Suddenly, he pulls out of me, dragging me off the table. The world spins, and then I’m on the concrete, on my back, a million flares of agony turning me rigid as my back scrapes against it.
“You will accept me, Jasmine. It is what you are meant for.” There’s no sanity left in him, and I should be quiet, but the scream is impossible to hold back as he climbs on top of me, bending my knees up and out so he can fit between my thighs. He lines up, staring between us before he shoves forward, driving me into the concrete as I try to be anywhere else.
I want to black out. I want to die.
But his God doesn’t grant me that.
In this position, my body starts to respond, to ease the path for him, but that’s the only easy thing about it. Every thrust is grating pain across my back, my head is throbbing, and every time I open my eyes, I find his closed. Intent on what he wants from me, the only thing he wants from me. No prayers this time, no apologies, he’s gagged me so I couldn’t even if he demanded it.
All I can do is make sounds, whimpering, crying as he finally gets all the way in, and I feel the pinch of pain that always accompanies his size. It’s like a different note in the maelstrom of torment he’s inflicted on me during the past few days, a higher pitch. I focus on that as I let my eyes close. The low thrum of pain all over, the screeching strings of my back against the floor, and then the steady sharp note with every deep thrust. Over and over and over.
The nausea gets worse when I try to lift my head, and I drop back to the floor limp. This is what he’s always wanted. An empty vessel he can do what he wants with. Fill with his seed until I can make him the child he wants so much.
He’s going to get it. One of these days, it’ll happen.
That thought weighs on me like an anchor in the ocean. It drags me down, tethers me to the bottom, in the dark, and I let it.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to be awake.
He groans loudly, hands braced on the floor above my shoulders, and I know he’s coming. I can feel it. All I can do is bite down on the leather between my teeth, silent as he rocks inside me.
There are no nice words this time. No ‘I love you.’ Nothing except the sudden absence as he pulls out and pushes himself up from the floor. It takes him a minute to put his dick away and rebutton his jeans, but I don’t move. My feet find the cement, but I leave my thighs parted and that’s where his gaze stays. Right where he’s hurt me so many times.
“You will learn to be obedient. You will learn to follow God’s word, Jasmine.”
I’m not sure if he expects me to respond while gagged, but he keeps staring at me, alternating between my face and between my legs.
“You deserve another punishment, Jasmine. You know that, don’t you?”
I shake my head from side to side, fighting against the rising nausea as I do it, but he just huffs as I whimper.
“You did this to yourself, Jasmine. Your choices. Your disobedience. Your betrayals to God, to me.” When he grabs me, I don’t fight, but I don’t help either. I let him lift my dead weight, and he only pauses for a moment before he adjusts his grip and picks me up. A second later I’m bent over the workbench again, head swimming, and I hear his belt swish free of his pants.
Why.
“Think of your failings, Jasmine. Think of how you can push the devil away so you can be closer to God.”
Pain spikes as the leather snaps against my skin, but I can’t cry anymore.
“You can be better, Jasmine. You will be.” Another crack of the leather, but my head hurts so much I can’t focus on it.
“You will be a good wife, Jasmine. In time. It will just take more time.”
More pain, but it doesn’t matter.
You will be better Jasmine.
You will be Jasmine.
You will.
A part of my brain tries to fight, flickers. That voice is so weak. The one that used to shout, ‘Don’t give up.’ It’s been getting quieter for a while now, whispering, pleading, begging. But I can’t hear it through the pain. Not as another strike lands in an endless stream.
I don’t want to fight anymore.
I don’t want to be Sloane anymore.
I’ll be whoever he wants as long as this stops.
Twenty-Two
Mason
‘But maybe you just didn’t want to find out you might be wrong, did you?’
Clint is just a kid, but those words burrow in as we finish the drive back to the station in silence. Neither of us tries to fill the empty space with words that’ll probably only make things worse, not better.
