Page 32 of Burned & Bound

When it was clear that there wasn’t, it left me trying to create an alternate path. One that would cost me my hide if someone found out. But I was determined to make it fucking happen. By the end of the day, I had a solid plan. There was only one last thing I needed to do before I could put the plan into play.

Which was how I ended up on Mickey’s doorstep late at night. The old man stood in the doorway wearing flannel pajama pants and a Merrillville tourist tshirt. I said nothing about it, but I was more focused on the two braces the man had on his knees.

“Knees bothering you, Mickey?” I asked.

“You that bored you came all the way here to ask me about my knees, boy?” he countered, leaning against the doorframe. The TV played quietly in the background—some old Western movie, which I would’ve found funny on any other occasion.

“Just how guilty do you feel?” I demanded. There was no fucking point in beating around the bush. “About what you did to West. How guilty do you feel?”

“Jackson, we talked about this shit.” Mickey blew out a long breath. “I did the best I fuckin’ could given the goddamn circumstances.”

“I know that’s what you think, but I’m trying to determine just how far you’re willing to go to make up for it now.”

“All right, boy. Tell me what you’re thinkin’.”

“I need you to be willing to commit perjury for him,” I said. His eyes widened slightly.Yeah, he wasn’t expecting that question.“Invite me in, Mick. I ain’t having this conversation out here.”

I waited him out, watching the wheels turn in his head. I was about to ask a lot of him—something that could get him in real trouble if anyone found out—but it was the best plan I fucking had.

CHAPTER 21

west

Three days. It’d beenthree days since Jackson burned down Harrison’s house. My childhood house.My house technically.I had no idea what the fuck to do with myself. I felt more things than I wanted to admit—more things than I thought I was capable of feeling.

Strangely enough, most of those feelings were wrapped up in Jackson. I wanted to know what he knew and why he reacted the way he did. He hated me—supposedly. Had he burned the house down because he hated me?Or for some other reason?

That thought was just one of a million useless things tumbling through my head. I struggled to take care of the horses. The downward spiral I was desperately trying to stave off bled into the worst possible areas of my life. The horses needed me, and I couldn’t pull my shit together.Even the alcohol didn’t help.

Mickey wasn’t talking to me either, which only made me feel worse. At least he sent Peter to help. Peter was quiet and kind—asked no questions and just did his job.

When Jackson’s truck stopped outside the stables, I steeled myself for whatever backlash was headed my way for not doing my damn job. He got out and beckoned me toward him.Fuck.

“Let’s go,” Jackson said as I approached slowly. He opened the passenger door to his truck. My heart lodged in my throat. No good would come from me being locked in the same goddamn truck as him.

“I ain’t getting in there with you,” I said, my voice tight.

“Get in the goddamn truck, West, or I swear to fuck…” He drew in a deep breath, hands falling to his hip. His mouth moved as he silently… counted? I had a feeling he was counting to ten or some shit to keep from yelling. In a slightly less irritated tone, he repeated, “Get in the truck, West, please. We need to talk, and I ain’t doing it here.”

Oh.That made me falter. Fuck. What was I supposed to say to that?

“I’ll drive behind you,” I countered.

“No. We ain’t staying in town, and I want to make sure you actually get there.”

Fuck me.That didn’t sound any better. But I silently nodded. I could do this. I could survive being stuck in a small space with him.

And yet that little voice in the back of my head just laughed at my own stupidity.

One hour in the fucking truck and Jackson didn’t say a word. I needed to know where we were going or what to expect.I was dying.I couldn’t sit still, my skin was crawling, and my stomach rolled. I wanted to hit something and throw up at the same time. That clawing in my chest was fucking persistent, and the fear of losing control was intense.

The second he turned off his truck in a crappy fucking parking lot, I bolted. I gulped down fresh air. It didn’t ease my nerves or haunting panic, but it was better than sitting in that fucking truck.

“Could’ve opened the window,” Jackson said when he rounded the front of the truck with a thick manila envelope in hand. I glared. There was no way he’d understand.

The stop was some dinky off-the-road diner—the kind where you knew the food was crappy and greasy but it was cheap and fast. The kind of place no one gave you a second glance because they didn’t fucking care. Everyone just passed on through.

“Let’s go,” he damn near snapped. I wanted to push the buttons—tell him no—but what the hell would I do then? I was in the middle of fucking nowhere with no way back. And I wasn’t exactly hitchhiking material.Though, I did glance at the road and consider it for a long moment.

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