Stone

Brooke orders two burger combos with Cokes. The burger combo—that’s what I got her last time. I know better than to think it’s a big deal that she remembered our usual.

I make her drive back to Big Moosehorn Park. I show her where to drive and the parking area I want us at.

We get out of her SUV. It’s a nice enough set of wheels—a Lincoln Navigator. Red like cherries.

It’s a warm night for April, but the ground is still cool and damp. I lead her to a grassy bluff a ways off the trail, near a few large trees. It overlooks the river where we were that night. No doubt she remembers that, too. “Here.”

She looks confused.

“Wait,” I say, laying out my leather jacket. “The ground is still a little wet.”

“I'm not sitting on your jacket.”

I give her a look. That’s not how this goes. I know she understands that, even if she fights me sometimes.

She sits.

I settle in beside her.

I eat my burger, but that’s not what this is about. It’s more about watching her eat. About doing the things from last time. Messed up, I know. I try not to think about it too hard.

It’s been a fuck of a month. Grayson got convicted. They’re moving him to a prison out of state—far away from us. They won’t let him have visitors or even communicate with the outside world. I’d lay down my life to protect him, but now I can’t even see him.

We’re all going crazy. Sometimes I can barely sleep.

The worse things are, the more I think about that night with her last September.

To escape the worry and the rage, just for a moment. To lose myself in that good feeling I had with her.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about fucking her, too. I’d be lying if I didn’t think about how it felt to hold her in the river that night. The way she trembled, this girl I had total control over. I could destroy her or save her. I could kill her or fuck her or do anything at all.

She didn’t tell.

She kept our secret.

I was fairly sure she would. Still. It got me in a way that’s hard to explain.

And I needed a hit of her again.

We questioned a guy at the old lumber mill in West Franklin today. He was a guy from the basement days. It was a miracle we tracked him down. We felt sure he knew who engineered the frame-up of Grayson, that he could give us something we could use.

The motherfucker wouldn’t talk. I told him I’d run him through the wood chipper if he wouldn’t give me something.

He didn’t believe me, of course. Kept saying he didn’t know who was behind it. So I made my guys hoist him up. I started feeding him in, hand first. He blurted out a few nicknames and then shut up. Done talking. I suppose he knew he was dead either way.

So I put him through.

They didn’t want me to do it like that. Too messy. And with all the safety features wood chippers have these days, it’s also a real pain in the ass compared to just shooting him in the head, but when I say something, I follow through. That’s important to me.

Let them have the high ground. I can be the psycho they need me to be. I left them back at the Bradford to bitch about me. Too angry. Out of control. You have to let people bitch about you when you’re the leader.

Doesn’t matter.

They’re safe. That’s what matters.

Then I found myself driving to her. I told myself I’d just watch her from the car. She gets done with her last class at three fifteen on Wednesdays, and I thought I’d drive by her fancy girls’ school.

They hang banners from the roof to show the world what the girls are up to, and this month the banners say prom season. Prom is a kind of dance, according to Wikipedia.

Then I followed her to the museum. I wanted to know what she was doing in there, and I thought to slip in, but I don’t know how the fuck you blend in at a museum—you have to know something about a place to blend into it.

So I hung around in the garage until she got back. I told myself all I’d do was make sure she got out of there okay. Wouldn’t want any predators to get at her.

Yeah. Too late for that now.

Even her hate feels good. I’ll never be yours. I replay it in my head. That glare as she said it. Her fear, her hate, her friction. I shouldn’t get off on it, I know. That’s how twisted up I am.

“So did Detective Rivera follow up? Is he giving you any more trouble?”

Her eyes snap to mine. “How do you know about him?”

“I’m a bad guy. It’s my job to know about the cops.”

She fishes through her bag of fries, taking out a slim, crispy one. Maybe she likes crispy ones. “He didn’t believe me.”

“But he didn’t go at you again?”

“No. My mom kind of ran him off.”

“Your parents protecting you. That’s good.”

She nods, seeming sad.

“So they’re leaving it?”

“Is that why you wanted to see me?” she asks. “To make sure you’re home free?”

I can see the hope in her eyes. She wants that to be the reason I’ve grabbed her up and not something bad. She doesn’t get it; everything with me is bad. “I’m asking the questions. Are they leaving it?”

