The user.
Who was using who?
Who abducted who?
I close my eyes as wetness clusters on my lashes. “Goddammit, Ek! Where are you?”
I check my phone.
Nothing.
I check my email.
Same.
She’s gone.
I stroke my bare cheeks with one hand as I poke around in places sane people don’t go. I will never be one of them. “You’re somewhere. I know you are. You’re too drawn to the dark.”
I find zero leads. Not a clue. I shake my head. “You went to Alabama.” I pull up the address for her house. “You’re not going to Texas via Birmingham, asshole.” I sigh. “Message me. Give me something.”
Nope.
I wind up on nasty porn, stroke my dick less than a dozen times, and call it a night.
My balls ache.
But not nearly as bad as my heart stuck in the cage.
42
Ride Like You Mean It
Jynx
“We’ve got the perfect spot,” Axel says three days later on the phone as I pack up most of Grandma’s house. “Problem is, it’s halfway between Austin and San Antonio, but it’s cheap.”
Cheap—there is a word I actually like in this instance.
But I’m surprised to hear it coming out of Axel’s mouth. I was expecting some grandiose, golden, and crystal palace that charged six figures a month.
“Why is that a problem?”
He pauses like I should readily know the answer. “You’re moving to Houston.”
“I’m not running Peacock!” I insist, moving her old books from the case to the box. “Wang is leading it, not me.”
He laughs. “You say that until the phone call comes at three in the morning, and he whines, Jynx, fix it!”
I roll my eyes because he’s right. “Then I guess I move. I’m not worrying about this right now. I’ve got a fucking morgue of memories to deal with.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Hey, Ax, sign the lease.”
“I’m not signing the lease, chump muffin. I’m buying the damn building. It’s cheap.”
“Fine, whatever,” I say, scooting a box of fragile knickknacks out of the way. “Make it happen.”
I bought sheets to cover the antique furniture, and now a fright of ghosts inhabits the home, scaring me at every turn. The first night I had the living room covered, I walked downstairs to get a drink in the middle of the night and just about pissed myself.
It’s eerie, everything changing shape.
The house has looked the same since I was a boy. It’s unnerving to shift perception. It’s also very good for my psyche.
I leave in two days, but I’m running out of room in my truck. I’ve been trying to figure out how to drive my truck, tow the Mustang, bring my bike in the back of the truck, and still manage to get half of what I don’t want to ship. I’ve about decided it’s impossible.
Taking a breath, I make a whiskey and coke before assessing what is left to do. I light a smoke in the kitchen, feeling a bit closed in by all of it.
Leaving South Carolina was never in my plans.
Under my hand, the phone buzzes with a text from the real estate agent. He’s taking a couple out to the beach house this afternoon and needs the keys since we did the listing over the phone.
“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing at my watch. It’s just before noon. The construction crew packed up and left when I halted completion since I was putting it on the market. No one else has a key but me. I swallow the rest of my drink and text him back—“Meet me at the house in two hours.”
I open the junk drawer, which I still haven’t gone through, and grab a set of the beach house keys. I toss my Reckless Rebellion hoodie on and pluck the keys for the Harley off the hook. The car is already loaded on the car hauler, and the truck is full of boxes. I don’t have anything else to drive. I mean, I do…but…
I grumble, “I don’t fucking have time for this today.”
But I need to sell the house.
Not for the money.
The memory—or would-have-been memories—implicitly conditional with an existential improbability to never occur.
Yeah. Beach house needs to GTFO of my life.
I lock the house and carefully pull the bike out of the garage between the two cars—my drag car, which I moved up from the shop and is being freighted tomorrow, and her Mama-mobile, which I have no idea what the fuck to do with. Running back inside, I grab the keys and decide to drop them off with Dermot.
He took the flock to his parent’s place; he’ll take her keys too.
I sold the peacocks because I cannot keep them.
It hurts.
And everything that hurts is going away.
