by Tess Sharpe
Things have changed since Jake was killed. I’ve changed.
Reality has hit. And it’s cold and it’s hard, but it’s inescapable: Daddy tried his best to make Will into what he wanted, but Will is stronger than that. He’s meant to take care of people, not hurt them. Caring is what makes him happy, what he’s good at.
Daddy wants him to be able to shut it off. He wants to cut out Will’s heart to get to some cold, rough core that Will just doesn’t have.
It’s something that gnaws at me late at night when I can’t sleep. I walk the paths in the woods near the house and sometimes I see lights on in Will’s bedroom in the guest cabin, but he never ventures out to find me.
Sometimes I want him to. Sometimes I want him to chase me, or maybe I want to chase him, pin him to the ground with my mouth and body, and kiss him until I figure out a solution to it all.
There’s no good one, I know that for sure.
The Sons of Jefferson have a few parcels of land deep in the Siskiyous—off dirt roads that climb so high the clouds get tangled in the treetops. I drive up to an enormous wooden gate, honking my horn, waving at the security camera bolted to the top rail.
A few minutes later, Will swings the gate open, two mastiffs tagging behind him, their spiked collars gleaming against dark fur. I drive through the gate, down the steep hill that bottoms out into a large open space, sheltered by the pines. Will locks the gate behind me, whistling for the dogs as I park at the bottom of the drive.
I don’t have Busy with me that day because the AC in my truck’s broken and it’s too hot for her without it. I’m grateful when I see the mastiffs; Busy’s particular about other dogs.
I grab the bag of burgers I’d bought on the way and get out of the truck.
“Nutrients are in the cab,” I tell him. “Want me to help you unload them, or do you want to eat first?”
“Eat,” he says.
“I got you extra grilled onions.” I hold out the bag as one of Paul’s mastiffs noses at it. “No,” I tell him sternly.
“Hunter, Bowie, go in the kennel,” Will says.
The dogs trot off, Hunter casting one more longing look at the bag. Will follows and puts them in a fenced area that’s less of a kennel and more of a pasture.
“How’s the crop?” I ask as he leads me over to a set of battered lawn chairs next to one of the four trailers scattered around the clearing. They’re loosely grouped around the four enormous hoop houses that house rows and rows of marijuana plants in hundred-gallon smart pots. The plants are lush and green, from what I can see, but I have a black thumb. I can’t even get lettuce to grow, and that’s supposed to be easy.
“Getting there,” Will says, sitting down in one of the cracked white plastic chairs, digging in the bag and handing me my burger.
I unwrap it, taking a bite.
“Duke know you came out here?”
I shrug. “He doesn’t need to know everything.”
“You’re gonna be in trouble if he finds out.”
I start to say he won’t, but there’s a dinging sound. The motion censor on the gate.
Will’s head whips toward the monitor set up underneath the trailer’s canopy. There’s a strange truck on the camera feed.
“Shit,” Will says. “Harley, get the shotgun in the trailer.”
I move, single-minded. There’s a crashing sound: wood being rammed by an F-150 going way too fast.
They’ve breached the gate.
I clamber up the trailer stairs and grab the shotgun that’s set against the rickety kitchen door. I look around frantically for shells, but I don’t see any.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I don’t have time to look. I’ll have to make do with whatever it’s loaded with. I tuck the gun under my arm and head out. Will’s crouched behind the trailer, a rifle in his hands. I join him, peering around the corner.
They haven’t gotten out of their truck yet, but it’s just a matter of time.
“You know who they are?” I ask, cracking open the shotgun’s barrel. It’s loaded, thank God. But it’s an old one—it only has an eight-round capacity.
Will shakes his head.
The truck door creaks open. They’re getting out. I flatten myself against the trailer, edging forward to get a look.
There are two of them. They’re wearing leather vests.
I jerk back when one of them turns toward the trailer.
“They’re bikers,” I whisper. “Are the Sons fighting some other club?”
“Paul doesn’t talk business with me,” Will says.
