Page 48 of Bleeding Blackheart

I crouch down beside her, sinking my hand into her bloody hair. “I want him to suffer.”

He pauses and takes a breath. “He will. Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle him.” He ends the call, and I look down at my girl, feeling like the worst thing that ever happened to her.

I whisper to her while I close her eyes, telling her how sorry I am. Then I leave her in the kitchen while I grab a shovel from the garage and start digging a hole.

I can’t believe I’m about to bury her. I can’t believe Dallas is going to burn down this house. All I can think about is how nothing else matters anymore. My existence has no meaning.

I dig for over an hour, and when I have a pit deep enough, I pick up my baby, giving her one last kiss while I carry her body out back.

She’ll never forgive me. Her soul will haunt me as long as I live. And I deserve that. I try not to think while I place her in the ground, and I get her covered twice as fast as I got the hole dug. I’m seconds away from getting the fuck out of here when I see her.

That damn horse.

That goddamn horse sat here while my girl was getting murdered not doing a damn thing. That goddamn useless animal.

I pull my gun off my hip, getting ready to shoot her when I slip on the mud below me, remembering why I’m out back in the first place.

I can’t kill this horse. She loved this horse.

I put my weapon away, running back in the house. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t be without her.

I go to her bedroom, and there are boxes everywhere still. I become numb while I pick up her shoes and start packing them into my truck. Her shoes were everything. I can’t let Dallas burn her shoes. I have to save her shoes.

I’ve got thirty pairs with me when I’ve calmed down enough to see Violet again. I’ve already been here too long. I need to get out of here before Dallas comes. I get Violet put in her trailer quickly, and I bring my truck to it to hitch her to me.

Without looking back, I get back on the road, heading to my new home to live out my own personal hell on Earth.

I sit on Colt’s porch, nursing my second beer while my heart rate starts to slow down. Montana’s been upstairs alone for an hour, and I’m dreading going back upstairs to see her. As soon as I release her, she’ll never speak to me again. That’s what I’m hoping for at least. I lost my right to happiness the day I lost Margaret. I didn’t deserve her to begin with, and I’m the reason she’s dead.

And when I got to my new home that night after I secured Violet and picked up Faye, I went up to my bedroom to try and blow my head off. When my rifle jammed, I knew then that I would face nothing but suffering for the rest of my days.

I’m two beers deep getting ready to go grab my third when my old friend pulls up to his home.

Colton steps out of his Bronco with his black shirt torn and dirt on his jeans, clearly up to trouble. His black hair is as long as mine, and his blue eyes look as tired as mine probably do.

He sits next to me in a rocking chair and leans back. “Brother. What the hell are you doing in Utah?”

Colton’s like a brother to me. I met him two years after Margaret died at a liquor store, and we’ve been close ever since. I knew when I called last minute needing a place to stay, he’d be there for me. That’s just the kind of person he is. He’s like Margaret. Like she used to be.

I give him the rundown of everything with Montana, and he whistles while he takes off his black hat. “Damn. Where the hell is she?”

“She’s . . . upstairs. Handcuffed to your bed.”

He whistles again, misinterpreting my meaning when I decide to unload on him and tell him why I left her like I did. “Montana was a virgin before tonight.”

He claps his hands and smiles. “Alllright.”

“No. Not alright. This is not something to celebrate.” I feel my neck heat, beyond embarrassed that I’m getting ready to discuss all of this with him. What I did to Montana and how Margaret’s tied up in all this. But Colt always listens, and he always cares. Where Dallas always has my back, Colt always offers a shoulder to cry on. Even though I’ve never cried on it. “I need more beer.”

He hops up eagerly, getting two more cold ones so he can drink with me. When he returns, he faces his chair toward me. “So why aren’t we celebrating?”

I take a sip, looking away from him. “What should’ve been a special and memorable experience for her was anything but special. But it’ll be memorable.”

“Go on.”

I fiddle with the ring on my right hand that I bought myself one year after my attempted suicide. Promising myself I’d keep moving forward. “I got caught up in themoment and—and I hurt her. It was quick, dirty, and unromantic. I didn’t know she hadn’t done anything like that until we were done, and I felt guilty. So I put all the blame on her and told her she should’ve told me and that I can’t trust her now.”

He looks at me like I fell from the sky. “So, she’s handcuffed to the bed alone because you’re an asshole.”

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