"You pathetic piece of shit," I mutter, stumbling away from him. "Next time you want me, come at me from the front, like a fucking man."
"Fuck you," he spits, rolling over and struggling to sit up.
"Fuck you," I answer, standing over him. "What the fuck are you doing here? You're not a Calhoun."
He pushes up off the ground, getting to his knees. I'd love to deliver a foot to his chest and knock him back on his ass, but I want answers.
He manages to get on his feet. "You did something to Dixon. I know it. I talked to him before he died, and he told me about you and your family. Fuckin' royalty," he sneers.
"Dixon put himself in a grave when he started cooking out there. Nothing good comes from the life he was leading. You of all people know that."
Ricky wipes the back of his hand across his lips and nose. "You act like you're better than us, but you're not. There's a thin line between villains and heroes, and your last name allows you to be either one."
"Anybody can be either one. It's a choice."
Ricky's gaze skirts me, and I follow. Chris is coming our way, his shirt stained red, holding a small revolver. It's not trained on me, but held to his side, barrel pointing down. When he gets closer, he points it at me.
"I'll do it," he says to Ricky. His hand and his voice tremble.
I give Ricky my longest, hardest stare. "I called my brothers on my way out here. Go ahead and shoot me, but they'll find you. And whatever you do to me, they'll do ten times worse to you. Thin line between villains and heroes, right?"
Ricky slides his tongue between his lower lip and his teeth. "I'll make a deal with you. You let us keep minding our own business up there, and make sure no one else pays us any mind, and we'll keep our hands off the women in your life. Would be a real shame if Mrs. Calhoun died in her sleep one night. Or that pretty little sister of yours tried a little of what we're selling." He grins wickedly. "The things she would do for a hit…" He palms his crotch and I lunge at him.
My forehead meets cold metal, and it's all that stops me from wrapping my hands around his throat. Ricky laughs, so brave and bold now that he has his dopey brother to point a weapon at me.
"We got ourselves a deal?" Ricky asks. Chris pushes the gun against my skin.
I'd love nothing more than to end these sons of bitches right now, but I have to think of my endgame.
"Deal," I grit.
Chris grins stupidly at Ricky. “Between this guy and that cop, we’re—”
Ricky cuts him off with a glare and Chris shuts up. Ricky moves to sidestep me. At the last moment, he leans in and punches me in the stomach. "Just to make sure you remember our deal," he says. "Now get out of here."
I stand up as much as I can, my stomach throbbing, and walk slowly toward my truck. The brothers follow ten feet behind me. They watch me climb in and pull away.
I don't bother to look at myself in the mirror. I've seen myself bloody and broken before.
It's time to make some plans.
Fuck being a hero.
Fuck being a villain.
I'm an outlaw.
33
Wyatt
My truck lurchesheavily when the asphalt makes the abrupt change to dirt road, and I grunt against the round of pain it releases in my body.
For being a skinny, pockmarked piece of shit, Ricky can throw a punch.
The homestead looms in the distance. It's big and beautiful, the keeper of secrets and the protector of Haydens. That house brings me as much comfort as it does pain. As does this land I'm driving over. It's amazing how a person can feel love and pain simultaneously, from the very same source.
I don't know who's going to greet me when I walk in right now, but I'm expecting that old familiar look, the one that so clearly tells me how the beginnings of a new bruise on my face aren't a surprise anymore.