I had Axel drive her new blue Mustang to Texas. I plan on stripping it out and building another drag car.
Remove the source of pain.
The horses are being professionally transported later this afternoon. Deacon offered to let them stay at his farm until I get settled. If I sell Grandma’s house, I’ll have to hire movers or come back or maybe both. I haven’t made up my mind yet.
And that is how one man disassembles almost seventy-five years’ worth of love and devotion—one day at a fucking time.
I fire up the bike on a pleasant day. There is a hint of fall in the air, and the ride will be brisk on my cheeks, reinvigorating me, which is a good thing because I have a ton of shit to get done.
Stopping in town, I fill the tank with gas and veer next door to the feed shop. I walk inside as Amelia greets, “Howdy, handsome!”
“Hi, beautiful,” I warmly say, kissing her cheek and pulling off my sunglasses. Amelia is Dermot’s sister, and I’ve known her forever.
Almost twenty years ago, Dermot McElvaney was the drug dealer in our small town. My gang made him a ton of money. Dermot and I are the only ones still left in this town. We never made it out, so we have a pretty significant history of fistfights, bar brawls, and good times. He’s probably my best friend. “Is Dermot here?”
“Yep, he’s out back with Madison,” she says, grinning. Madison is his older sister. I don’t know how much of my spunk she’s swallowed, but back in the day, it was a lot. “They’re unloading a hay shipment.”
I never tapped Amelia because she was a good girl, unlike Madi, who was open with twenty-four/seven drive-thru service. Madi liked assholes—and not my kind of an asshole, either. Abusive guys were her forte, but they only landed her with many bruises, broken bones, three ex-husbands, two kids, and one very pissed off brother.
Thank God Dermot was the only son.
I meander through the tack and feed shop his grandparents owned. He’s local with deep roots like me. Despite being born up north, Grandma secured my spot in being a small town, Southern gent. I was as good as native.
I spot Madi and her bright red hair standing in the open trailer of a semi-truck. She’s pushing bales to the edge and struggling to do that as Dermot and an employee stack them on the carts.
I hop up in the trailer and finish moving the bales as Madi goes to help a customer inside. She suggestively smiles, but I ignore her. Not a chance in hell I’m going around that worn out block. I’m better than that. God only knows what diseases linger there.
Dermot and I finish up quickly, and he asks, “How are you doing?”
“I need you to do me one more favor,” I say, following him over to the fence where he lights up a smoke. His fully inked sleeves cover the scars of our youth—his battles were hard-won between the needle and the vein. He’s been sober for fifteen years now.
I don’t feel like I’m even sober now.
I’m drunk on a girl I cannot have. Pulling the keys to her car from my pocket, I drop them in his palm. “I need you to get these to her if I call you.”
“You steal her car?”
I tried to steal her heart.
And I failed miserably.
“No,” I snicker. “She lef
t it here when we flew out to Phoenix. We broke up. She left. I don’t have a clue where she is, but I imagine she’ll want them back eventually.”
“I got you, man,” he replies, puffing on the smoke. “If you need some help out in the Lone Star State, holler at me.”
I nod. “I will.”
“I’m a phone call away.”
“I know,” I mumble, tossing my sunglasses on. “But you know Deacon, he doesn’t drop the ball. I need to go. The realtor has someone interested in the beach house.”
“Take care, brother.” He embraces me. “Don’t let the girl drag you down.”
“Never,” I lie, accepting that it is too late for that. I’m tied to her heart and being jostled through the crevasses of a cranky, glaciovolcanic hell. “I just need a change of scenery for a while.”
“You won’t ever come back,” he points out. “And I wouldn’t blame you. Hell, I may wind up trailing your ass if things don’t pick up around here.”
I turn back to him. “Do you need some money?”
“No, it’s not about money. I need decent help. That’s why I’ve got both the girls working with me now.”
“I’m not selling your animal chow.”
