by Penny Dee
“Are you really are prepared to give up your chance for love because of this vengeance?”
“Darlin’, vengeance is the only thing I’ve got left.” I move my bishop to claim her pawn. “Checkmate.”
Her ruby red lips slide into a wicked smile—our games turn her on.
While my brothers get their cocks sucked and their needs tended to by Antoinette’s girls, she and I play into the night, drinking her most expensive cognac from antique glass goblets as we do the dance of strategy and slaughter on the chessboard.
Sometime after midnight, we move to the opulent velvet sofa sitting in the middle of the room, where we continue to talk into the early hours. She’s a good listener and around her, I’m a good talker. She’s my sounding board. Happy to listen until my lids grow heavy, and I fall into a disturbed sleep.
Hours later, I wake with Antoinette curled into me, her red hair draped over my chest and falling like silk over my arms. Her eyes open sleepily when I stir. Outside, the sun has begun to rise on the mountain but is still hidden by the treeline.
I feel so relaxed I could sleep for a million years, but Antoinette has other ideas.
I’d beat her in chess, and it’s time for her to pay her dues.
As she slides to her knees in front of me, her shirt slips down her shoulder, and her hair cascades in rich garnet waves around her. She reaches for my zipper, and her delicate hands slide inside.
Feeling the hardness against her palm, her eyes flare with appreciation.
“I like a man who comes prepared,” she says giving the thick shaft a squeeze.
I let out an appreciative sigh because I know what’s coming. “And I like the way you appreciate it.”
With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she ducks her head and proceeds to show me how good she is with her mouth.
Groaning, I let my head drop back as a small smile plays on my lips.
Next time I’m in town, I’m going to deliberately lose our games, so I can return the favor.
BRONTE
Two Months Ago
The moment I stepped out of the bar, I should have known something was going to happen. I could feel it hanging in the air like a ghostly echo in the darkness, but I was too preoccupied with my shitty day at college to stop and think about the perils of walking home alone after midnight. I should’ve taken a cab. I should’ve accepted Riley’s offer of a lift. Or taken Sebastian up on his “No matter the time, you ring me if you need a lift anywhere. Okay, girlfriend?”
But that’s the thing about hindsight—she’s a bitch.
My first inkling comes when I turn down Pleasant Avenue—an ironic name when you take in its weather-beaten homes, derelict yards, and shadowy footpaths—and I hear footsteps behind me.
Straining in the dark to listen, I stop walking and hold my breath. In the distance, I hear tugboats on the harbor, their foghorns breaking through the darkness as they pass each other in the mist. Now the footsteps have stopped, and I start to wonder if I imagined them.
One thing about the dark, because your vision is impaired by a lack of light, your other senses become heightened. Hearing. Smell. Touch. Fear. They all fizz inside of me like lit flares. However, nothing in the darkness, other than my instinct, tells me I’m being followed. So again, I start down the street. A few steps and once more I hear the ominous thud of footsteps behind me.
I stop again and swing around, this time reaching for the bottle of mace in my handbag.
There’s something you should know about me, I’m not afraid of a confrontation. Abandoned by a junkie mom who never knew who fathered me, I grew up with my grandmama, Pearl, a feisty ex-coal miner’s wife who is as ballsy and quick-witted as she is straight-to-the-point. She’s a strong woman, and she taught me well.
“Who’s there?” I demand, my voice sounding alien in the dark. “I can hear you walking behind me.”
The moment ticks over with excruciating slowness as every nerve and cell inside of me tightens with anticipation. “You should know, I’m armed with mace. I am also in a really bad mood after a really fucked-up day. So, either show yourself or fuck off.”
I shift on my feet, but there is no sound. Just the muted noise of the city far, far away.
My eyes search the shadows while my pulse pounds against my throat. I can’t see anything, but my instincts hum with knowing.
Sucking in a deep breath, I half-notice the faint perfume of clove cigarettes in the night air. “Coward,” I mutter, turning back and starting my walk for home.
That’s when the whistling starts—a lone, high-pitched whine taunting me in the dark.
It’s all I need to get out of there. I quicken my pace, but the whistling grows louder and louder. Whoever they are, they’re right behind me, however, just out of my sight. The urge to confront them is strong, but my survival instincts tell me to keep moving, to get as far away from the sound as possible. Because whatever is behind me isn’t someone playing around, it’s some kind of threat.
A threat of the murdering kind.
“Fuck this,” I whisper, the tingly sense of fear creeping up my spine.
I hurry down the street, my fingers curing tighter around the bottle of mace and my heart hammering. At the end of the road where the shadows grow deeper, I break into a run. It’s less than a block away from home, and I don’t plan on stopping until my lungs burn and my legs are boneless. The whistling has stopped, so have the footsteps, but I can feel him behind me. His presence hangs in the air like a sinister gossamer curtain floating on the cool sea breeze.
When I finally reach my apartment complex, I run up the stairs to the second floor, grateful for the sensor lights flicking on, and with shaky fingers, shove my key in the lock. When it finally gives way, I tumble inside and slam the door shut behind me. Desperately trying to calm my racing heart and my brittle nerves, I fix the chain and lock the door.
