Page 53 of For Fillies and Monsters

He doesn’t move or say anything else, and I instantly regret the words. But I’m still a coward, and it feels easier to run than apologize.

So, that’s what I do.

Standing, I brush the dust from my jeans and head to where Winston is still tied up.

“Where are you going?” Gus asks, his voice hoarse from holding back a scolding no doubt.

“To talk to someone.” I don’t turn around. I don’t need to see the stricken, bordering sad, look on his face. The tiny glimpse I got is enough for me to know I fucked up.

And to wonder what the fuck it means.

Driving to Nathan’s house feels like a punishment, like pouring salt in an already festering wound. I have less interest in talking to him than I do Gus, but for very different reasons.

Obviously.

Dale spent all afternoon reassuring me this was a good idea. But being here, moments away from begging a man I basically hate, feels like the farthest thing from a good idea. It feels like a stupid fucking idea.

And my only option.

I park my truck, a rusty wagon in comparison to the other cars lining the street, and lean over the steering wheel, silently berating myself for this beyond-stupid plan. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…

A knock on the window makes me yelp, and I jolt upward in the seat, bonking my head on the roof. Nathan stands outside the window, a look of confusion and concern written across his annoyingly clean features. I roll down my window to ask if he’d like to meet at a restaurant or just go into his house, when he stops me, his finger making a shushing motion over his lips.

“I would prefer we take separate trucks, if that’s alright? I will just meet you at your place.” His smile seems kind, like what he just said didn’t come off rude as fuck. He’s either delusional or the most oblivious person in the world. I’m guessing a mixture of both, and that only makes me hate him more.

He doesn’t wait for a response as he darts over to his pristine pickup and fires it up. I stare after him, dumbfounded by his audacity. My foot twitches, and I have the overwhelming urgeto ram my truck into the back of his. It would destroy him, and something about that seems like a good idea; a really good idea.

Focus, Stetson. You’re here to ask for help, not take him on a date. You can hate him and still take his money.

As we drive back toward my house, I can’t help but fume, no matter how badly I need his help. He made me drive all the way to his house, to refuse to get into my truck or even be seen talking to me, and now he wants to go back to my house. He surely knows this isn’t a hookup, right? He’s not that fucking out of touch.

We park, his truck blocking my normal spot in the driveway, and I suck in a sharp breath. I did not want to come back here; I do not want to face Gus. Especially because I didn’t tell him where I was going and who I was talking to. And the way we left it?

He’ll get over it. This is a professional, semi-friendly relationship that means little to nothing to him. Just like it does me.

Fuuuuck.

I groan. If he’s still around—which, based on the fact his truck is still parked in the driveway, he will be—and he sees Nathan, I don’t know what will happen. But I don’t expect it to be good.

Nathan jumps from his truck, a stupid grin consuming his face, and saunters over to the deck. I watch him go, then freeze. There’s Gus, leaning back in the porch swing, swaying back and forth, his hair ruffling in the breeze. The half-empty bottle of whiskey from the other night is gripped tightly between his fingers. Which may not seem like a big deal to most, but the other night, when Dale and I were raging drunk, Gus refused to consume even a drop.

I wondered then if it was because he had an addiction problem, but I see it now for what it is. Gus has an anger problem, one alcohol releases.

Nathan stomps up the stairs toward the front door, not even looking back at me. He either is more oblivious than I thought moments ago or has a death wish. And as much as I’d like to see him get his ass beat, I need his help.Well, his daddy’s help.

I slam the truck door behind me, drawing the attention of both men. Their eyes sear into me, one roaming over my skin with the same heat as a small lighter, the other scorching into my flesh like a house fire. I shiver and bolt toward the deck, attempting to step between them.

I face Nathan, and motion toward the house. Gus’s eyes bore into my back, goosebumps erupting unwantedly over my skin.

“Can I get you a drink?” My attempt at southern hospitality and ass-kissing while pissed isn’t the best, especially when tested twice in one day. But Nathan is oblivious. He nods, a small smile on his lips as he looks past my shoulder.

“Sure. Uh, why is he here?”

I roll my eyes, blowing out a breath.

“I live here, you fucking twat. Why are you here?”

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