Page 63 of Westin

“I want you to know that when I’m gone in the evenings, I’m fucking someone else,” he says, his voice glacial. “And until you’re ready to fuck me, have fun fucking yourself, you whore.”

He turns on the heel of his boot. His footsteps are loud as he heads down the hall.

“You sleep in the spare room, off the kitchen,” he yells. “I didn’t want you anyway.”

The front door slams, and I wince. The engine of his truck roars to life, and I see the headlights disappear down the drive.

I’m so relieved he didn’t touch me, but my hands still shake as I turn on the light and find my way to the spare room. It’s a simple bedroom with a twin bed, a window, a desk, and a dresser.

Dust is thick like snow on the floor. Dead flies litter the windowsill.

I lay my bag down and locate some cleaning supplies in the kitchen. Head spinning, still unable to process, I clean every inch of the room before unpacking my bags. After the sheets and quilt are washed, I make the bed. Then, I tuck Jensen’s pistol under the bed, in my mostly empty purse.

I lay on my back, the light still on.

There has to be a way to keep Thomas out if he changes his mind. The door opens outward, and there’s no hook and eye lock or deadbolt. I can drag a chair from the dining room, but he’ll notice it’s gone.

Instead, I find a long coil of rope in the laundry room and a hook under the kitchen sink. Working quickly, I attach one end to the doorknob, screw the hook in the ceiling, and run the rope through it. Laying on the bed, I loop the rope around my wrist and tighten it.

If anyone comes in, I’ll wake. The gun is loaded and within reach.

There are some things Nana would have never asked of me. If Thomas forces his way into my room, I don’t care if I go to prison for it.

I’ll blow his head open.

CHAPTER TWENTY

WESTIN

I’m so fucking angry, and I don’t know where to put it all.

Sovereign doesn’t notice. He’s getting ready to bring Keira Garrison up to the ranch. I’ve never seen him more determined about anything in his life. His eyes are always distracted. When I speak, he asks me to repeat myself every time.

I wish Sovereign had someone for me to kill, because I need an outlet for the fire burning in my chest. Instead, I lose myself in work. When I’m not doing that, I’m getting drunk at night in the gatehouse.

It’s not healthy. I need my girl back.

A week passes. I stay up until midnight, staring out at the tree outside my window. My mother used to say I bottle things up, that I’d be healthier if I just talked to people, but I’m my father’s son through and through. I don’t want to fucking talk it out.

I want to shoot Garrisons.

Or David Carter, unless I can find something worse to do to him.

Maybe I’m justified in how I feel and what I’m doing about it, maybe not. Maybe I drink too much. Maybe I stay up and replay every time I kissed her in my head. Maybe I touch myself a few too many times a night thinking about some other man’s wife.

Maybe I’m all fucked up inside over what could have been.

After the second week, all my bottles are empty, so I clean myself up and get a haircut and shave. When it’s bedtime, I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. I don’t sleep, but I pretend I do until I give up and take Rocky from the barn.

We move through the dark, the lantern hanging off his saddle, to the hill that overlooks Thomas Garrison’s house. She’s inside somewhere. The lights are all off, except for the one that hangs over the barn.

Inside that fucking house, she’s in his bed.

My stomach is sour. I’m so angry, I have to argue myself out of walking down that hill and shooting him dead.

The next night, I go a little earlier. The light is on downstairs, and I can make out the outline of someone inside. Then, the light goes off and turns on in the bottom left window. My breath catches as the curtain draws back.

There she is, in a little white slip, like a pale gold ghost.

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