Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"Come back?" Mercy's voice is flat, but I catch the confusion in it. The confusion hardening to anger as she turns to me.
Diesel realizes his mistake immediately. "Uh… I'm gonna go check on that thing. Inside. You know. The thing." He backs away, hands up, a big man suddenly unsure of his footing.
When he's gone, Mercy turns the full force of her stare on me. "What does he mean, come back?"
"Ya can't stay here, Mercy."
"Why not?"
"It's not a place for girls."
Wrong answer. Her face twists, flushing red with anger. "That's stupid! I've been here all week and nobody cared! Nobody ever cares where I am!" She gestures wildly with the rifle, not pointing it at me, but not exactly being careful either. "You ruin everything! Everything! I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone. And I never will again."
I catch her arm, not rough, but firm enough to stop the wild movement of the weapon. "Mercy. Please."
She tries to wrench free, but I hold on. Not to hurt. Just to keep her here. With me. For one more minute.
"Give me one more chance," I say. "And if I fuck it up today, you have every right to hate me. Blame me. Never speak to me again."
She goes still, looking at my hand on her arm. "That's stupid," she says finally, voice smaller. "Because you're all I've got left."
The words hit because they're true. "That’s right. We're all we have now. Just each other. The last two Kanes standing."
She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't soften either. Just waits, watching me with those eyes too old for her face.
"Trust is just the slow death of hope," I tell her, the words coming from somewhere I didn't know existed. "Every time someone walks away, they take a piece of you with them. I know what that feels like and I'm standing here telling you, that's not what this is. That's not who I am."
"Since when?" Her voice is sharp as glass.
"Fuck's sake, kid. Give me a break. I'm doin’ my best." I hold up the envelope as proof. "And for your fuckin’ information—"
"What's that?" she interrupts, eyes narrowing at the manila paper.
"I'm not asking you to trust me," I say, lowering my voice. "Just to let me try again."
She stares at me, eyes lookin’ me up and down with more calculation than some prisoners I did time with. I take the rifle from her hands, slow and careful. "Go put your helmet on," I say, pointing to my bike. "I'm gonna put this away and be right back."
Mercy folds her arms across her chest, making that mean mouth that reminds me too much of our mother. She's pouting, but at least she's not shooting.
Then she turns and stomps off toward the bike, each footfall a percussion of doubt.
I let out a breath. My brand is pounding. My head is pounding. My heart too.
That was a pretty big promise, and if I leave her again, she'll never forgive me.
I make a note of it.
The Montana wind kicks up dust devils that dance across the road as we ride. Mercy's small arms are locked around my waist, her helmet pressed against my back. Every time we hit a bump, she tightens her grip like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
I take the long way back to Drybone, not ready to show her what's waiting. The envelope burns in my jacket pocket—keys to something I'm not sure I deserve.
When we finally turn down our road, the gravel crunches under my tires. Sitting on the same twenty acres of scrubland is the new double-wide.
It's newer than anything my family has ever owned. And… it’s nice. Looks a lot like the clubhouse, actually with both the roof and siding made of black-matte metal with a timber wainscot skirt of corrugated metal the color of rust. The shutters, door, and wide front porch are all made of timber stained the same color as the wainscoting.
It’s kinda badass, outlaw, and trendy all in one go.
I kill the engine and we sit there on the bike, not moving.
"Where are we?" Mercy asks, voice muffled through her helmet.
"Home," I say, and the word feels strange in my mouth. Foreign.
I swing my leg over the bike and help her down. She pulls off the helmet, hair wild with static, and stares at the new trailer like it might be a mirage.
"What is this place?"
"Ours," I say, pulling the keys from the envelope. "The club got it for us."
Mercy doesn't move toward it. She just stands there, helmet dangling from her fingers, taking in the brand-new doublewide.
"It's nice," I offer. "Don't you think?"
She doesn't answer. Just walks forward slowly, like she's approaching a wild animal. Her eyes scan everything—
"Do you like it?" I ask.
No answer. Just that stare that's too old for her face.