Booted

by Pam Godwin

  “I don’t care how you got involved with him or what he did to you.”

  “This isn’t about me.” I mean, it partly is. I have my own reasons for gutting that monster, but like Lorne said, he doesn’t care. “He’s a murderer.”

  “I know that.”

  “You don’t know.” A swallow sticks in my cotton throat as I meet his distrustful glare. “John Holsten killed your mother.”

  Lorne goes eerily still, his expression closed off and voice monotone. “My mother died in a car accident when I was four.”

  Ava O’Conor did die in a car. That part is true. She was driving, and John’s wife, Julep, was with her.

  Julep and Ava were best friends. When Ava inherited the land from her parents, Julep helped her turn it into a successful cattle ranch, which Ava named after her. Julep Ranch.

  All of this is common knowledge. The truth surrounding their deaths, however, was buried twenty-two years ago.

  “The accident wasn’t accidental.” I float on a groggy high that’s too lofty for this conversation. The rounded edges of my thoughts blur together, garbling my voice. “Julep wasn’t supposed to be in that car.”

  “John told you this?” He stares at me, incredulous.

  “All the time. Usually while drunk.” A yawn stretches my jaw as I muse, “He loved his wife.”

  Air hisses past his teeth. “The man isn’t capable of love. You know what he did to my sister.”

  Eight years ago, John put a hit on Conor and Lorne. That night left a tragic mark on this family. It’s the reason Lorne went to prison. He has every right to kill John himself.

  “I know what he did.” I gentle my expression. “I also know he loves Jarret and Jake.”

  “You’re defending him? A man who beat you and raped you?”

  “Not at all, and he didn’t rape—”

  “There was blood between your legs when Maybe found you chained in that room.”

  My skin heats. Did she tell the whole family about that? These people have no sense of privacy.

  John did a lot of disgusting things to me, but I put myself in that position and accepted the consequences.

  Until I couldn’t.

  The night I fought back, my world turned inside out.

  Lorne’s mouth twists into a cruel snarl. “Did you or did you not willingly fuck that son of a bitch?”

  My brain sloshes through a sedated state of confusion. The answer isn’t black and white. I let him fuck me, but did I have a choice? Maybe if I was stronger, smarter, I could’ve steered the past two years in a different direction. “I was willing, but—”

  “You fucked him, knowing he killed my mother?”

  “I didn’t know at first.”

  He steps to the window and rests his hands on the sill, staring out into the fall of darkness. “I have a hard time believing anything you say.”

  “I don’t care what you believe as long as you don’t stop me from killing him.”

  He looks at me like I’m incapable of hurting a fly. “How did he kill her?”

  “I don’t know. He bemoaned the fact that his wife was in the car, that he only meant to kill Ava O’Conor.”

  “Because he wanted our land?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I don’t remember his words, but I remember his fists. He swung them hard whenever I asked questions.

  Lorne turns back to the window, absorbed in brooding silence.

  “I want you to know…” I sink into the bed, extraordinarily drowsy and fading fast. “I meant what I said about no cops. Jarret and Jake did the right thing by killing those men, and I would never turn them in for that. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  He gives a tight nod, his gaze on the darkness outside.

  The sting on my cornea dulls, but every blink is an irritating scratch. So I hold my eyes closed, for just a moment of relief.

  The rigid stillness in the room stretches around me as I fight sleep. I intend to leave tonight. I don’t know how, but I need to stay awake. I try for long minutes, straining to open my eyes.

  It’s a battle I eventually lose.

  When I wake, the suite is empty, the stark space illuminated by a dim lamp. The clock on the nightstand reads two in the morning.

  Blank walls, no personal touches or color, boxes piled in the corner—there’s no warmth or life here. This space has been waiting a long time for Lorne to come home, and I hate that I’ve stolen it from him.

  I need to go.

  A plate of fruit, vegetables, and cheese sits beside the clock. I’m sure I have Maybe to thank for that.