“I have to go to a shrink. But she doesn’t ask me about it directly.”

“And you won’t tell her.”

“I said I wouldn’t,” she snaps. “I’m good for my word.”

I nod. I like that. Keeping our word is something we have in common, but I don’t say it.

“I never tell her anything.”

“You should tell her how you feel, if you feel upset.”

“Just leave it,” she says, echoing me.

“What else? Everything back to normal otherwise?”

She drags another burnt french fry through the blob of ketchup she squeezed out into the side of her fries bag. If I’d known she likes them crispy, I would’ve ordered them like that and taken a look to make sure they did it right. “Pretty much. Except for self-defense classes.”

“You’re taking self-defense?”

She shrugs. “The shrink thinks it would be good.”

“Is it?”

She eats the fry. “It’s exercise, I guess.”

“Show me. Can you hit? Did they teach you to hit?”

She pushes a fry into her mouth and looks at me suspiciously.

“I’ll give you pointers,” I add.

“No, thanks.”

“It’s not like you can hurt me.”

“You want me to hit you? So you can give me pointers? Practice self-defense with the person who’s the whole reason…” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

“The whole reason you need to defend yourself? Who the fuck better to practice against, right?”

“I just want to go home.”

“C’mon.” I stand. “Give me your best move.”

She just gazes up at me. The new highlights in her hair catch the setting sun, and there’s a light dusting of freckles on her nose. She looks like an angel.

“Come on. Up.” I want to see this. More than that, I want her to touch me. Doesn’t matter whether that touch comes with pleasure. I’m more used to pain anyway.

“I can go home if I hit you? That’s what you’re saying?”

“If you knock me down.”

I wait. I can tell she’s considering it. She knows I mean what I say. She wipes her fingers on her napkin, tucks the napkin into the greasy bag, and stands, eyes wary. She’s suspicious.

“Let’s see whatcha got.”

I’m expecting something half-assed, but she comes out with a big roundhouse. I slap it away.

“That’s what they’re teaching you? To try something like that?” I grin. “I don’t know about these classes.”

She looks wild and angry and kind of beautiful. “You think it’s funny? Go to hell. You made me lie to everyone.” She kicks me, hitting my knee.

“Ow,” I say, laughing.

Suddenly she’s like a little windmill, a flurry of hits and kicks. “I could barely sleep! And he knew!” Hit, kick, hit, kick. She’s landing them. I’m laughing, surprised more than anything. “Everyone looks at me like I’m…” She hits again.

“Fuck!” I say, holding her off. “Okay!”

She doesn’t stop. She’s dead serious, going at me like a wild banshee. She actually connects a few times.

“Okay, okay.” I grab her, get her under control. She’s crying by the time I pin her to a tree. I have her arms trapped against her shoulders. She’s breathing hard, frightened.

I dig in my fingers, just to let her know who’s in charge. Having her under my control again, let’s just say it’s a good feeling.

Her breathing changes. Tears in her eyes. “They know I was lying.”

“Okay,” I say, “you’re okay.” I use my calming voice, a little trick I perfected down in that basement all those years, calming my guys down when things got rough, which was pretty much always. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” She kicks, and I move my leg to pin hers, getting real close to her. This level of control feels a little too good. A little dangerous. “I hate you.”

“I know, little bird.”

“They all know!”

“Did you tell them?”

“No! I said I didn’t.”

“Then they don’t know,” I say. “They have no idea. People are lost in their own miserable lives.” I breathe her in. “Your self-defense classes, though. You don’t try that shit on a person like me. Okay? What you were giving me out there, those weren’t good moves. You can do better.”

“And you know all about me,” she bites out.

“Your best move with a guy like me? Get the fuck away. You had a chance to run back there, and you didn’t take it. That would’ve been your best move.” I press her harder, putting my whole body into it, and whisper into her ear. “All the hitting and kicking, it’s just a lot of nothing to a guy like me. It’s barely even trouble. You get a chance to run, you take it.”

I ease up a few inches and see the alarm in her eyes. It’s good that she’s scared. That’s how it should be. I let off, and she moves away.

“Maybe I’ll run now.”

“Little late for that.”

