COTTON
December 30
Dear Shiloh,
I’ve been home a day, and already I can tell…I needed to be here.
I stopped in Karli’s last night, completely, one hundred percent because you made me, and that caramel-frosted apple donut I got sank into my SOUL. I have missed them so much.
I slept through the night for the first time in well over a month. No nightmares. No insomnia. Just pure, blissful, drool-on-my-pillow sleep.
The air is different here. It’s cold, and crisp, and yeah, the leaf rot makes my nose burn, but I would roll around in those leaves if it meant staying. I don’t want to leave again.
Seeing you and Gunner…it makes my heart ache with the sweetest jealousy. That man loves you so much, Shy. And that you two went through the things you did, and came out on the other side so happy and healthy and fine…it gives me hope. I hadn’t realized how much I needed that testimony of hope until I saw you guys.
And heard you screwing. Awkward. I mean, I know it’s hard, but maybe y’all could keep it down a little? (Hard. I said hard. Heh, heh.)
I wouldn’t have been able to joke like that just the other day. Not with the weight of Texas pressing down on me. But I saw this guy in Karli’s, and for this brief instant, everything stood still, and it was just us. Looking at one another. Aware of each other. Cataloging all the bits and pieces of each other that were on display and filing them away to take out later, like I’m doing now, to think about and daydream over.
Sexy scruff.
Gorgeous eyes, a clear, depthless amber like liquor in a glass.
Tall and built in a sexy way.
It wasn’t even the guy so much, although he was undeniably hot. It was the fact that looking at him, seeing him look at me…it didn’t scare me for once in a long, long time. It kind of…turned me on a little, if I’m honest. And I have to be honest here, because otherwise these llamas are completely fucking pointless.
Maybe this move is all I needed to start moving on.
THE ROOMIWAS USHERED INTO WAS MORE OF A CLOSET.There was one of those old-style school desks, with the desktop connected to the back of a curved wooden seat. A burgundy milk crate sat on the floor beside it, overflowing with papers and tangled masses of discarded and now-defunct chargers for various electronics. A wall was lined with steel shelving covered in an assortment of random, dusty objects: a massive metal pot, cardboard boxes, cleaning supplies, and lightbulbs. Lots and lots of lightbulbs.
One of the big guys who’d been watching for us turned his back to me and stood in the doorway, leaving me to survey my surroundings and try to corral the wild hammering of my heart.
They were going to kill him. They were going to kill Brodie, and then they were going to kill me. Donegal—King—hadn’t believed us.
I cleared the desk of its stash and sat on the seat, curling my arms around myself. None of this was okay, I realized with a faint sense of shock. Naturally not the risk to Brodie, but not the threat to myself, either. Something had shifted these past several days, and death no longer played its siren song. I wanted to live. I needed Brodie to live. I needed to do something. They couldn’t kill him. Not because of me. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.
Although I couldn’t see myself lasting long after Brodie, so I guessed it was a moot point. A mirthless laugh loosed itself before I could stop it and the big guy looked back suspiciously. I stuck my tongue out at him, shocked when a slow grin curved his mouth.Oh, hell.
“Can I have a drink?”
There was no response.
“C’mon, Big Guy. I think I deserve a little liquor before my premature death.” I studied my nails, which at some point I’d bitten to the quick. “Especially considering I didn’t do anything and this entire thing is fucking bullshit.”
“Murray!” My jailor shouted abruptly, eliciting a muffled call from the bar. “A pint, please.” A pint of foamy beer was brought a few minutes later and he passed it to me, turning so he could watch me as I drank.
“Everyone’s done something,” he offered gruffly after I’d drained half the mug, surprising me with the statement.
“I really haven’t,” I assured him, a certain glumness to the confession. “I mean, if I was going to be killed, I’d at least prefer to be guilty of something, you know? And now Brodie’s gonna die because he wanted to keep me safe, and...and...” The Guinness was going to my head rather fast. I couldn’t remember my point.
Big Guy helped me. “But if you’re innocent, why does someone want you dead?”
I spread my arms wide in an exaggerated who knows gesture. “I got myself raped, Big Guy. That’s what I did. At least, I think that’s what I did. The general didn’t like it.”
He frowned and scrubbed a hand over his chin. “A general raped you and didn’t like it?”
“Nooo! Listen, Linda! The general’s son didn’t like it. Oh, fuck, that’s not right. The general’s son did the raping, and he probably liked it just fine. Bastard. The general doesn’t want me to tell on him.” I waved my hand airily. “Anyhoo. Thanks for the beer.” I peered down into the bottom of my mug, which was curiously empty.