Once in the small kitchen, I pour myself a shot from the tequila bottle I keep on top of the refrigerator and throw it back, finding warm comfort in the flames heating up my chest.
After a few minutes, I begin to calm down and eventually talk myself into believing I imagined the whole thing. No one had been following me. I’d had one too many wines and let my imagination get the better of me.
Feeling a little ridiculous—not to mention hot from a second shot of tequila— I move to the living room and curl up on the couch, then let myself fall asleep in front of the television and indulge in the knowledge I am safe.
I sleep deeply and dream of Cooper that night. We’re laughing like old times, and his hand is warm in my hand as we run through the daisies on his back lawn like we did when we were kids. But then a dark cloud passes over, and it’s just me on the back lawn. Cooper is gone, and I don’t know where he is. I begin to twist and turn in my sleep, drenched in sweat and sadness. The moment I learned of his death comes rushing back and crashes over me like a wall of water, sweeping me away in its undertow.
I sit up in a rush.
Panting, I wait for the dream to recede on the tide of wakefulness.
I am safe.
It was just a dream.
Little did I know, my nightmare is just beginning.
JACK
Present Day
It’s the hollering that wakes me up.
Followed by the loud banging on the door.
Opening one eye, I immediately feel the splintering pain of sunlight shatter through my hangover and groan.
Fucking moonshine.
I usually stay away from the stuff, but last night I gave in and indulged in some of the new batch Alchemy had uncorked at the Still, the club’s whiskey distillery.
One shot led to two…
… and two to three…
I stretch my aching body, pulling my muscles taut and enjoying the rush of comfort through every nerve and fiber when I relax them again. Maybe if I ignore the ruckus, I can catch some more shut-eye so I’ll be in better form for the poker game tonight. However, another roun
d of knocking on the door, and a familiar voice drifts in through the open window.
It can’t be.
Forcing myself up, I drag myself out of bed and make my way through the quiet house and out the back door.
And there she is.
Little Bronte Vale.
Cooper’s best friend.
Standing on her grandma’s back stoop, she’s knocking loudly on their door.
Resting my forearm on the beam above my head, I lean forward. “Do my eyes betray me or is little miss Bronte Vale standing before me on her grandmama’s porch?”
She looks over, the frown lines on her face vanishing as she breaks into a smile. “Jack!” she says breathlessly.
Blonde hair gleams in the early sunshine, the silver choker around her neck glinting as she steps toward the porch railing.
I take in the beautiful face and bee-stung lips. “Well, I’ll be goddammed… it really is you.”
She lets out a deep breath and offers me a forced but dazzling smile. “In the flesh.”
She seems frazzled.
Either that, or she’s thinking about the last time we saw each other. I push back the thought before it can hit me in the places I don’t want it to slam into.
“Your grandmama expecting you? Because I hate to break it to you, darlin’, she’s out of town for a spell.”
“She is?” Her face falls.
“Left a couple of days ago. Told me she was visiting family in Missouri.”
“Aunt Mareldene,” Bronte whispers, her frown lines reappearing.
Noticing her tired eyes, I have the feeling something isn’t right.
“You tried ringing her?” I ask.
Bronte holds up her phone. “It’s flat.”
Throwing a thumb over my shoulder, I gesture toward my back door. “Come on, you can come inside and use mine,” I say. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
Her sunny gaze sweeps over me. “So do you. Big night?”
Yeah, I probably look like shit. But she’s right, I could murder a cup of joe. I flash her a teasing grin. “You saying I look like shit?”
She smiles. This time it’s relaxed. “Now, would I ever say anything like that?”
“You once told me I looked like an Ewok on steroids when I came home from a three-week stint on the road.”
Going by the uneasy look on her face, she remembers.
“I was seven.”
“You were thirteen.”
“And going through a phase of being brutally honest, clearly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, wildflower. Honesty has to account for something.”
She pauses on the steps. “Wildflower… boy, I haven’t heard that in a long time.”
The day we moved in next door, I gave her the nickname. Because Bronte was always making flower chains out of wild daisies. She was also the sunniest person I’d ever met. She had the kind of smile that was infectious, and she’s always laughing. Bronte always looks at the sunny side of life and is always ready to put a positive spin on something.
That was before a 9mm bullet stole her best friend from her.
“Come on, let me get that coffee, and you can tell me what the fuck has brought you back to Flintlock.”
She offers me a half-smile.
Yeah, she’s hiding something all right.
Inside, I hand her my phone. “You got a key to get into your grandma’s house?”
“I left it back in Nashville.” She gives me a soft, nervous laugh. “You know me, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on. But she’ll have one hidden key somewhere.”
I study her for a moment. There’s only one reason she’d forget to bring her key and to charge her phone before she made the five-hour drive from Nashville to Flintlock—she left town in a big hurry.
In the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator is the spare key her grandma left me in case of emergencies. When I hand it to her, I notice her red-rimmed eyes and pale skin. Not unusual for someone who’s driven through the night, but I have the feeling there is something else causing her to act so nervous.