He laughs, and we part ways as I start the journey toward the ocean. I’ve done this trip so many times; I can do it blindfolded. I take backroads, avoiding the highways. A few leaves are falling on the perfectly crisp fall day.
I think about the past, the town, Dermot, my grandma, and the cows grazing in the fields I pass—anything to keep my mind off the one who has me so tied up in knots.
I can’t think. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.
Her absence is the worst fucking case of withdrawal ever.
I arrive shortly after one and hand over the keys. I don’t make small talk—not interested. Just sell my fucking house, and the painful would-have-been memories contained therein. He checks to make sure they work, and I spot the grand curved staircase where she once stood.
The moment blasts my heart like a tidal wave, locking all of my emotions up. I’m safer being a coldhearted, cruel bastard than a caring soul.
We shake hands, and I nod at the house as I put my helmet back on and ride away.
I don’t cry.
I grieve.
Stopping at the end of the driveway, I grab the last day’s worth of mail at the farmhouse. It will start being forwarded tomorrow.
J.A. Monroe no longer lives here.
I don’t live where the mail is being delivered either—342 Del Rio Canyon Road in Little Bee, Texas. I’ve never seen the place, but tomorrow, I’m officially a resident.
I straddle onto the bike, slowly pulling down the gravel path. I wonder how long someone has to live in Texas to be considered—a Texan? It’s kind of cool sounding. ‘I’m a Texan.’ Hell of a pickup line. All the girls will think I wear boots, jeans, and a cowboy hat while toting around a massive cock. Well, one out of four ain’t bad.
Dear God.
Axel will be wearing giant silver belt buckles.
I shake the thought away and park next to the truck. “I’ve got to figure this out. How do I get you, Harley, inside of you, truck bed, with all the boxes?”
“You use my car,” Echo mutters, revealing herself at the edge of the garage.
I drop the mail. “Fuck.” I bend down to pick it up.
“Which part makes you say fuck?” she asks, stepping closer. “Dropping the mail or me?”
I glance up, still low to the ground, and gaze at her smiling face. Her freshly bleached blonde hair shimmers with the sunlight on her back. She appears like an angel, a gift from the heavens above, sent to rescue me.
“That all depends on you, I suppose.” I stand up, but she’s too close. I dodge around her and walk toward the garage.
“I need my car keys, Jeremiah.”
I spin back with a wolfish grin. “You need more than keys, Darlin’.” She giggles and chases after me as I unlock the door. “Where have you been?”
“Do you want the truth?”
“Yeah,” I say, smacking the mail down on the kitchen counter. It snaps, and she jumps. “Because I’ve been worried fucking sick.”
“I’ve been hitchhiking since I left Birmingham.” She could not have told me anything worse at this point. “I ended up going to New England. I stayed there for about a week until I finally found a sweet little couple who took me to Tennessee and let me stay in their basement for another week. Then, their daughter drove me down to Miami where we stayed for a week. She dropped me off here on her way back home.”
I blink, unamused, and ill-prepared to deal with her dangerous stunts. I have a good mind to grab her arm, drop her leggings, and blister her ass until she cries. And to top it off, I’ll fuck her ass just as a reminder as to who owns her.
“You’re serious. Aren’t you?”
“When your future spouse is a techno geek, you don’t pull out a credit card.”
And now, on top of everything else, she is blaming me.
True, but still.
“I see.”
“My brother sold the house for cash and gave me ten grand.”
My mouth drops open at her absolute stupidity. “You hitchhiked? With ten grand in your purse?”
With an innocent expression, she whispers, “Some of it was sewn in my jacket and tucked in my panties.”
That’s it.
My fingers latch onto her arm and push her face down on the kitchen table. I yank the back of her pants down and wallop her with a hefty palm. “You do not go hitchhiking across the country!” I scold, striking her sweet—God, she is so sweet—delicate flesh. My mouth waters. My dick hardens. Everything in me is on fire and set to explode at any moment. “Never ever again!”