He doesn’t stick around long once we’re back. He’s angry, and Braddock keys in on the tension the minute we’re both in the station. Once he’s gone, the Sheriff and I have a conversation I’ve been waiting for, and it’s just as I suspected. The deputy has taken the case of the missing girl a little closer to heart than he should.
“You know, Clint’s a good kid. He’s just young. Got all them young man notions about duty, honor—”
“Saving the world,” I cut in.
Braddock nods. “And maybe a damsel-in-distress or two.” He stretches, then points to the picture I’ve set on Clint’s desk. “Young girl like that… pretty… actress from Hollywood gone missing.” He gives me a world-weary grin. “Plays right into the fantasies of a country boy like Clint.”
I spend a while checking email, catching up on things before I leave the station. I eat my dinner at Mattie’s Café, and then walk back to the motel. Sitting in the chair outside of my room, I watch as the sun inches toward the horizon, heralding the end of the day. A brilliant ball of orange that tinges everything in the world with brightness, offset only by the deepening shadows that indicate the darkness of night approaching. Shadow and light, harsh lines delineating the edges of all things.
It’s beautiful, but my mind keeps going back to the kid.
‘The fantasies of a country boy like Clint.’ That’s what the sheriff said, and that’s what it is. A fantasy. I keep telling myself that as I drink my Shiner Bock beer, watching as the moths flit around the light bulb on the wall just outside my door. I keep repeating it as I sit and listen to the deafening silence of a small, West Texas town at night. An occasional car or truck drifts by on Main at a sedate 25mph, and by Hollywood standards it might as well be the aftermath of the apocalypse for as much noise as there is. Which should be comforting, except that it allows me time to think.
And I do not like the thoughts that intrude.
‘You ever been wrong?’
‘Seems to me if you were so convinced…’
Damn kid.
* * *
Clint
I stare at her face on the screen.
In it she’s laughing, pointing to the roadside billboard that says ‘Mystery Hole!’ as if it is the funniest thing in the world. I tip the bottle back, let the now slightly lukewarm liquid slip down my throat as I finish off my third beer of the night. It’s her laughter that jabs into me like the spines off a cactus. Barbs that get under my skin and itch and irritate and just won’t let go. I point my cursor over the two little white double bars, pausing the video. Her face freezes with her head tilted back, mouth open in a moment of pure joy, eyes almost closed as she looks upwards. I lift the bottle to my lips, tilting, waiting for it, then remember it’s empty. For some reason I feel an irrational rush of anger push through me, and I slam the empty down.
Goddamn him.
I sit and stare at the screen. At the picture of her face, caught frozen in a moment of sheer beauty. He’d given up on her before he even came out here. I’d wanted to believe he was here to make an effort, but he made damn sure I knew that was a lie. ‘I came out here to flesh out a few paragraphs on a fucking report to give to the grieving father of a corpse.’ He made sure I knew just what he thought of me, of what I’ve been trying to do, and confirming all them things I know Sheriff Braddock and Duane been saying about me behind my back.
Chasing a ghost.
<
br /> Clint’s girlfriend.
Agent Mason fucking Jones didn’t say those things behind my back, though. He said them straight to my face, and he made damn sure I heard and felt every fucking word.
And tonight. Tonight, for a brief moment, I started to believe him.
Because maybe he is right. Maybe they’re all right. Maybe Sloane Finley is dead. Maybe she’s been dead for weeks, months, all this time, and I am just a dumb hick kid chasing after a dead girl’s ghost. Maybe it’s time to wise up, grow up, recognize that bad things happen all the time to good people in the world around us, and that thinking that you can do some good by believing you can make a difference is dumb. Childish. Better to grow that thick, callused skin the way a calf roper builds them up on their hands. So you can stop feeling. Feeling compassion. Or pain. Or anything. Like he said, don’t feel. Just react.
I started to think about that, and then I started to believe… until I saw her face on that screen and she tore it all back down.
