Page 4 of Hell or High Water

“Graduation isn’t for another two months.”

“Glad you can do math,” Linc replied as he headed for the door.

I watched him go, and then I continued to stare at the empty doorway as dread sank over me. This was going to suck. My eyes slowly scanned the room and the remnants of last night’s events. At least I had gotten my whipped-cream-covered dick sucked by two different girls last night and fucked three of them. We’d passed them around and gone through a box of condoms doing it. Glancing down, I saw my erection growing, tenting the throw I had wrapped around me.

“Guess I need some alone time in the shower with you to relive that blonde on her knees last night, moaning over the whipped-cream-and-cock meal she shoved down her throat,” I said.

That would be the only highlight of this day.

Two

Montana

How had my life come down to two suitcases and three boxes? I sat on the edge of the bed in the cheap motel room I’d had Melody—one of Momma’s closest friends—drop me off at in Jackson, Mississippi. I had sold my and Momma’s cars to put toward the bills, along with the house. Melody had been letting me sleep on the sofa in her living room. There was no extra money left to get an apartment of my own.

Momma might not have batted an eye at dropping big bills on a pair of shoes or a purse, but she hadn’t wanted to spend much on good health insurance, and her medical bills were going to take me until I was middle-aged to pay them off. I had to get my high school diploma, and I’d applied last summer for college scholarships. The University of Louisiana Monroe had given me a full scholarship into their nursing school program. That had been my plan until the anonymous letters started showing up the day after Momma’s funeral. Small, blue, and folded into origami hearts. Now, I didn’t know if I could ever go back to Monroe, Louisiana.

Staring down at the phone in my hand, I chewed on my bottom lip.

Yesterday, I’d woken up to a new blue heart-shaped letter on the coffee table beside the sofa I’d slept on. Faced with the terror that the writer of these letters had gotten into Melody’s house without anyone knowing and watched me sleep, I gave in and called the number Momma had left for me. The one she’d said would go directly to the man who had helped create me.

I hated calling him Father because he’d never been that. The last time he’d come to see us, I’d been ten years old. His visits had started to dwindle the older I got, but Momma said it was because she’d gotten older. The closer she inched to thirty, the less interested he was. She said he liked them young.

When I was thirteen, Momma told me he’d been elected as the governor of Mississippi. She doubted we’d ever see his face again, and she was right. Momma might take gifts from men, but she refused to ask for anything. She had left Jericho Baskin alone, and we had moved on with our lives.

Until now.

It had taken me hours to work up the nerve to call that number. I’d been literally nauseated over it, but the fear of staying in Monroe outweighed everything else. I just didn’t know who else to call. I couldn’t tell Melody. She’d have made me go to the police station, and in one of the letters, I’d been warned that telling the cops would cause something bad to happen to someone I cared about. Jericho Baskin was all I had. The absolute only option.

It was a good thing I’d had no illusions of fatherly affection. He was furious that I’d called him and asked for somewhere to stay. Like I’d expected, he told me no, but I was desperate. The kind of desperate that was fueled by sheer fear. So, I’d threatened him. I still couldn’t believe I’d done it.

“If you won’t help me, then I’ll go to the media and send your wife the paternity test you had Momma take when she was pregnant. Maybe even send her the picture I have of the three of us together on a picnic. I was three then. Remember that?”

He had gone silent, and my heart had been beating so hard that I wondered if he could hear it over the phone. Our standoff lasted for several moments. I wasn’t sure I’d even taken a breath during that time.

Until, finally, he’d replied, “Give me until tomorrow at noon. I need some time to make arrangements.” His gruff voice sounded defeated, and then he’d ended the call.

It was eleven now, and still, nothing from him. I’d told him where I was staying during the call, and he had to know that checkout was at noon.

Should I stay another day? Was he calling my bluff? If he didn’t call, where was I going to go?

My lack of sleep and the constant looking over my shoulder were starting to wear me down. But if he shut me out, I wasn’t going to call the media. And I’d burned that photo of the three of us the day my momma took her last breath.

He had a daughter. She was eight years old, and none of this was her fault. I wouldn’t ruin her life to save mine. But I did need somewhere to finish high school and be safe from whoever had written me those letters back in Monroe. If I could stay here until I graduated and then get a full-time job to save up enough money, I’d leave town and get my own apartment. At least, that was the only plan I had right now. It was what I’d told Jericho.

I picked at the frayed denim on one of the holes in my jeans. If Jericho didn’t call, then…

Three loud knocks on the door had me springing up from the bed while gripping the bedazzled pink Taser Momma had given me last year for Christmas. I had kept it close to me since finding that last blue note. My hand trembled as I held it out in front of me and stared at the door as if someone was going to break it down. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down and think.

Whoever had left me the notes never knocked on my door. Why would they do that now? I was being ridiculous. It was most likely the cleaning lady.

Lowering the Taser to my side, I walked over to look through the peephole. Which would have been the sane response in the first place. My fear was warping my logic. Going up on my tiptoes, I peeked outside.

It wasn’t a cleaning lady. My hand tightened on the Taser. Two men. One couldn’t be more than a few years older than me, but the other was older. Maybe his father. By the looks of them, I seriously doubted that stalking was something they did. Women most likely stalked them. And I’d bet money that neither of them had folded origami in their life.

“Montana.” The older one said my name, and I sucked in a breath.

They didn’t have the wrong room. They were here for me.

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