by Penny Reid
Duane stopped scratching his beard, but his eyes narrowed, like he was studying my reaction closely. “Your brother, Jackson. He pulled Beau and me over on our way home, Thursday afternoon, right after you and I finished talking. He told me you inherited all the money you’ll ever need for your world travels. He told me you were planning to start after Christmas.”
I blinked twice, shaking my head in an automatic rejection of at least half his words. “Well, that’s a lie.”
Duane straightened, his abruptly wide eyes evidence of his surprise.
I rushed to clarify. “Not all of it. I mean, my…aunt did leave me with money. From the looks of it, and with good investments, enough for me to travel the world and not work if I so decided. But I have no plans to leave Green Valley imminently, and certainly not just after Christmas.”
His eyes dimmed and his mouth flattened. “Why not?”
Now I studied him, how he appeared to be restraining himself, holding himself away from me, and everything clicked. He’d been so cold, so aloof when I’d told him I loved him. He thought I was leaving. He thought I was just going to leave and never come back.
“Wait a minute.” I jumped to my feet, my mouth opening and closing as I tried to decide which part of this tangled mess to address first. “You thought…and then you…and we just…” I gestured to the bed, and decided to settle on my last thought. “So Jackson tells you about the money and you assume things are over between us? Do I mean so little to you? Did you ever want me? Or was that a lie?”
Duane frowned, balled his hands into fists, and said nothing. Yet behind his frown I perceived a restlessness to contradict.
But I wasn’t finished. “Or is this is about you not trusting me? You don’t trust me. And that’s why we made love tonight. You don’t trust me to stay. ‘Just for tonight, Jessica.’ That’s what you said.”
He didn’t deny it. He just continued to watch me piece everything together.
“Admit it! The only reason you gave in tonight is because you thought I was going to leave right away. Now that I can leave, you don’t trust me to stay. You don’t trust me at all.”
“I trust you,” he countered quickly.
I ignored his statement, desperation making me say, “We are far, far from over, Duane Winston!”
“Jess,” he shook his head, looking visibly torn. “We have an expiration date. In fact, we are over. I don’t see where we go from here. You’re going to be making plans to leave. We had this trial period before the twelve months started and I’m calling it off.”
“You don’t get to call it off!” I charged forward, waving my index finger around like it was a sword.
“I am calling it off. I’m walking away because I’m not going to keep you from doing what you need to do.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Leave.”
I flinched again; my next words were accusatory, half outraged question and half statement. “You want me to leave?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m in love with you. Why don’t you ask me to stay?” I demanded with a frustrated shout and a firm push against his chest.
“You don’t ask someone you love to give up on her dreams!”
I reeled back, my mouth falling open—wide, wide open—and I’m sure I looked a bit like an astonished owl. Two fat tears trailed down my cheeks, hot and unwieldy.
Duane gritted his teeth and looked away, his eyes focusing on a spot behind me. Shifting on his feet, refusing to make eye contact, he appeared to be regretful. He was obviously wishing back his hastily shouted admission, and that made me immeasurably sad.
Meanwhile, none of my internal organs knew what to think. They wanted to have a He loves you! He finally said it! party, but the manner of his confession and immediate withdrawal afterward made my heart hesitate to place the catering deposit.
My voice wasn’t entirely steady as I asked, “Were you ever going to admit the truth if I hadn’t pissed you off?”
“We’re not discussing this.”
“Why not?” I cringed at how needy I sounded, how lost.
I finally had his eyes again, but now they were blazing with fury. “Because you’re leaving, and we’re over, and it’s pointless. That’s why!”
“And everything has to be perfect, right? Everything has to be just right. Heaven and all the angels forbid Duane Winston ever does anything without precision and guaranteed success.”
I must’ve struck a nerve, because his gaze morphed from heated to incensed, and he advanced on me. “Fine. Fuck yeah, I love you. What do you think this is all about?”
“Well, now we’re finally getting somewhere. In case you didn’t hear me the first hundred times, I love you, too!”
He ignored me, or maybe he didn’t hear me. “I look at you and I see my future, and it is something great. But I can’t do anything about the fact that our dreams don’t align. And since I do love you, I want you to live yours.”
He’d backed me into the bed, but I held my ground, catching his arm before he could turn away. “So what about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Fine?! Screw fine!”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll be just fine knowing you’re somewhere in this world following your siren call.”
He was withdrawing again, so I held on to him tighter, not allowing him to turn away. “Why are you like this? Why do you insist on being so noble? Why does everything have to be defined?”
His chest rose and fell with a large breath, his eyes darting away, and I knew I was pushing him beyond his level of comfort. But I couldn’t help it.
I tried softening my voice, coaxing, “Duane, I have been nothing but honest with you. The least you can do is tell me—”
He interrupted, bringing his flashing eyes back to mine. “My father always took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. He took my momma, us kids. He’d take and take and take. I promised myself I was never going to be like that. Because when you have a father who is a selfish bastard, who takes what he wants whenever the fuck he wants it, the last thing you want to be is without honor.”
My heart hurt for him, but I didn’t know what to say, how to make it better. Regardless, he didn’t give me a chance.