“Well, maybe he should if they’re busting in here when you’re all alone!”
“Harley, this is not the time to get pissed at Paul,” Will hisses.
He’s right. Jesus. He’s right.
I tilt my head against the trailer. One of the bikers is heading down the path that leads to the hoop houses; the other’s heading toward us.
We need a plan.
“How many rounds do you have?” I ask him.
“Six.”
“Fuck. Okay. I have eight. You head down to the hoop houses; I’ll cover you. Take out the guy down there. I’ll take out the one up here. Ready?”
Will nods.
I count it off on my fingers. One. Two. Three.
The shotgun’s up against my shoulder, I aim, and blast the dirt at the biker’s feet, making him dive for cover.
Will runs down the path, rifle in hand, and I pump the shell free, laying down two more shots in the guy’s direction as Will disappears into the first hoop house.
I jerk backward, flattening myself against the trailer out of sight.
Five more rounds left. I have to make them count.
I’m straining to hear the sound of Will’s .22, focusing on it. Later, I’ll kick myself, because I don’t hear the swish of grass behind me.
A hand grabs my braid and yanks me off my feet. I scream, bringing the shotgun up like a club, trying to hit the guy who has me. But he snatches the barrel, yanking it out of my hands. I twist desperately in his grip, dirt and twigs and rocks scraping my skin as he drags me down the path.
“I got a girl!” he shouts down to the hoop houses.
I dig my nails into his arm, but he just tosses me onto the ground in front of him, leveling a .45 at me. “Stop fighting.”
I go very still, focusing on his face. Blond, with long hair pulled back in a scraggly ponytail, he looks like a lizard: thin, long features with a sharp nose and pale eyes.
“Hey, Spencer, you got the guy?” he calls.
“Yeah!” a muffled voice yells back.
Fuck. How are we gonna get out of this? No one even knows I was coming out here. No one’s coming to save us.
We’re gonna have to save ourselves.
Spencer—the blond one’s partner—dumps Will next to me. He’s got prison tats on his neck. “On your knees,” he sneers, like he enjoys saying that a little too much.
Will glances at me. I nod, just barely, to let him know I’m okay.
“So what have we here?” the blond one asks. “Your boss Paul know you’re riding your bitch on his time?”
“Fuck you,” Will says. I press my knee against his in warning. He relaxes a little, but not enough.
“What do you want?” I ask. “The plants? Take them.” I’ll figure out a way to make it right with Paul. We just need to get out of here in one piece.
“Cory, isn’t that cute? She’s offering them up like they’re hers,” Spencer says, laughing.
Cory laughs, too, looking me up and down, his tongue between his lips. He sucks in his cheeks, leering.
I glare back, thinking about how nice it would be if I had my knife. I’d slice his tongue in two.
But then his leer turns into a frown as his gaze fixes on my face instead of my chest. Something goes very cold inside me when he says, “I know you.”
Will’s eyes widen. He shakes his head at me, just the barest of movement.
“I doubt it,�
� I say.
“No, I’ve seen you,” he says, a slow smile blooming across his reptile face. “You’re the McKenna girl.”
I grit my teeth, trying to figure out the best way to play this. Use the fear of Daddy to get them to let us go? Bribe ourselves free?
“Cory, we gotta get the pot,” says Spencer.
“Nah, leave it for now.” Cory stares at me, eyes shining with a greed I recognize. “We’ve got something even better right here.”
“Leave her alone,” Will says, tensing up next to me. He’s gonna spring any second. I can feel it. I have to be ready to move when he does.
“Shut up,” Cory says casually.
And then he shoots him.
My eyes track the arc of his gun like we’re in slow motion. It swings toward Will and I’m screaming, wrenching, swearing as his finger squeezes the trigger.
Will jerks in a terrible, backward convulsion as blood spills down his shirt. He falls to the ground, and I’m kicking, fighting, punching; my nails sink into skin, into denim, into anything I can get my hands on. I’m going to kill them, I’m going to kill them, I’m going to—
Something hits the back of my head, hard. I stumble forward.