She pulls her keys from her pocket and backs away from me, back to her car. Her eyes widen as she realizes I’m not planning to move. She waves the little copper key like it’s a knife. “You think I won’t run you over? Ram right into you?”

Part of me wants her to do it. The same part of me that wants to crush any man who hurts her—even me. I like her strong and fighting. Powerful.

The more realistic part of me knows there’s nothing a sixteen-year-old girl can do to a man like me. I’m too hard, too mean. She never stood a chance, not from the very first time I looked at her in that ridiculous party dress. I may never claim her, but she’ll always be mine.

Her hands clench into fists. “What do you want from me?”

“That’s a good question.” A good question without a good answer. I can’t seem to keep myself away from her. She’s too good for me, too pure. You made me lie to everyone. I’m ruining her, and I have no plans to stop.

I take a step forward, and she’s a smart girl. It’s not hard to figure out what I might do to her.

“Wait,” she says.

I don’t wait. I step into her space, close enough to smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo, to feel her breath warm against my neck, to back her up to the cool metal side of the bright red vehicle. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Her voice trembles. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

Because I can’t stand her delicate eyelids and her bow-shaped mouth. She’s so fragile, so breakable, and I’m a goddamn sledgehammer. “Don’t move.” I grasp her upper arm and hold her against the SUV, wanting her right there.

Her eyes are impossibly wide, staring up at me with fear. “I didn’t tell,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t.”

I know, and maybe that’s what sealed her fate. Knowing that she lied for me, that she protected me. There aren’t many people in the world who would do that. Only my guys. Nobody else. Even if she only did it to save her family, it’s formed a bond between us.

Her hair shimmers with spun gold. I reach up to touch one of the bright parts. It runs through my hand like silk—no, something softer. Like liquid, a whisper of a touch against calloused fingertips.

She’s shivering. Terrified. That should be enough reason for me to let her go. Only a monster would keep her pinned like this, captive so that he could feel her hair. This isn’t right, but all I can think is that she’s listening to me. Don’t move, I told her, and she’s barely even blinking. It’s like catching fucking sunlight in a jar. I don’t want to let her go.

And you know all about me.

I know hardly anything about her—what does she taste like? What sounds can she make?

My pulse rages in my ears like a goddamn ocean. How messed up is that? I can kill a man and go out for a nice dinner right afterward, calm and serene, laughing with my guys over stupid shit. But pinning this fragile girl to the smooth side of her vehicle gets me churned up inside.

“Have you ever been kissed?” I whisper.

It feels like the time to whisper, everything intimate even when it smells like damp dirt. Or maybe because of it. We’re getting primal here. This isn’t a fancy party like she’s used to. I’ll never be that kind of man. This is who I am. Hard. Ruthless.

“I—I—” She stammers like she’s trying to figure out the right thing to tell me.

“The truth,” I say, laying steel under my voice. When I leave her again, all I’ll have of her is knowledge. When I’m lying in my empty fucking bedroom at the Bradford, jacking off, all I’ll have is this.

“Yes,” she whispers. “At a party. He—”

I make a growling sound, and she stops.

I didn’t mean to do that. It sprang from deep inside me, a raw part of me best left alone.

She digs into things I don’t want dug into just by being who she is, just by looking at me with those big brown eyes.

Fuck.

My pulse rages.

“What did he do?” I make myself ask, voice mocking like I don’t give a shit. “Did he touch your pretty tits? Did he come in your mouth?”

“What?” Her eyes widen, and that mouth—God, that mouth. Her lips part in shock. “No.”

Isn’t that what kids do these days? You read those articles about middle school kids getting pregnant. But what the fuck do I know about being a kid? Not a damn thing. I knew about touching and about cum. It’s a kiss that would have shocked me.

A kiss. Lips on lips. Tongue against tongue. The mechanics sound simple, but the reality confounds me. I stare at the pink of her lips, the shape of them, wondering how they would feel against mine. Telling myself I have no right.

My hand slides through her hair and locks behind her neck, holding her in place. My other hand keeps her pinned against that vehicle.

Leave her the fuck alone.

I might have been able to walk away. That’s what I tell myself. Then her head tilts back, just the smallest degree, and her lips part.

And I’m lost. Everything inside me goes upside down. I bend my face to hers, a breath away.

And freeze.

