Page 37 of Eternally Devoted

“What?” I ask.

“Uh, he wants to fuck you, that’s what,” he says, irritation coursing through him.

Sterling snorts, adding, “Definitely.”

“We didn’t— I was never going to—” I don’t need to defend myself because Sterling comes to sit next to me, kneading the tension from my neck with one large hand.

“We know, sweetheart. We’re just saying. He let himself get robbed and lied to because he wants to get inside you.”

His choice of words paints me in a flush. “I don’t know about that.”

“We do,” Dash says, looking over at Sterling, who returns his nod.

“The town line—” Sterling starts. “Did you keep burying them out there?”

I shake my head. “The disposal has proven the hardest. I couldn’t always get the time to drive that far out, and I was worried about the well, and all the other places, so I had to get creative.”

“More creative than a woodchipper?” Dash asks, and it surprises me that he’s somewhat smirking.

Nodding my head, I spill my guts about one of the things I feel guiltiest about, outside of using Dr. Jones. “Dash,” I start, hoping he isn’t angry with me. “Remember when you were telling us about the guy that sells hard drugs in Oakcreek?”

He doesn’t move, but his eyes widen, and Sterling’s hand leaves my neck, favoring my thigh. He squeezes me once. “Juniper,” he draws out, fear in his tone.

“Well, I went and bought drugs from him. I told him I wanted the baddest stuff. The bad stuff that’s on the news. Strong, powerful… dangerous stuff.”

“You bought drugs? But why?” Dash asks, nodding toward the cabinet I referenced a moment ago. “I thought you said you still have paralytic and tranquilizers and shit from Jones?”

I nod. “I do. I didn’t need the drugs for the jam. I needed them forcleanup.”

“I don’t follow, sweetheart,” Sterling says softly, now stroking his palm down my leg until he cups my knee. The touch floods my center with a pulsing, undeniable heat, and I wonderif there’s truly something wrong with me to be able to get turned on while discussing murder.

But no one’s perfect.

“For numbers six, seven and eight, I fed them the jam laced with both paralytic and the drugs in case they were tested, then put the drugs on their person, or in their home, so that when they were found, it would look like an OD. And if they were tested, all they'd have in their system would be more drugs.”

“You weren’t worried about them finding out each man’s stomach contents contained jam?” Dash asks, making sweat bubble on my neck.

I shake my head. “Not really. Everyone loves my jam.” Smiling, I add, “And I made sure to leave a jar of Smucker’s in the fridge, with no sign of Juni’s Jams anywhere.”

Dash lets out a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face as he processes. “You’re good at being a criminal.”

“I don’t like that word,” I admit, feeling like it doesn't fit me at all.

Dash comes to sit next to me, and I relish sitting between the two of them. Being the center of their focus makes everything else in the world A-okay.

“If you have to label me,” I say quietly, caught between the desire to continue my spree of coming clean and getting back to what we started the other night at their place. “Just call me abad girl.”

The groan rumbling through Sterling’s chest has my cunt pulsing. Dash lets out a deep sigh.

“Okay, bad girl, tell us about six, seven and eight. But first, start with five.”

Donald Taylor, number five, was a man lingering near Bear’s elementary school, asking kids if they needed a ride, telling them he had fudge and candies. There was a week when Hudson went out of town, leaving Dolly and I to help with picking up Bear from school.

I saw Donald at the school every single day. I had Dolly ask the woman working reception if he had a student there. She said they were unaware he was even out there.

I told myself that if I went back on a random day and he was still there, I could act on my suspicions that this man was an unsuccessful pedophile in the making. On a normal Tuesday, I drove past Bear’s school just a few minutes shy of the bell ringing and there he was, Donald Taylor, clinging to the chain-link fence near the jungle gym, his blue van hugging the curb.

“Getting Donald was the most challenging. He didn’t want to talk to me at all. I think he knew I was full of shit when I showed interest in him,” I recall, remembering approaching the man with a large jar of jam. “I said I’m the local jam maker and told him I was giving away jars, and asked if he wanted one, and he said nothing.”

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