Page 21 of Small Town Beast

Whiskey, a gun, a paper.

Skeeeyeee.

Saverin picked up the drawing he’d made in his half-drunk state and stared at it for a long time. Then he dug in his pockets.

Yes, it was still there.

Her delicate, pretty panties. Soft lace. Red as a poppy. Smelling like a flower. He leaned back and held it to his scarred face, losing himself in the memory. One bright note of pleasure in the pain.

He forced everything from his head but her. It was easy. She felt good, so good, like a warm fire on a lonely night.

Find her. I have to find her.

It was right there his obsession started. Right there with her panties in his face, the memory of her squeezing tight on his cock, running her hands through his hair. Gently. As if she knew it was a deeper comfort he truly needed, not just the blind ravages of lust. Her moans— so real.Nobody’s ever done me that before.

Was she putting one on?

If she was, she’d probably let every Snatch Hill fuck on her, like they said Roman’s wife had done.

But still, a little voice in Saverin’s head insisted he’d pegged her wrong…

He grit his teeth.Idiot.He was desperate to find her innocent, thinking with his dick instead of his brain. No doubt the girl was bait. A Snatch Hill whore.

And if she had been telling the truth?

He couldn’t claw his way out of the fantasy. He’d been so sure that she was just a beauty down on her luck, needing fast money for some personal shit. He had sworn it was her first time working that night.

If she was innocent…what if she went out again? What if she got another Poncey, a dozen of them…Her petals stained and ruined, crushed under the stinking weight of other men.

Saverin’s eyes flew open, his teeth bared.You know what we do to mad dogs?

What if? What if?

Saverin stood up and left the room. He walked out the front door, no coat and no hat, though the morning was cold and storm-blown from the previous night’s rain. First he went to Fang’s grave, making sure the young maple he’d planted there was holding in the wind. Wildflowers bobbed and swayed; barn swallows flew overhead, and a brace of rabbits jumped across his way as he left his old friend. When he made it to the Bailey forest it began to rain again. Following the path through the trees his ancestors had cut so very long ago, he journeyed into a quiet meditation.

His life had been perfect. A fortress of happiness.

Careless, juvenile, he spent his days drinking and fucking and riding along with Roman for the occasional adventure.

Those days were over. It was time to look ahead.

To wake up.

He was wide awake now.

The rain spoke its secret tapping language to the trees. A robin crossed his path, followed by another.

Mushrooms were sprouting after the rains. Saverin used his boot-knife to cut the edible ones.Venison stew for a cold day.

But the weather didn’t fool him; he knew in a day or so the flowers would explode into perfect July blossoms. The forest would go singing into a Virginia summer like it had since the beginning of Appalachia. And all would be right with the world.

It’s not my time.The realization hit him in waves of agony and grief, and then in joy. It was the kind of joy that made him want to fall to his knees.

He was going to hold on.

“I ain’t sure,”said Laura Jane slowly, turning over the drawing. “Might be one of my employees, but I don’t handle the hiring.”

“Who would handle it?” Saverin subtly shook his shoulders out in the too-small shirt. He’d put on more muscle than the last time he’d worn a good shirt, but he felt it only decent to dress up a bit for a rare visit to one of his few female cousins.

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