She breaks eye contact and gives me a reserved smile. “Thanks.”
I fold my arms across my chest as I watch her dial her grandmama’s number.
Something is wrong.
And it’s probably something she should tell me.
BRONTE
While I call my grandma on his phone, Jack fixes us coffee.
“I’m not due back for another month, but if you need me too, I can get on a Greyhound and be home in a few days,” my grandma says on the other end of the line.
“No, there’s no need, Grandma.”
“You sure, sweetheart?”
I bite back my disappointment. “Of course. You stay in Missouri and give Aunt Mareldene my love. I’ll probably stay a couple of days and then head back to Nashville.”
“I’m so disappointed to have missed you, sweet girl.” She pauses, then adds, “Is everything okay, Bronte? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”
Oh God, Grandma, if only you knew.
“No trouble, Grandma.” I try to keep the inflection out of my voice. Even force myself to smile. “Just hankering for some good old home cooking, is all.”
Thankfully, Grandma doesn’t detect the anxiety in my voice. She says goodbye gaily and makes me promise to come back for the holidays.
Hanging up, I feel Jack looking at me.
“You going to hang around for a couple of days?” he asks, handing me a cup of black coffee.
Accepting it, I take a mouthful. It’s strong and delicious and exactly what I need. “I was thinking about it.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I know a few people who’ll want to see you, kid.” He’s talking about Bam, Loki, and Hope. I was in the Dillinger home so much growing up they’re like siblings to me. “Come on, let’s sit out on the porch, and you can tell me about life in the big city.”
Jack isn’t going to get the truth.
He’s going to get the sanitized version.
Because if he knows what has been going on, he will take it on board and as president of a motorcycle club, he has enough to deal with. Besides, he warned me about leaving Flintlock when I did. Said I was hurting and that I should stick around family so I could heal.
Of course, I didn’t listen.
I told him he was wrong, that I was tough. Turns out, I’m not as tough as I thought, so I’m not telling him shit right now.
“I heard you’re back in college,” he says, opening the sliding door.
With quick steps, I follow him out to the little porch overlooking the street and the large green lawn leading down to the creek.
“Yeah, about six months back.”
“What made you go back?”
Sitting down, I hungrily sip at my coffee. “It was time, I guess. I wanted to get my shit together. Needed some direction.”
I watch as he raises his cup to his lips. He always had beautiful hands. I used to fantasize about those hands. In fact, when I was thirteen, I fell in love with those hands. Because that was when I fell in love with Jack Dillinger. But back then, so did most of the girls in my grade. Not to mention all the soccer moms and the entire female staff at Flintlock High.
When he went to school events, like the time when Cooper starred in the ninth-grade production of Dracula Spectacular, all the girls would giggle and gasp when he walked in with his family in tow. For girls on the cusp of womanhood, he was the forbidden fruit they all wanted to taste. For grown women, he was what fantasies are made of—masculine and oozing testosterone as he rode around town on his Harley Davidson, wearing his Kings of Mayhem cut, and a mask of pure coolness on his handsome face.
That’s probably why the last time I came home for a visit, I kissed him.
On the mouth.
With tongue.
My body pressed up against his.
But it was an unrequited kiss.
He broke it off, and I ran of
f without a word.
My cheeks warm with the memory. However, the humiliation is just as real today as it was then. Now, two years later, he still looks good. Long hair. Scruffy jaw. Big, muscular body. Leather cut and worn motorcycle boots. The years have only made him more delicious.
I take another sip of coffee and pray he doesn’t remember the last time we saw each other because it’s nice to come home to a familiar face.
And right now, I need some company to help keep the shadows at bay.
After some small talk over a cup of coffee on Jack’s porch—during which neither of us brought up the night I mauled his mouth with mine in a moment of complete craziness—I let myself into my childhood home with the spare key he gave me.
Just inside the door, I drop my bags and look around the pale-yellow kitchen, taking in the smells and familiarity of home. It’s good to be back, like stepping back into a time when everything was safe.
Nothing has changed in two years—the wallpaper, the wooden dinner table, the clock above the stovetop, even the magnets spelling my name on the refrigerator door are still there.
I walk through the little house soaking in the familiar comfort and wait for the pain to break through the happy memories and twist its knife in my heart. Because coming home always reminds me of Cooper.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t been home in, what? Two years?
Yeah, the Christmas you tried to tongue-kiss Jack.
Again, I push the memory back.
This is my home.
My sanctuary.
Where all my sunbeams and shadows live.
Here I can relax.
When I was four years old, my mama brought me here for an overnight stay and never came back. She died with a needle in her arm ten years later. By then, I pretended her death didn’t affect me. She’d always been gone, so how could I miss something I’d never had? But in truth, the hurt runs deep because my very own mama chose to abandon me, and my angry little heart never understood why.
But for whatever failings my mother bestowed on my life, my feisty grandma made up for it tenfold. I always considered it a blessing to have her raise me and for having the Dillingers living next door.