  Gripped with a voracious case of the munchies, I fall upon the food, inhaling every bite and gulping down both bottles of water.

  The walk to the en-suite bathroom is murky. My head feels too heavy for my shoulders, and it’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. But I manage to stay vertical, empty my bladder, and return to the bed without colliding with the floor.

  I’m just going to lie down for a few minutes until this throbbing hangover passes.

  I shut my eyes, and when I open them again, sunlight stabs into my retinas.

  “Fuck!” I lurch upward and glance at the clock.

  Fucking fuck, fuck! I slept for twelve hours?

  A sinking feeling hits my stomach. Last night was Lorne’s first night out of prison, and I took his bed. Where did he sleep? On the couch?

  Fuck me, I’m such an asshole.

  The fresh plate of fruit and bread on the nightstand makes me feel worse. This family didn’t give me the warmest reception, but they took care of me. They don’t deserve what I’m about to do next, but I don’t have any other options.

  I eat quickly and crawl out of bed, surprised by my energy. It seems food and sleep were exactly what I needed.

  In the bathroom, I peel off the dress. The bandages follow. The recent knife wounds are the ugliest of my injuries, but they aren’t deep enough to require stitches.

  John was more of a slasher than a stabber, every cut meant to make me less attractive so no one else would want me. His words.

  After a quick shower, I clean my teeth with toothpaste on my finger and glance at the mirror.

  Holy fuck, my face looks like ten miles of bad road. At least the bruises and cuts aren’t swollen today, and my bloodshot eye appears a little less red.

  I wrap a towel around me and creep through the estate.

  A peek at the kitchen, living room, and front and back porches confirms I’m alone. Having lived here before, I know the guys work long hours in the field.

  I’ll be gone before they return to the house.

  I grab some protein bars, canned goods, and bottled water from the pantry and head back to the wing that once belonged to John. It’s been remodeled since I was here. Not a hint of his toxicity left in this space.

  Bypassing Lorne’s suite, I slip into the bedroom Jarret shares with Maybe.

  In the closet, I find a small backpack and stuff it with the food and a few of her comfortably loose sundresses. If I weren’t so malnourished, her jeans might’ve fit.

  Guilt pinches my stomach as I rummage through her shoes and take a pair of scalloped cowgirl boots. I slide on a casual dress that covers the bruises on my chest and thighs. And panties… I’ll have to get some later.

  I hurry back to Lorne’s room. His wallet and key ring sit on the boxes in the corner. I overheard Jarret and Jake discussing how they kept Lorne’s old pickup truck in working condition while he was in prison. I loathe the idea of stealing from him, but I must find a way back to John Holsten before he finds me.

  Assuming the boxes belong to Lorne, I dig through them until I find what I’m looking for. Amid books, clothes, and old boots, I remove a mid-sized hunting knife in a leather sheath.

  Wrapping my fingers around the wooden handle, I imagine driving the steel blade into John’s chest. Adrenaline fires through my system, and my spine forges with determination.

  I slip the knife into t
he backpack.

  There’s a hundred dollars in Lorne’s wallet. I take forty bucks, swipe the keys, and give the room a final glance.

  I’ll leave his truck in town and hitch a ride to Texas. I can’t, however, repay the things I’ve taken. I have no one and own nothing. Except…

  My hand lifts to the choker at my throat, and my eyes burn. The necklace is only worth its sentimental value, but Lorne will know that. He might not understand what it means to me, but he’ll know it’s the only possession I have to give.

  With trembling fingers, I release the clasp and position the dream catcher on his wallet. “I’m so sorry I stole from you.”

  After I kill the man who took his mother’s life, maybe he’ll forgive me?

  My fingers linger on the handmade choker, my breath trapped in my chest.

  No more delaying.

  I have a monster to hunt.

  Releasing my lungs, I square my shoulders and make my way to the truck.

  Garish neon lights blink on and off, illuminating a sign in the crude shape of a naked woman. There are no words or anything to advertise the grungy, one-story strip club. Just the pink neon lady, flickering erratically.

