Page 13 of The Bastard's Lily
I lean forward, forearms braced on the handlebars, and watch. Wait. She’s so close I can fucking taste it. But I don’t go down that hill. Not yet.
I sit there longer than I should. The wind kicks up, whispering through the trees like it knows secrets I don’t, the kind that hurt to hear. My eyes never leave the cabin. I don’t see her. Not even a shadow.
But the air shifts, and I swear it’s like my body remembers her even if my mind’s still playing catch-up. Like her name hums in my blood. Like she’s already close enough to fuck me up all over again.
Calla.Goddamn. She’s really back.
I press my palms to the grips and breathe deep, trying to anchor myself to the moment instead of the memories clawing their way up my spine. She’s not sixteen anymore. I’m not that angry, reckless kid she used to love. Or maybe I still am.
But I can’t just ride down there and knock on her door like nothing happened. Not with what I am now. Not with what shedoesn't know. So, I make a plan. Quiet, simple, brutal. I’ll find a way to see her. On my terms. My way. Not tonight.
I back the bike up, slow and silent, tires crunching over gravel as I turn around. Then I leave. Back down the hill. Back through the woods. Back toward the gate. Back to the blood and chaos waiting at the clubhouse.
But my mind? It’s already stuck down here. With her.
Thehousesmellslikecinnamon and something close to peace. It’s one of those golden fall afternoons where everything feels a little slower, a little softer. Beau’s outside, his laughter cracking through the open window above the sink, sharp and wild, and I swear it’s the only sound that can settle my nerves lately.
I press the heel of my hand into the dough on the counter, warm and sticky under my fingers. The oven hums behind me. Flour dust clings to the sleeves of my sweater, the same one Beau calls “the cookie armor.” I roll it up higher on my arms and glance out toward the backyard.
He’s on the swing again, the one I rigged up from a thick rope and a board, tied tight to the low-hanging limb of the sugar maple. He’s got muddy boots and wild curls and that stubborn little smirk that makes my chest ache.
"Five more minutes, baby!" I call through the screen door. "Then I need your help in here. Dough's almost ready."
He shouts something back, probably arguing, but I don’t catch it. The wind steals it before it reaches me. Leaves skitter across the porch, rustling like whispers, and I feel it before I hear it—the weight in the air. A heaviness that settles on my skin, thick and familiar.
Storm’s coming. The clouds have been building all morning, low and swollen like a warning. I’d checked the forecast. I always do now. Can’t afford surprises. But still, sometimes the weather doesn’t care what the app says.
I glance at the little generator light on the panel in the corner of the kitchen. Steady green. For now.
"Okay," I mutter under my breath, wiping my hands on a towel. "Five more minutes."
Maybe ten. Maybe just long enough to believe it’s really this simple. That I can have these quiet, fall days baking cookies, and my son’s laughter cutting through the storm like a prayer.
The wind howls out of nowhere. Not a breeze, this is the kind that rattles windows in their frames and slams the porch swing against the siding. I drop the towel and rush to the back of the house.
“Beau!” I shout, hand on the screen door. He’s not in sight.
The first fat drop of rain smacks against the steps. I run from room to room, slamming windows shut with flour still caked to my fingers. Curtains whip around me like ghosts. The air shifts—darker, meaner, charged with something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The power cuts without warning. The hum of the fridge dies. The oven clicks off. The panel light on the generator flashes once, then goes black.
“Shit.”
I fumble for the flashlight drawer, yanking it open and praying Beau’s still just out back, playing in the leaves like he always does when it rains. I hit the porch at a run. The rain’s coming sideways now, fast and furious. I skid down the steps, boots splashing in the forming puddles.
“Beau!”
No answer.
“Baby, come inside!”
My voice echoes back at me, eaten alive by the wind. I spin, eyes scanning the tree line, the swing, the toolshed. Nothing. No movement. No small body barreling toward me with muddy hands and a toothy grin. Panic is instant and full-body. Like I’ve stepped off the edge of something high and haven’t landed yet.
“Beau!” I scream again, louder this time, over the growl of thunder rolling in above us. “Answer me, baby! Please!”
Nothing. No laugh. No cry. No creak of the swing or thump of boots. Just the wild storm and the sound of my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The wind screams through the trees, and I scream with it.
“Beau!”