Her breath heats my lips. The moment stretches out in rapid heartbeats. I stalked her, but she set the fucking trap.

And then I can’t stop myself—I press my lips to hers. Lights explode behind my eyes.

God, she feels so soft—so soft, so good. I sink into the pleasure of her. She’s warm, luxurious. She’s all-consuming quicksand I never want to escape. Sweet and soft, like everything good.

I’m sinking into oblivion, and it’s all I want.

I adjust my grip on the back of her neck, fisting her hair, my other hand gripping her shoulder. I love holding her like this.

Fuck, it’s too much.

I pull back, blood racing. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

She stares at me with this stunned light in her eyes, arms dropping to her sides. Was she trying to push me away? If she was, I couldn’t tell. What does she see on my face? Hunger? Surprise? Danger?

I fit our lips back together, higher and harder this time. Even better. No matter how our lips connect, it feels like magic.

I want a better taste, but using my tongue will change this. It will make it less pure, and her lips are fucking heaven.

A little voice says why not? I ruin everything I touch. Why not her? So I do it—I slip my tongue along her lower lip.

She gasps into my mouth.

I delve deeper. I take more.

I invade the fuck out of her, tasting her everywhere, exploring her mouth like it’s the last thing I’ll taste. I’m blown away by the sweetness of her, the surrender. I don’t deserve it, but I take it.

I grip her harder, kiss her harder, lost. Only when the shadows crowd in from the corners of my mind do I realize I’m running out of breath. When I pull back, I’m panting hard. So is she.

I stare into her brown eyes, drowning in them.

She looks almost tender, but that can’t be right. The kiss must have fucked me up.

The point of her tongue darts out to her lips, and I groan against the urge to kiss her again. I’m already rock-hard against her stomach, one second away from throwing her on the hood of the car and fucking her.

A small hand cups my cheek, warm and soft. Her eyes never leave mine. “You’ve never done that before, have you?”

Shock freezes me from the inside out.

I take a step back.

Her hand falls away.

How does she know? How does she fucking know? Nothing about me is finessed or gentle. When I fuck, it’s hard and rough—and no one’s ever questioned where I learned it, how I started.

Leave her the fuck alone, the voice whispers again. This time it isn’t trying to protect her. It’s trying to protect me. She sees too deep inside me. “You fucking serious?” I say.

She gazes, unblinking.

“You serious?” I go to her and grab her a little rough. I press her to the Navigator door, let her feel the ridge of my steely cock, let her feel how there’s nothing nice about me. “You need to stop spinning fucked-up little schoolgirl fantasies about me.”

She stiffens under me, no longer soft. She’s scared.

“What the fuck good is it?” I demand. “What the fuck good is it to learn all that bullshit self-defense, or what I taught you about running from people who might really fuck with you, if you can’t see what’s in front of your face?”

Still she gazes up at me.

I jerk her a little, trying to shake the answer out of her.

“Okay,” she breathes.

I stay on her, though. Funny how that works—here I am, back again, holding her close, enjoying her warmth and her softness once again.

Some string of logic twists around in my head, saying it would be good for her if I took her right now, right on the hood of her daddy’s car, just to show her what the world is like so that she doesn’t get the lesson from somebody else, somebody worse.

It’s important to know what the world is like. She’s in for a lot of hurt, this girl.

I close my eyes. This other part of me wants to protect her from that. Like maybe she never has to know what the world is.

I want that for her in a way I haven’t wanted anything for a long time. I want her to not know how things are. To not know what darkness really is.

“Hey,” she whispers.

I open my eyes. She’s furrowing her pretty brows, drawing them together like dark, silky dashes. Dainty creases form at the inner edges. Her lips are pursed in a pout of concentration.

She removes my hands from her and brushes my sleeve. “Look at this. You have something all over your sleeve. Your sleeve is covered in…what is this?”

I pull my arm away, because I think it might be blood and I don’t want her touching that scumbag’s blood. But then I see it’s not. “Oh. Just sawdust,” I say.

“Were you making something? Doing woodworking?”

The hopeful look in her eyes kills me. That’s what she thinks I do? Make nice furniture? All industrious and shit? Maybe sanding down my ventriloquist’s dummy between shows at the children’s hospital?

“We’re out of here,” I say.