Because I ain’t ready to become a Mason Jones yet. I ain’t ready to let pain take away my belief. My humanity. ’Cause I can tell that’s what life has done to him. I don’t have a fucking clue what he’s been through, but I damn sure know one thing. He’s got calluses built up on his soul thicker’n any roper I’ve ever known, and he can’t even feel the strands he’s tied himself up in anymore.
I really can’t say what I saw out there at Daniel’s place. Or why I felt what I did. But something’s going on out there. I been sitting here since dinner playing out scenarios in my head. Maybe he’s gotten in with them drug dealers to hole up on his property as they pass through. Maybe even stores kilos out there, somewhere we don’t know about. There’re a hundred other things I think about that could be going on out there that I ain’t gonna take to Jones or Braddock or anyone else. ‘Cause why in the hell would they believe any of it? I ain’t seen a damn thing. No one has. Daniel Christiansen’s been living out there mostly alone for years now, and ain’t nobody said boo about him. Just a big giant who was once the star of Stockdale now out on a ranch all by himself, alone. That ain’t nobody's business ’round here, and that’s just the way it is. That’s the way people want it. But I know I saw something. I know what I felt. And I can’t help remembering what one of my instructors at the academy said.
Never second guess yourself. Always go with your gut.
I pick up the empty from my table, and head to the kitchen. I throw it in the trash and open the fridge where a fresh six-pack is sitting, the brown bottles and yellow labels staring back at me. It’s dumb, what I’m thinking. It’s dumb, and stupid, but then… that’s what Sloane Finley and I are, right? Just a pair of dumb, stupid kids.
I grab the six-pack off the shelf and head for the door.
I know I’m going to regret this.
But I just don’t care.
* * *
I find Mason sitting in a chair just outside the door of his motel room. He’s got it propped open, and he seems to just be sitting there, looking off into the distance. I ain’t even sure he recognizes who I am until I’m out of my truck and halfway to him. Then I see his eyes focus on me, and his feet come down off the post where he’s braced them.
He leans forward, hands folding into his lap. Mason doesn’t say a word and neither do I for the moment. I find a chair from the next room over, pull it up close, set the six-pack on the ground. I pull the first one out and pop the cap off, handing it over to him wordlessly. He stares at me, then takes it out of my hand, saying nothing. I pull out the second, yank the cap off, and take a long pull. We both just sit there, and for a spell I just let my nerves calm before I start saying what I got to say.
He beats me to it.
“It won’t change a thing, Clint.” His voice is low and weary. I’ve heard Sheriff Braddock’s voice sound something like that, but Mason’s right now… it’s different. There’s a depth to it I can’t quite put a finger on.
“What won’t?”
“Going back out there.”
I don’t say a word. I just drink for a minute before I rest the bottle on my leg. “How’d you know?”
He looks down at his bottle, lifts it to his lips, and I watch as he swallows. When he’s done, he lets out a sigh that comes from a place far off and deep down. “Because there was a time…” His voice drifts, and then there’s nothing more.
I sit and watch as a moth flies past, heading like a comet for the sun that is the light behind him. “Why’d you give up on that, Mason? What happened that made you stop believing in yourself?”
He looks over at me, and then through me. Beyond me. And for a minute he’s not here. He’s not in Stockdale, Dallam County, or even Texas. I don’t know where he is, but it’s a place that turns his jaw slack, and his eyes dull. And then he stiffens, his eyes coming back to focus on me. He lifts his beer, drinks, and then points the neck at me. “I got experienced.”
I tilt my head, because that word he’s used — experienced — is starting to sound a lot like beaten.
“Well,” I say, taking another pull at my beer. “I ain’t there yet.”
“You will be. Someday.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe about it, kid. It happens to everyone. Sometimes you can see it, feel it. And other times it just sneaks up on you until one day you realize that even though you thought you were fighting against it, you weren’t. You’d accepted it all along, and you just didn’t know it.” He takes another drink, and I look down at my beer.