Duane peeled my fingers from his arm and cradled my hand between his. “You want to go out there and live your dreams, then I’m going to remove myself from the equation. I’m not going to stand in your way. Because I would rather see the sadness in your eyes now than resentment in your eyes months or years from now. We are over. And I have to be the one to end it. I have to be the one to walk away. It has to be my decision. You need to give me that at least.”
He dropped my hand and stepped away, his eyes moving around the cabin like he was searching for something. Finding his shirt, he pulled it on. I watched numbly, part of me still cuddled up with him in bed, as he sat in one of the chairs by the table and put on his socks and boots.
I was feeling so many things, but none of them were eloquent. Broken. Sad. Broken and sad. That’s what I was. Silent tears slipped through my eyelids while he slipped through my fingers.
I didn’t have the brainpower or the heart for an impassioned speech. I was tired and my heart was bruised. But I couldn’t let him go. Not without exploring every option. Not without a Hail Mary pass.
I couldn’t keep bashing myself against a door he kept firmly closed, but I could leave a note.
Therefore, on a desperate whim, I asked with an unsteady voice, “Truth or dare, Duane?”
He shook his head, his eyes closing briefly to cover his discomfort, like the sound of my voice caused physical injury. “Truth or dare? You want to play truth or dare now?”
“Yes. Pick one, truth or dare?”
“Fine.” He clenched his jaw then gave me his eyes, they were cool and distant. “Dare.”
I nodded once, making a decision to be vulnerable just once more. “I dare you to extend the term of our
relationship to indefinite.”
His expression didn’t change. He just stared at me. The line of his mouth flat and straight.
So I pushed, begging, “Stay with me tonight, don’t leave. Stay with me, and not just for twelve months. Stay with me always.”
He winced and I could see his hackles rise. Before he could speak, I lifted my hand to stop him.
“I see you don’t understand my meaning.”
“I understand you perfectly,” he ground out, his tone rough, unyielding.
“No. You don’t.” I waited a beat, wanting to be sure he saw I was serious before I handed him my heart on a platter. “Come with me.”
That made a dent. He blinked his surprise before he could catch himself and blurted, “What?”
“Come with me. I dare you to come with me. Next month, next year, whenever. I dare you to come with me when I go. And stay with me, stay with me always.”
CHAPTER 23
“Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.”
― Margaret Lee Runbeck
~Duane~
I walked home.
I left Jessica wrapped in a sheet.
I left Jessica.
I left.
And I left part of myself in the cabin. I sensed the emptiness in my middle, in my gut, as soon as I crossed the threshold and entered the cold night. Her suggestion—that I leave with her, travel the world and share her life, her adventures—sounded like a fairy tale. A perfect fairy tale. And I’d been so surprised by the proposition that my mind actually considered the possibility.
But then I remembered the shop, my brothers, my obligations, the shit with the Order, and how everyone had been affected when Ashley ditched us years ago. I remembered my father, and how he took what he wanted, without a care for his family. He came and went as he pleased.
Leaving with Jessica was a fairy tale. Perfect in theory, but completely impractical in reality. Beau and Cletus relied on me, needed me. They couldn’t handle the workload on their own. My savings were invested in the auto shop, and I wasn’t going to travel the world using Jess’s aunt’s money.
Was I too proud? Fuck. Yes.
I was too proud to take money from Jess or anyone else without working for it.
So I left before I reconsidered, before I heeded my siren call.
But even then I’d been undecided. I kept seeing her face, the tears shining in her beautiful eyes as I walked out. The image of her called to me, to the depths of my soul. Each step was a burden. I turned back to the cabin at least three times and the tightness in my chest made breathing near impossible.
That was until I spotted her car. Jessica’s new-to-her car was a brand new, F-Type Jaguar. 5-liter V8. Manual transmission. All-wheel drive. 495 horsepower. I knew my automobiles like most people know their ice cream, so I knew the MSRP (manufacturer’s suggested retail price) was just under a hundred thousand dollars.
I stared at it for at least a full minute.
Then I walked the remainder of the way home without looking back, taking satisfaction in the sound of every twig that snapped violently under my boots. By the time I arrived at the house I was in desperate need of breaking something, no way was I going to be able to sleep.
Getting drunk was an option, but I’d been drunk for most of the last five days. And it was our first Thanksgiving since Momma died. Besides, getting shitfaced an hour before dawn wasn’t my style anyway. Concluding the only option available to me at present was splitting more wood we didn’t need, I decided to veer toward the woodshed once the house was in view.
But as I cleared the trees, I stopped short. Jethro, my oldest brother, was walking up the porch steps to the front door, carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. I was too surprised by the sight of him, and too caught in the momentum of my misery, to call out before he entered the house. But the sound of our front door shutting pulled me out of my stupor.
My mind was a mess as I quickly jogged to the porch and rushed through the screen door. I needed to speak with him, bring him up to speed. But I was also five different shades of pissed off with my oldest brother. Somehow, likely because violence was already on my mind, the five shades of pissed off won out over being sensible.
Thus, when I entered the house and he turned around—a big, care-free grin eating up his face—and he said, “Hey, Duane. Did you miss me?” I punched him in the face.