Tears drip from her eyes. “But it brought me back to you! And I’d never rode in an eighteen-wheeler before!”
Oh. No. You didn’t.
With one hand on her back, I use the other to snap my belt off, rip it through the loops, and welt her ass red. She is screaming, crying, and I lose it with one tug of my zipper. Grabbing my surging shaft, I thrust into her swollen pussy lips and moan, “Goddammit, Abby! Do not ever leave me again!”
My hand smooths over hers, resting flat on the table, and she lifts her fingers, lacing them into mine. My other hand grabs her hip, and I piston deep inside of her wetness until she whimpers, “Fuck me, Jynx. Fuck me harder.”
And I lose it fast, coming like a rocket and depositing all of my milky seed inside of her warmth. I don’t care if she comes right now. She’s in trouble—big trouble—and her punishment isn’t over. I lean over, nuzzling her hair and kissing her neck. “I love you, bitch.”
“I know you do, asshole.”
I fall from her folds, and she flips over. I set her on the table and stare. “I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe you came back to me.”
“I needed time to think about things. And I realized how much I love you beyond all of the shit. I want to live my life with you. I need you by my side.” Her hands run over my shoulders and land on the RR emblem on my left pec. “You’re a biker.”
“I don’t qualify for your ad.”
“I know,” she mutters as mascara drips over her cheeks. “That’s why I rewrote it. I’m now looking for Natural Dominant. Alpha. Male. Nerdy biker—a professional-type of bad boy. I’m seeking him for pure ravishment, abduction, and torture scenes. Plenty of personal communication is expected for a lifetime commitment. And he must provide lots of tacos.”
I grin wide. “… Is that so?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you realized all of that while in an eighteen-wheeler?”
“Actually,” she says, smiling. “I came up with that when I was in New Jersey heading to Tennessee. I was a bit broken for the first week. I cried a lot because I saw you take a man’s life.”
“I did that for you,” I interject as she bravely places her finger on my lips.
“I know that,” she whisp
ers. “But I never wanted you to feel like you had to change for me or even defend me.”
“That’s what a boyfriend does.”
“Well, I know that now, too. I never had one of you before.”
Holding her in my arms, I laugh. “… A boyfriend or a stalker?”
“Both!” She giggles, and I kiss her lips again for the first time. I start slow and sensual with little pecks until I can’t take anymore. I slip my tongue inside of her mouth, and her hands ease under my hoodie. We’re hot, smoldering, and so needy for one another. I take everything she offers and demand for more like a greedy bastard. “Take me to bed, Jynx. Make love to me in the light.”
I scoop her into my arms, not questioning or fighting. “You’re still in trouble,” I remind, marching up the staircase. “And you’re not getting out of it.”
“Neither are you, Jynx.”
43
The Slip of Sand
Jynx
I wake with her snuggled beside me. I spoon my body around hers, providing plenty of warmth. Her blonde hair is spread out, twining around my bicep. She secures my place to her heart with every breath from her lungs. And I will never get enough of Echo Maines.
I made love to her for hours in the light yesterday.
Not fucking—passionately wild lovemaking.
Rolling toward my chest, she sleepily grins. “How long have you been up?”
“A bit,” I reply, stroking her cheek. “You were tired.”
“You have stuff to do today?”
“First off, I have to go retrieve your car keys from Dermot,” I inform, staring at her radiance in the early morning light. She shines in my shadows. “And then I need to finish packing.”
“I’ll help you,” she offers, pushing on my shoulder. I ease over onto my back as she crawls on top of me. She readily straddles me—owning every bit of her sexuality and her relationship with me. “We can load up my car and I will follow you to Texas.”
“Not a chance,” I counter, rubbing my hands over her hips and encouraging her behavior. I invite her once with a gentle rock of my hips and a flick of my brow. “I love following that ass.”
Beautiful Things Evil People Do Page 36