“Maybe so, Mason. Maybe so. But you just used a word I did earlier today, and it was you who called me out on it. Told me how wrong it was.”
He gives me that look. The one he seems to draw on a whole lot when he thinks he’s got the world pegged for all the fucked-up shit it is. “And what word’s that?”
“Feel.”
His eyes narrow. He starts to lift his beer to his lips, stops.
“I never said…” And stops again.
I lean forward until my elbows rest on my knees, bottle dangling between my legs. “See, that’s the thing I’m starting to notice, Mason. You cherrypick. When it suits your way of thinking, then you’ll allow that a person can feel. But when it goes against your… experience…” I lift the bottle, take a swig. “Well, then it’s just wrong.”
He stares at me hard. His eyes are black, intense, and for a single moment I realize there’s something there. That I’ve pricked him, and he don’t like it. No, he don’t like it one. Damn. Bit.
The stare goes on for a while, and then it morphs into a grin.
“Well, I’ll give you credit, kid. You aren’t half bad.” He lifts his own beer, finishing it off before he sets the empty down next to his chair. “What is it they say? ‘Even a blind squirrel finds a nut?’” He brings his hands together in a slow clap. “Congratulations.”
I could be angry. Should be angry. His tone... it’s patronizing. He’s trying to make me feel exactly the way he thinks of me. Just a dumb kid. But I’m not angry. No, right now I just feel tired. And sad.
“Tell you what, kid. You got a feeling? Fine. We’ll head back out there tomorrow.”
“I don’t need your pity, Mason.”
Suddenly he’s leaning forward, and when he speaks his voice is almost a snarl. “It isn’t pity, you dumb sonuvabitch. It’s a goddamn lesson. And one you need to learn. Quick.”
I shake my head, standing slowly while he watches me. I turn slightly to stare down at him, and he stares back. Defiant.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Agent Jones,” I reply, my voice even and calm before I turn and walk toward my truck.
“Hey, kid!” he calls out to me. “You forgot your beer!”
I don’t stop, or even turn around. “Keep it.”
You need it more than I do.
Twenty-Three
Mason
“Mason?”
I set the phone down, balanced on the edge of the tiny sink in the tiny bathroom of my tiny motel roo
m. “I’m still here, Carmen.”
“Okay. Anyways, they say they want to run one more test, just to be safe, and then they’ll release her.”
“All right.” I nod to myself, staring into the mirror. I look more tired than I feel, even though I’m aware how fitfully I slept last night.
Goddamn kid.
“I’m glad she’s okay. Well, as okay as someone can be after getting T-boned.”
Carmen chuckles. “Yeah. She’s got a helluva bruise across her shoulder. It’s gonna be all manner of pretty colors here in a few days.”
I grin at myself in the mirror. “Ha! Her own personal Pride flag.”
For a moment there’s silence, and then Carmen’s bright laughter filters over the phone. “Damn, Mason. I wish I’d thought of that.”
“Feel free to steal,” I answer back, smiling. It’s good to hear cheerfulness in her voice after the pain of the other day.
“Anyways, I figure it’ll be two, three o’clock before I’m able to get up there.”
“That’s fine. Deputy Nolan and I are headed back out to the Christiansen place this morning.”
“Why?” Her voice is mildly apprehensive.
“Well…” I rub my hand over my face. Admitting what has kept me restless since last night is not something I want to do with Carmen right now. Instead, I choose to set the blame squarely on Clint. Not that he doesn’t deserve it. “Deputy Nolan had a… feeling.”
“A… feeling.”
“Yep.”
The line is silent for a long moment. “You going soft, Mason?”
I chuckle, looking in the mirror. “Three days and you already know me too well.” I should shave. I open the tap, run water into the sink, then realize I have nothing to shave with. Everything is still in Carmen’s FBI Suburban.
I sigh. “I’ve been trying to school our young deputy, and I figure this’ll be yet another opportunity.”
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