  I try to time the rhythm of the buzzing light, but it’s too sporadic. Irritatingly so. There must be an electrical short.

  Parked in a dark corner of the weedy lot, I’ve been sitting in my truck for an hour, working up the nerve to go inside.

  I found my truck abandoned in Sandbank yesterday. Raina’s lucky I haven’t found her.

  The bitch disappeared twenty-four hours ago. She stole my knife and my money and dumped my pickup on the side of the road. Where she went after that is anyone’s guess.

  The moment I discovered her missing, Jarret and I drove to Texas, expecting to find her chained in John Holsten’s house.

  Except no one was there. John must’ve left right after Raina escaped with Maybe, given the platter of rotting chicken and half-finished tumbler of whiskey beside the recliner.

  We found the wall safe open and empty, four days of mail in the mailbox, and the clothes in his bedroom closet all gone.

  Did he run because he thought I’d come for him? He sent hit men after my sister and stole eight years of my life. Killing him would be a mercy. I’d rather torture him for the next twenty years.

  My hands flex on the steering wheel as I glare at the aggravating neon sign. How long has it been shorting out like that?

  Why am I even here?

  When we left John’s house, Jarret dropped me off at my truck. From there, I drove up and down the streets in every town between Sandbank and the Texas border.

  That’s how I ended up at a strip club an hour away from home. The obnoxious sign caught my eye, and some irrational part of me decided I needed sex more than food or sleep.

  It’s after midnight. I haven’t slept in two days, and I want nothing more than to walk into that club and shove my cock into the first available hole.

  Since I’ve been behind bars my entire adult life, I’ve never been to a place like this. But I heard these girls will do anything for extra cash. I could grab one on her break, bust a nut, and be home by morning.

  The idea doesn’t arouse me. The thought of sticking my dick in a drugged-out stripper makes my balls shrivel. But after fucking my fist for eight years, I need to know I can still get it done, that I can engage with a woman like a normal man.

  I’m ready to be normal again.

  That means spending time with my family. They were the ones fighting for me when I was inside the barracks.

  It means taking over the ranch I was always meant to run.

  It means giving up my ridiculous search for Raina.

  Problem is, I feel responsible for her. Only because I should’ve told her John Holsten called the day I was released from prison. I should’ve told her he intends to get her back, by force or any means necessary.

  He might be old and destitute, but that didn’t stop him before. The motherfucker is resourceful. If he wants her badly enough, he’ll find people and ways to make it happen.

  What if he already found her? He could have her shackled somewhere right now.

  I grew up under his thumb, and I know how he operates. He’s selfish, greedy, and indulges in whatever he wants, whenever he wants. I bet he wants Raina for no other reason than because she’s the sexiest woman to ever step foot in Sandbank.

  Hell, even with her face swollen and bruises discoloring her body, she’s so goddamn gorgeous I can’t breathe when I look at her.

  But I haven’t forgotten she stole from me. Christ, I’m angry. Fucking enraged. I can’t blame her, though. She has nothing to her name, not even a shirt on her back. She wants revenge, and she did what she had to do to go after him.

  It’s a strange contrast, these feelings she stirs in me. I want to punish for her stealing and reward her for being so tenacious. A spanking would accomplish both. Ruthless strikes to teach a lesson. Erotic swats to arouse hunger. Fucking hell, to see her naked, bound, and trembling…

  I adjust myself, hard and annoyed by the direction of my thoughts.

  She shouldn’t have gone after John alone. But if she waited, would I have helped her? At the risk of losing my freedom?

  I was arrested, convicted and incarcerated in a maximum-security state penitentiary a month after my eighteenth birthday for second-degree murder.

  I pleaded guilty because John and my father promised me that Conor would be safe as long as I was locked up. Any other eighteen-year-old kid would’ve pleaded self-defense and gotten off.

  To say I’m carrying a massive fucking grudge is an understatement.

