“No. You don’t.” I waited a beat, wanting to be sure he saw I was serious before I handed him my heart on a platter. “Come with me.”
That made a dent. He blinked his surprise before he could catch himself and blurted, “What?”
“Come with me. I dare you to come with me. Next month, next year, whenever. I dare you to come with me when I go. And stay with me, stay with me always.”
CHAPTER 23
“Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.”
― Margaret Lee Runbeck
Duane
I walked home.
I left Jessica wrapped in a sheet.
I left Jessica.
I left.
And I left part of myself in the cabin. I sensed the emptiness in my middle, in my gut, as soon as I crossed the threshold and entered the cold night. Her suggestion—that I leave with her, travel the world and share her life, her adventures—sounded like a fairy tale. A perfect fairy tale. And I’d been so surprised by the proposition that my mind actually considered the possibility.
But then I remembered the shop, my brothers, my obligations, the shit with the Order, and how everyone had been affected when Ashley ditched us years ago. I remembered my father, and how he took what he wanted, without a care for his family. He came and went as he pleased.
Leaving with Jessica was a fairy tale. Perfect in theory, but completely impractical in reality. Beau and Cletus relied on me, needed me. They couldn’t handle the workload on their own. My savings were invested in the auto shop, and I wasn’t going to travel the world using Jess’s aunt’s money.
Was I too proud? Fuck. Yes.
I was too proud to take money from Jess or anyone else without working for it.
So I left before I reconsidered, before I heeded my siren call.
But even then I’d been undecided. I kept seeing her face, the tears shining in her beautiful eyes as I walked out. The image of her called to me, to the depths of my soul. Each step was a burden. I turned back to the cabin at least three times and the tightness in my chest made breathing near impossible.
That was until I spotted her car. Jessica’s new-to-her car was a brand new, F-Type Jaguar. 5-liter V8. Manual transmission. All-wheel drive. 495 horsepower. I knew my automobiles like most people know their ice cream, so I knew the MSRP (manufacturer’s suggested retail price) was just under a hundred thousand dollars.
I stared at it for at least a full minute.
Then I walked the remainder of the way home without looking back, taking satisfaction in the sound of every twig that snapped violently under my boots. By the time I arrived at the house I was in desperate need of breaking something, no way was I going to be able to sleep.
Getting drunk was an option, but I’d been drunk for most of the last five days. And it was our first Thanksgiving since Momma died. Besides, getting shitfaced an hour before dawn wasn’t my style anyway. Concluding the only option available to me at present was splitting more wood we didn’t need, I decided to veer toward the woodshed once the house was in view.
But as I cleared the trees, I stopped short. Jethro, my oldest brother, was walking up the porch steps to the front door, carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. I was too surprised by the sight of him, and too caught in the momentum of my misery, to call out before he entered the house. But the sound of our front door shutting pulled me out of my stupor.
My mind was a mess as I quickly jogged to the porch and rushed through the screen door. I needed to speak with him, bring him up to speed. But I was also five different shades of pissed off with my oldest brother. Somehow, likely because violence was already on my mind, the five shades of pissed off won out over being sensible.
Thus, when I entered the house and he turned around—a big, care-free grin eating up his face—and he said, “Hey, Duane. Did you miss me?” I punched him in the face.
I pulled my punch at the last minute. I didn’t want to knock him out, I just wanted to beat him up a little. Maybe get knocked around myself.
He staggered back—more from surprise than from the force of my fist—and threw a completely perplexed frown at me while clutching his jaw. “What the hell was that for?”
I didn’t answer. I let him read the intent in my eyes, gave him a few seconds to prepare, then I charged at him. Jethro was a good fighter, we all were, but he was better than most of us. Being the oldest and spending a good part of his youth fucking around with the Order, he learned to fight fierce and dirty. But he’d taught me all his tricks long ago; and his fight now wasn’t fueled by weeks of frustration, of dealing with biker threats and Jessica James’s confession I could do nothing about.
Perhaps he was trying to defend himself against my assault, but that didn’t deter me any.