I pulled my punch at the last minute. I didn’t want to knock him out, I just wanted to beat him up a little. Maybe get knocked around myself.
He staggered back—more from surprise than from the force of my fist—and threw a completely perplexed frown at me while clutching his jaw. “What the hell was that for?”
I didn’t answer. I let him read the intent in my eyes, gave him a few seconds to prepare, then I charged at him. Jethro was a good fighter, we all were, but he was better than most of us. Being the oldest and spending a good part of his youth fucking around with the Order, he learned to fight fierce and dirty. But he’d taught me all his tricks long ago; and his fight now wasn’t fueled by weeks of frustration, of dealing with biker threats and Jessica James’s confession I could do nothing about.
Perhaps he was trying to defend himself against my assault, but that didn’t deter me any.
We crashed around the living room, banging into walls, sending picture frames falling to the floor. He had me in a headlock and I used the position to elbow him in the ribs, then administer a kidney punch as he struggled to contain me.
My nose was bleeding and I took satisfaction in the sight of his split lip when we were interrupted by a harsh whisper. “What are y’all thinking?”
We glanced up in unison. Cletus’s furious expression had an instantly sobering effect. He stood on the steps, looking as upset as I’d ever seen him, and loud-whispered down at us. “Making a big ruckus at five in the morning? Making a mess of things? On Thanksgiving? Today is turkey day! Plus you know how Billy needs his beauty sleep, otherwise he’ll be whining at us ’til dinner. I don’t want to listen to that swill on my day off. And besides, you interrupted my quiet time.”
Jethro grimaced, shooting me a dirty stare—which I returned—and loud-whispered his response, “Sorry, Cletus.”
Cletus’s hands were on his hips and he gave us both a hard look, his eyes sticking to me a bit longer than Jethro. “Take your fight outside.”
I nodded, staggering to the front door and whispering contritely, “We will.”
“And now you owe me pancakes, Duane Faulkner Winston,” Cletus added with a reprimanding whisper. “Blueberry pancakes.” Then he pivoted and disappeared down the upstairs hall.
I didn’t know what Cletus did during his quiet time, but Beau seemed to think it was yoga.
I opened the front door, then turned and gestured for Jethro to exit the house.
“You first.” He lifted his chin, covered with three weeks’ worth of unkempt beard. His hands were still balled into fists. He’d never been the trusting sort; then again, I had just attacked him in our living room.
I shrugged and exited to the porch, walking to the far corner. I waited until he followed and shut the door before saying, “You’ve always been a selfish asshole.”
Jethro nodded once, working his jaw back and forth; his steps were measured as he crossed to me. “Everybody knows that. And you always could start an argument in an empty house. Now why don’t you tell me specifically what I did to inspire such an unforgettable welcome home?”
“Traps,” I growled, closing the remaining distance between us and keeping my voice low. “You installed traps in four cars, for the Iron Order, so they could run drugs without getting caught.”
Jethro’s eyes widened even as his brow pulled low. “How do you—”
“Because, dummy, they videotaped the whole thing. And now Repo is exploiting your shitty decisions as blackmail. He wants to use the Winston Brothers Auto Shop as their new chop shop, or else he’s sending you to feder
al prison.”
“Oh shit…” Jethro said on a shocked and defeated exhale, then sunk to the rocking chair to his left. I watched dispassionately as his elbows came to his knees and he buried his face in his hands.
I was quiet, something I knew how to do well, and waited for my brother to process reality.
“Did you do it? Did you agree?” He didn’t lift his head, so his words were spoken to the wooden porch floor.
“No. We’ve been stalling.”
Jethro’s shoulders rose and fell, and he nodded. “Good. Good.” He was silent for a beat, then asked, “And Cletus doesn’t have a plan?”
“No. Cletus doesn’t know.”
Jethro lifted his head from his hands, his eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean Cletus doesn’t know? You didn’t tell Cletus?”
“No, Jethro. I didn’t tell Cletus. Why would I want to bring him into this godawful mess of yours if he can keep his hands clean? Isn’t it bad enough that Beau and I have to deal with it?”
My oldest brother jumped to his feet. “Duane, Cletus installed the traps.”
Now he’d surprised me. I straightened from the wooden beam where I’d been leaning and stared at him. He was half smiling.
“Come again?”
“Cletus was the one to install the traps in those cars, not me. Do you think I’d be able to install those contraptions? Did you see how they work? You have to…” He appeared to be searching his memory for the description. “You have to wire them just so—where they won’t open unless the car is off, but the key is in the ignition, and the seatbelt is fastened, and there’s a hurricane in Florida, and no beer left in the fridge, and everyone’s favorite dessert is banana cream pie—or some such complicated nonsense.”
I was still stuck on the fact that Cletus—not Jethro—had been the one to install the traps, too stuck to admire the genius of how they worked.
“So…Cletus knows? He knows all about this? How you got out of the Order?”
Jethro nodded. “Yeah. When I decided enough was enough, and those biker boys told me what I needed to do, the cost of my freedom, the first person I thought of was Cletus.”
