“Hush, baby. Don’t cry. I want you to be a good boy. Can you do that for me?”
I look up, wiping a tear away. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking. Now, answer the question. You’ve been sleeping on that old mattress, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Why, sir?”
His grip tightens around my ass. “I used to fuck that mattress. I’d strip myself down to nothing, and I’d grind my cock against it trying to picture someone worth fucking. I must’ve shot at least five-hundred loads into it. Probably more.” He trails his fingers down the crevice of my crack. “You’ve been sleeping on top of a decade’s worth of my jizz.” The moment his finger brushes against my entrance, I’m a goner. “You don’t know how fuckin’ hard that gets me, do you?”
“No, sir. But I want to find out.”
He smirks. “Ask and you’ll receive, Little Dick.”
Ezra Edwards. Son of Paul and his stepmomma Diane, those goddamn sons of bitches. I made a promise once. A promise to myself, and a promise to anyone stupid enough to hurt my boys.
I’m going to beat the fuck out of Ezra’s daddy.
The sorry sack of shit is with Pete and Barrett, back behind Ladonna’s house. Pete is holding a steak knife over his head like he’s Michael fuckin’ Myers or some shit, and Barrett is tinkering with the shock collarthey put on Paul’s neck.
I’m guessing by the gore covering the leaves on the other side of the woodchipper, Diane’s already a goner. Surprisingly, Paul doesn’t seem too bothered.
“Pete. There’s a blowtorch in the bed of my pickup truck. At least, there was before you and your momma stole it. If it’s still there, grab it, and bring it to me.”
Pete’s eyes widen. “Why? What are you going to do?”
I crack my knuckles against my palms. “Me and Paul are about to have ourselves a little chat.”
I crouch in front of him and shake the blowtorch in his face. “You hurt my boy. You’re not walking out of here with your life. You get that, right?”
Paul snorts a laugh. “Frankly, son, I’m bored of this life anyway. I had a whore for a wife and a faggot for a son—”
Nope. We won’t be doing that, so I cold-cock the son of a bitch in the face. He doesn’t even flinch. “I’ll give you credit, you’ve got a jaw made of solid steel.”
“Titanium,” he corrects. “My whore of a wife beat me upside the head with a—” Nope, we’re not doing the misogyny again. Each time he says that word, I’m going to deck the fucker in the face. Again, he doesn’t flinch as my fist connects. “Like I said, my jaw is made of titanium. You’re not achieving what you think you’re achieving when you hit me.”
“Guess I’ll have to keep trying.” This time, I smack him in the nose with the back of my hand. “My boy tells me you weren’t good to him or his momma. He says you wouldn’t even tell him her name.”
Pete rushes up from behind and hands me the torch.
“It’s a name that should be forgotten, just like her.” I slap him across his good cheek this time, and he finally fucking winces. Good.
“He don’t talk about her too much. It hurts his heart. If you’ve never done anything for him, you’re doing this. He deserves a name. My boy deserves to know his momma’s name.”
Paul just rolls his eyes. “Who cares? She’s been dead most of his life. I don’t see any point in rehashing the small details.”
“It ain’t a small detail, it’s his fuckin’ mother.” I flick the blowtorch on and hold it to his hand. “What the fuck is her name?”
His face twists up in agony, and he cries out, “Barbara!”
A blast of golden light explodes from behind him, but I don’t know its source. It simply appeared out of nowhere only to vanish like fireworks as the sparkles die down on their descent. A strong, overwhelming sense of love and appreciation pour through me, starting in my heart and working its way outward. It’s how Ezra described his bond with Barbara. Is she here? Does she want me to know she’s present? Beneath me, Paul mutters, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” before his voice falls silent.
I drop the torch, my heart slamming in my chest. “Her name is Barbara?” I don’t get an answer to the question, and Paul stays completely silent far longer than he should be. When I look down, I realize why.
This goddamn motherfucker.
I press two fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse, but there’s nothing. His eyes are wide and unseeing, and there’s no breath escaping his body. I look over at Pete. “I think he's dead.”
Pete swallows and nods, staring down at the man. “I think you must’ve scared him to death.”
