Page 49 of Look at Her and Die

Thirteen

I call it my penis fly trap.

—Searcy referring to her vagina

POSY

I was angry as fuck.

So fuckin’ angry that I’d been running for probably eleven miles now and still didn’t have the anger soothed.

Elisha had called to tell me that she was on her way over a couple of hours ago, and I’d missed the call because I was once again dealing with the dickhead bull.

Ray had finally been in his pen again—an inexperienced hand that I’d hired that day had accidentally let him out—when Elisha, my mom and stepfather came down the driveway, all in separate vehicles.

That was when the questioning started from my mom and stepfather, while Elisha had just listened on, a smug smirk on her face.

In the end, I’d lost my shit on them all and commented dryly that I would rather get gored by Sweet Baby Ray than ever date Elisha again. Which had promptly pissed them all off to the point that my mother threatened to ‘do whatever it took to take the ranch away from me’ if it would make me see reason.

Which had only angered me more because she’d hated this ranch and everything it represented, and she was going to try to take it away from me out of sheer spite?

I’d never loved my mom.

She was a necessary evil that I dealt with on a weekly basis, and one that I cringed hearing her voice every time she called.

I usually answered one out of seven times, which was when she’d show up and demand my attention.

Like today.

Only, she’d gone too far today.

She’d thought that by threatening me and my livelihood that she could make me see reason.

All it’d made me do was double down.

The first person I’d called when they’d left was Apollo.

I’d asked him to get everything he could on all three of them, as well as Elisha’s parents just in case.

I wanted it all.

I wanted enough information that they wouldn’t think about threatening me or showing their faces to me ever again.

Apollo had promised that he was on it, and I’d slipped my feet into my running shoes—shoes that were usually only used on Sundays for my long runs and Wednesdays for my short runs—and started running.

Seeing Searcy get attacked by a man three times her size hadn’t helped with my anger.

Nor had her complete and utter disregard for her safety.

What the hell was she thinking coming out of the house with a bat and an attitude?

Did she think that she was invincible?

After running the stupid kid off, I then followed the kid home and explained a few things to his father, who promised he would get his kids under control, and kept running.

I was still running—though this time a whole lot slower and headed back home—when a white top and short shorts encasing a pair of sexy as fuck legs and glutes caught my attention.

And suddenly all that anger was back.

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