Page 14 of The Bastard's Lily
I’m running blind, flashlight beam bouncing off the rain-soaked yard and into shadows that won’t give me anything back. The swing creaks. The door to the toolshed flaps. My boots slip in the mud as I push deeper into the yard, calling again.
Nothing. No voice. No footsteps. No baby boy with dirt on his chin and laughter in his throat. Just… silence and storm. And suddenly, I’m not here anymore.
I’m back there. Alone in a sterile room, legs shaking, spine burning, teeth clenched as I sob into a pillow and beg a nurse who doesn’t care to stay. No one holds my hand. No one strokes my hair or tells me I can do this. The contractions rip me open. The fear splits me wider. I scream for someone, anyone, but they all have other places to be. Other people to care for. Not me.
Not the girl who got knocked up and showed up with no visitors. Beau came into this world while I was bleeding and crying and broken and so fucking scared. And now—now I can’t find him.
My hand finds the grip of the Glock without thinking, always in my holster for situations like this. Safety off. I don’t hesitate. I don’t blink. Beau’s little boot prints are stamped in the mud, already softening in the downpour. They veer toward the tree line, toward the trail he’s not supposed to go near without me.
My chest burns like fire under wet cotton as I take off, hair plastered to my cheeks, rain lashing sideways. I swipe it away with one shaking hand, gun steady in the other.
“Beau!” I shout. My voice cracks, and the storm swallows it whole.
He doesn’t answer. I follow the prints past the tire swing, past the oak tree with the wind chimes, onto the narrow trail between the trees that leads down toward the river bend and deeper into the woods. The wind howls through the trees like it knows what I’m afraid of.
Each step is slower now, cautious, calculated. My boots slip in the slick mud, but I stay up. I keep going. Because what else is there? He’s out here. My baby is out here. And I’ll rip this fucking world in half before I let it take him.
The trail narrows, winding like a scar through the trees. My boots slosh in the mud as I press forward, rain pelting my face in icy sheets. Branches whip at my arms. My lungs burn, but I don’t stop. Ican’tstop. I keep my eyes on the ground—on the small prints. Then the tire tracks. Wide. Deep. Recent.
Lightning cracks overhead, a jagged scream across the sky. For a second, everything glows white. I see the path veer up, steep and slick, and I take it at a crawl, half climbing, half stumbling. My fingers dig into wet roots and rock. My knees hit mud. I don’t feel it. I barely feel my body anymore. All I see is Beau’s face swimming in my mind.
The hill levels out. I haul myself to the top, chest heaving, soaked straight through. And there it is. The old fence. The rusted-out sign bent sideways by time and storms.
Mill & Iron Salvage Yard.
My heart stops. Then slams into motion so hard it makes me dizzy. No lights. No movement. But the tracks lead here. And I swear, IswearI can feel him down there. My boy. In the last place I ever wanted him to be.
I don’t hesitate. I tear down the hill like the storm itself is chasing me, boots slipping on wet grass and slick dirt. Wind howls in my ears, and the rain lashes across my skin like punishment. But I don’t stop.
My fists clench tighter around the gun. The fence gives way as I shoulder past it, heart in my throat, breath coming in sharp bursts. The salvage yard is quiet—too quiet. Just rusted metal and shadows. The sky roars overhead, but nothing stirs inside the gates.
Where are you, baby?
I follow the tracks straight through the gravel lot. My pulse pounds louder than the thunder now. I reach the edge of the main building—tin roof, busted side door, red letters faded to blood-smear streaks in the rain. I stop. I swallow hard. Every nerve screams at me to move. To kick the door in. To scream his name.
But I don’t. Not yet. I grip the gun tighter. Then I take one step closer to hell.
Thestorm’sbeengnawingat the edges of the sky all damn day, and now it’s finally snapped. Rain drums hard against the clubhouse roof, sheets of it washing the porch in waves. Lightning forks through the windowpanes, flashing the barroom in fits of cold light.
I nurse a whiskey like it wronged me. Elbow on the counter. Jaw clenched. The other hand spins the cap of my Zippo in slow circles.Click. Click. Click.Over and over. Anything to keep me from picturing her face.
Calla-fucking-Blake.
“Rook,” Wren calls from the corner. “You gonna play the next round?”
I grunt. That’s all I’ve got for him. He shrugs and sinks anothershot on the pool table. Grimm’s half asleep in the chair by the stove. Someone’s playing outlaw country on the speakers. It ain’t loud, but it fills the space between the thunder and the bad thoughts.
I light the damn cigarette I’ve been staring at for ten minutes. Inhale. Exhale. Try to forget how her laugh used to sound in this place—like it belonged. Try to forget how she looked the last time I saw her—shaking, screaming, bleeding, gone.
Then the front door creaks open. Every instinct goes sharp. Boots hit the floor.
I shift off my stool, flick the ash from my cigarette, and turn to face the noise. It’s a kid. A little guy. Maybe four, maybe five. Dark hoodie. Camo pants. Bright yellow rain boots covered in mud. He’s hugging a beat-up lunchbox in one hand and clutching a stuffed fox in the other. Soaked from the storm. Hair plastered to his forehead. Not scared. Just… calm. Like he’s supposed to be here.
The room freezes. Even Grimm straightens up. The kid looks around the room, eyes wide and curious, then walks in like he owns the goddamn place. Like he’s done it before.
Grimm’s the first to move. Always is. He crouches near the kid and says something low, gentle for a bastard like him. The kid nods and hands over the lunchbox without letting go of the fox. Grimm glances back at us, brows raised like,what the fuck, then leads the kid toward the bar.
Wren’s already sliding a root beer across the counter, expression soft. “On the house, little man.”