And everything’s black.
I come to, gasping for air, a retching sound caught in my throat, my head throbbing. I roll to my side, blinking in the dim light. I gag, almost vomiting when I manage to sit up, the pain sharpening.
Flies crawl across my face as I probe the back of my head. My hair is clumped and sticky with half-dried blood. I breathe hard through my nose, clenching my teeth against the nausea that surges inside me.
I don’t have time to throw up. I look around me. I’m in some sort of shed, a big wooden one. There aren’t any windows, just a lone light bulb swinging from the ceiling.
I’m definitely not on the Sons’ property anymore. There isn’t a shed this big on their land. Those fuckers took me somewhere.
I need to get out of here.
I need to get back to Will. He’s…He might be…
Alive, I tell myself. He’s fucking alive.
He has to be.
I’d feel it if he wasn’t. I’d know it.
Don’t be stupid, Harley-girl.
It takes three tries to get to my feet. By the time I finally manage it, I’m drenched in sweat. I rub my eyes in the dim light, moving in a clumsy circle, taking it all in.
The floor isn’t concrete; it’s dirt. And it’s scattered with straw. A half-used bale is stuffed in the corner. There’s a four-wheeler with a flat tire and enough Coleman fuel, lithium batteries, and empty two-liter bottles for me to know these bikers don’t stick to just growing pot the way the Sons do.
Cooking meth shake-and-bake style is easy, but it gets people killed. Or burned beyond recognition.
Fucking idiots. I have to get out of here.
But I need a weapon. I stumble over to the metal cabinet in the far corner of the shed. I have to yank at the door to get it open, and paint and rust flake off as the hinges groan at the movement. But it’s empty.
I hear the click of a lock opening behind me. I turn my head so I can see him out of the corner of my eye.
Cory. He shot Will.
He’s going to pay.
“You’re awake.” He closes the shed door behind him.
“You’ve made a big mistake.”
He grins, strolling up to me like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s got surprisingly good teeth. Maybe he isn’t a tweeker—just an opportunist.
The ambitious ones are the most dangerous. Either they’re smart and they climb their way to the top, or they’re stupid and they get people killed.
“Your daddy agreed to everything I asked for,” he says with a smirk. He’s all puffed up at the thought of getting one over on the boss of North County, I can tell.
“You’ve called him already? Wow, you move fast.”
He shrugs. He thinks it’s a compliment. God. He has no idea what’s waiting for him. “I figured he’d want his daughter back.” He steps forward, stroking my cheek. I can feel myself shaking. I can’t stop myself. “Pity I told him I’d hand you over untouched.”
I lash out, fast and precise, like Daddy taught me to. Gripping his wrist with one hand, with the other I wrench three of his fingers backward as hard as I can. The bones break with a satisfying crunch.
He screams, high-pitched, and I take advantage of the pain, jerking my knee up into his groin once, twice, three times.
Now he’s on the ground. His gun’s tucked in his waistband, and I’ve got it in my hand before he even starts writhing. It’s a semi-automatic; a .45 with a bulky grip, and the weight’s off. But it doesn’t matter. I’m just inches away from him. I don’t even need to aim.
I flick the safety off and level the barrel at him. “You don’t get to offer up not raping me like it’s a goddamn gift. Where’s your partner?”
“He went to meet your father.”
So the partner is dead. Or will be…soon. Good. That means one less problem.
“Hands in the air,” I tell him as he struggles to sit up, still wheezing from the kicks I’d administered to his balls. I hope they turn black and fall off. He raises his hands, and I note with satisfaction that the fingers I broke are bent every which way and already swelling.
“The guy you shot,” I say. “What happened to him?”
He snorts. “How the hell should I know? We left him there.”
My legs start to shake. I want to kneel right down in that dirt and scream. I want to press the .45 barrel against his head and paint the shed walls with his brains.
Will might still be there. Bleeding out. Alone. The idea is so awful, so stomach twisting, I can’t bear it.
