Seems odd that such a day would be so perfect. It’s warm, without a cloud in sight, and the hills are green from recent rains. All around me, birds sing and play in giant oak trees, while the late afternoon sun sits low in the sky, its sleepy rays dusting everything in one of those golden hazes that makes it all seem like a fairy tale. It’s a world away though, nothing like the dark that’s settling inside my head. I know what’s coming.
The doctors had given him a year. He lasted five. I try not to think about what that means for me, and instead focus on the plain, brown coffin that sits quiet in the grave. I wonder if he’s happy now. At peace, they call it.
I close my eyes and feel a tear slide down my cheek, then another. The first one out of grief, the second one out of fear.
He’ll be waiting for me. I know he will.
“I’m sorry, Ava.”
A gentle voice brings me back around and I turn my weary gaze to Father Watkins. His sky-blue eyes are almost the same color as mine, and the way he looks at you, you know he’s seen things. I’ve seen things too, but my twenty-one years doesn’t have much on him. He’s tall and lean, with frail hands wrapped tightly around the black book. The setting sun casts an orange hue through his thin, grey hair, and when his lips disappear into a thoughtful line, I know he’s searching for something good to say about my father, something that wouldn’t be a lie.
“Your dad was…a strong man, a proud man. He fought a good battle.”
I nod, letting him think he found something truthful after all.
“Will you be alright?” he asks. “Do you have any other family or friends to lean on?”
The lump in my throat expands and another tear falls. There’s a reason it’s only me and Father Watkins standing on this hilltop.
He frowns, and when he looks away for a moment, I can tell he’s about to say something I might not want to hear. “I’m hesitant to bring this up, Ava, but there’s been some…disturbing talk.”
It hurts that he knows, but I’m not surprised. Los Ramos is a small town. Really small. The kind of small where everyone knows everything.
“If you’re in some kind of trouble,” he goes on gently, “maybe I can help?”
I offer a weak smile because he’s being kind, so kind. But by the helplessness in his eyes, he already knows. We both know. He can’t help me. No one can.
“But thank you,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”
With a slight wobble in my legs, I turn and make my way across the grass and down the hill, leaving my father behind, and leaving the life I knew behind. I walk slowly, mindful of the small crosses and grey headstones, past the little stone church nestled among the oak trees, and along the dirt path until I come to the gravel parking lot.
He’s waiting for me, like I knew he would be.
He leans against the driver’s side door of my faded orange pickup truck, boots crossed at the ankles, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. Muscles bulge under the snug, black t-shirt and his eyes grow dark, like they always do when he looks at me.
When I get to the front of my truck I stop, my feet unwilling to go any further. All they want to do is run me away, but I know it won’t change things.
Shayne McAllister smiles, looking like the cat that’s finally going to get his mouse. His white teeth flash against olive skin and thick black hair that’s raked back in that carefree sort of way. “Can’t believe the bastard lasted so long,” he drawls out. “A year at the most, wasn’t it? That’s what the doctors gave him?”
He tilts his head, watching me with that face. That pretty face, with the steel cut jaw and the deep set eyes that make all the women swoon, but I know what’s inside him.
I stay still and quiet, playing possum with the beast.
Shayne shoves himself off the truck and walks to where I stand. He’s so tall and his shoulders so wide. The silver belt buckle flashes against the light and I look at it so I won’t have to look at him. It’s shiny with a gold arching McAllister Ranch over an MR cattle brand—his empire now, and his alone, his parents having died in a car crash when he was eighteen, and his brother long before that. At twenty-three, he’s young, rich, and powerful. A master of his universe.
“If I’d known he was going to last so long,” he says, reaching out and twirling a lock of my long, blonde hair around his fingers, “I would’ve amended our arrangement. But then again, you’ve racked up quite the debt.”
I force my chin up to glare at the man who’s been both my savior and my torment. His eyes are a dark brown with specks of amber, but they always look black, like now. They narrow on me, like he’s searching, and he must’ve not liked what he found because he frowns. “You don’t need him,” he snaps. “You never needed him. Or your slut of a mother.”
I jerk away and watch the beast come up in his eyes, so I take a step back but square my shoulders.
That makes him smile. “There’s the fighter.”
He likes this game.
I don’t.
With one step he takes back the space I’ve just taken. “I always did love your sass, even when we were kids.” He leans in close, like he’s about to share a secret. “But that’s what’s going to make breaking you so much fun. And I will break you, Ava. I will make you mine.” He breathes in deep and the air goes thin around me. “Fuck, I can smell that sweet, virgin pussy from here. Can’t believe I own that now. Do you have any idea how much I’m going to love making you bleed? It’s all I’ve thought about for so damn long.”
He reaches out slow, like I’m some wild animal that might skitter off. As soon as he puts his hand on my hip, I go to do just that, but he squeezes so hard a gasp sneaks past my lips that makes his eyes close. “I’ve been a patient man,” he whispers, and I know it’s a warning. So I let him stay there, with his hand on my hip, knowing I’ll have bruises later. When his eyes finally open, he has that hungry look that makes my stomach hurt.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Even in this black rag of a dress, you’re still a tease.”
His hand slithers up my waist and onto my breast. I try to break free but he holds me in place, and grazes his thumb over my nipple. The touch is so shocking, I gasp and manage to shove his hand away. “You can’t give me a minute to mourn my father?” I ask, squeezing the words out as mean as I can make them. “I’m not even out of the cemetery.”
Shayne looks up slowly, his glare so sinister my heart stops beating. For a moment, I wonder if the beast is loose, and I start to panic because I’ve seen him loose before. But then his eyes flick up and over my head, to something in the distance. He stays staring at whatever it was that caught his eye, then looks back down and pins me with a glare.
“You have until Saturday, then I’m coming for you. If you try to run, I’ll find you, and you’ll only make things worse for yourself. Not only that, I know your weakness. Don’t make me use it. Understand me?”
The color drains from my face and I nod. He keeps glaring, making sure his threat sinks in good and deep, then lets me go and turns towards his dually. It’s a big, dark monster of a thing, just like him.
It isn’t until he’s gone that the air returns to my lungs and I turn around, searching for whatever had Shayne backing off. Then I see it. A dark saintly figure stands atop the hillside, watching me. Father Watkins. Behind him the sky has turned a fiery red, outlining his frame, while his black robe billows in the breeze. Even from this distance I can see his aging eyes, so full of wisdom, and so full of sorrow.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’ve just been granted a three-day grace.