  I served eight years of a ten-year sentence, because I kept my head down and my ass squeaky clean. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I lived with seven-hundred violent men who were ready to kill me at the drop of a hat, and I know that mentality rubbed off on me.

  But would I kill again at the risk of returning to that hell? Even if I had proof that John murdered my mother?

  My stomach hardens at the thought.

  I know prison changed me, but it’s difficult to remember who I was prior to incarceration.

  I lost my adolescent innocence the night I watched two men violently take my little sister’s virginity. Vaginally. Anally. I can still hear her muffled screams.

  I’ve slept with those demons for eight years.

  That said, it’s possible I came out with more emotional trauma than I went in with. PTSD is unavoidable. No one leaves prison without it.

  I received an education in human depravity and criminal behavior that can’t be learned in a school psychology course. I survived by mastering indifference, by forcing myself to become numb to things that would bring the average person to tears.

  Now that I’m out, I don’t know how to be un-numb.

  What I do feel, however, is a strong attachment to common things. A cup of coffee, a starlit sky, a sexy song, a woman’s smile—the tiniest things are luxuries behind bars.

  I twist the leather rope around my wrist, where it wraps twice to make a bracelet. As far as I know, this necklace is the only thing Raina owned. Her sole possession. And she left it behind.

  For me.

  A strange warmth shifts in my chest as I run my thumb over the wire in the dream catcher pendant. It looks handmade and lovingly worn, and Christ, it smells like her. I lift the leather strap to my nose for the hundredth time and breathe deeply. Sweet, botanical, feminine.

  It’s the damnedest thing, but when I wrapped the necklace around my wrist, I knew I would never take it off.

  The door to the strip club opens, and a middle-aged man stumbles out. He ambles across the parking lot and stops beside a red sports car. His hands lower to his zipper, and he proceeds to urinate on the concrete.

  Every muscle in my body turns to stone. It’s an instinctual response, one I acquired in the Gladiator-like environment in prison. There’s a level of respect inside that doesn’t exist out here. Piss
ing on the ground or hacking loogies at the dinner table would get a man killed in there.

  This jackass doesn’t think twice about it, because the world he lives in is a disrespectful free-for-all. As he climbs into the car, I’m tempted to chase him down and teach him a lesson with my fists.

  But I didn’t come here to pick a fight.

  I need to get laid. Because I’m a man, and I’ve gone eight years without. That’s the only thing I should be thinking about.

  Given the half-empty parking lot and dearth of traffic coming in and out of the building, it shouldn’t be crowded inside.

  From the glove box, I remove a condom and stuff it into my pocket. Then I step out of the truck.

  My heart pounds a mile a minute, quaking my limbs. My gait is slow, my shoulders back, my jaw rigid beneath the shadow of my hat.

  Weakness isn’t allowed in prison. Running and hiding from problems is like waving a flag to become someone’s bitch. That was the first lesson that stuck with me.

  I remind myself of this as the door opens and a throng of patrons pours into the parking lot.

  My hands clench and release at my sides, and sweat saturates my shirt. Prickles assault my skin, my nerves raw and senses on high alert.

  I have an extremely short tolerance for people now. I lost the ability to socialize and connect with others. I’m even fumbling through my relationships with my family. Jarret, Jake, and Conor don’t know how to relate to me. They’re trying, but my carefully constructed shields don’t make it easy.

  It doesn’t take long for the crowd to disperse. Car doors open and shut. Engines rumble. The crunch of gravel beneath tires follows them out of the lot.

  With a steadying breath, I make my way toward the door.

  Until it opens again.

  A man and woman emerge, his arm hooked around her shoulders as he leads her toward me.

  No, not toward me. I’m standing beside the only car at this end of the lot.

  With a racing pulse, I step out of their way.

  The raven-haired woman lifts her head. Her dark eyes collide with mine, and the smile on her bruised face drops.

  I slam to a stop a few feet from her. What the almighty fuck?