The gun’s against his forehead, I’m staring into his eyes, and I want to do it. I’ve never wanted to pull a trigger so bad in my life.
“I bet he’s dead. Gut shots are nasty.”
I know they are. I still dream about Jake’s shredded stomach under my hands. Trying to keep everything inside of him as it spilled out. The smell. The blood. The pain.
He wouldn’t want me to do this, I remind myself. Neither would Will.
But Jake’s gone, and Will…
Will is not gone. He can’t be. He can’t.
The sound of tires against gravel twines through the cracks in the shed.
Cory smiles—the grin of a man who thinks he’s won. “My partner’s back.”
I smile, because I know I’ve won. “That’s not your partner,” I tell him. “That’s my daddy. And you’re dead.”
Daddy comes tearing into the shed like a bear looking for its cub. Huge, hulking, and savage, his gun drawn and his hands bloody.
And then Daddy sees me with the .45 pressed to Cory’s head, and he stops.
He smiles.
“Well, fuck,” he says. “Looks like you don’t need saving.”
“Did you get Will?” I ask. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he says no.
If he says no, that means…
Cooper comes banging through the shed door, skidding to a halt next to Duke.
“Daddy.” I look over my shoulder. “Did you get Will? Is he alive?”
His head tilts and he steps back, like he’s taking in a pretty picture or a sunset or something.
“What are you gonna do if he’s not?” Daddy asks.
My stomach sinks. Does that mean what I think it does?
“Duke,” Cooper hisses. But Daddy cuts him off with a raised hand.
I stare at him, disbelieving. Is he playing with me? Is this another lesson? My stomach swirls, sick and heavy with dread and fear. Fresh sweat pops out along my forehead, trickling down my temple.
“Tell me if he’s alive,” I demand.
“Tell me why you haven’t already taken this asshole out,” Daddy counters.
“Fuck you,” I say. It’s comes out weak. My excuse is weak. Or maybe it’s me that’s weak.
“This trash shot
your man,” Daddy says, stepping forward. “He hurt you. He took you. And you put a gun to his head but you don’t pull the trigger? That is not the girl I raised.”
“Jesus, Duke,” Cooper says, disgusted.
“Shoot this bastard,” Daddy says. “And I’ll tell you if Will’s alive or not.”
I don’t bother to ask if he’s joking. I know he’s not.
He’ll find a lesson in everything, my father. And he won’t yield.
I step back three steps, steadying the .45 in both hands, grip firm around the heavy handle.
“There you go,” Daddy says over my shoulder, and his voice is almost soothing. Familiar. How many times has he said the same exact thing, guiding me through target practice since I was a little girl? I’ve lost count.
But I’m not a little girl anymore. And I’m not looking at a target. I’m looking at a man. I may hate him and I may want to kill him, but I can’t.
If I do, then I am all Daddy’s. Whatever’s left of Momma in me will be gone. Snuffed out like the life I’ve taken.
I know this. I’ve been running from it for years.
And now here I am. Will might be dead or he might be alive, I have a gun in my hand and a man I hate in front of me, and it would be so easy to kill him.
I aim, steady and sure. My eyes track to the target, my shoulders relax, my breathing slows.
One. Two. Squeeze.
He yelps, the bullet whizzing neatly against his arm, searing a good chunk of the skin, but embedding itself in the shed wall instead of his flesh. Just like I wanted.
I shove the gun into Daddy’s hands, glaring up at him. The anger on his face should make me cower, but all I can think of is Will, and it makes me stronger. It makes me brave. “There,” I snarl. “I shot him. Now answer my fucking question.”
This isn’t what Daddy wanted, but it’s what he’s got. And I did what he asked.
“He’s alive. He’s with Doc,” he growls.
I can’t stop the shaky breath I let out. I want to sag to the ground, but I won’t do that, not in front of him. “I’m going there,” I say, brushing past Daddy.
I hear the soft thud of his steel-toed boots making contact with Cory’s ribs. He yelps.