a look I don’t quite understand. His heavy footsteps echo down the hall as he walks away from me.

  I crumple into my mound of bedding and stare up at the sagging plaster ceiling. I replay the last few moments. Clay so close. His fingers on my arm. The change in atmosphere when his father called him, like a switch flipped inside his head. One minute he was mine, the next he belonged to the Sheriff. I curl into the musty blankets and close my eyes. I may have Ethan and Clay back, but we’re no better off than I was before.