Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

After he zips and straightens my clothes, he kisses my neck, my cheek, then my mouth. That last touch is brief, just a brush of lips, but there’s something in it. Something strained. I don’t want to analyze that, either.

He hands me my boots and steps back. His presence, his hard heat, all of him retreats into the darkness.

“Wait!” I shove on the boots, and my eyes shift to the door as it cracks open and closes.

I race through the barn, tripping over clothes and shoes and colliding with half-dressed bodies. It takes too long to reach the exit, and when I burst into the open air, the overwhelming blast of music disorientates me.

I rub my eyes and search the crowd, the field, the bonfire. Where did he go? I spin in a circle, scanning the perimeter, looking for a baseball cap in the sea of Stetsons.

He’s gone.

Dammit, I just wanted a name. A face. A smile.

A connection.

But he walked away, threw the match over his shoulder, and burnt that bridge.

What did I expect? I fucked a stranger in the dark at a field party. People do it all the time.

But I’m not people. I’m not normal.

I leave the party and head back to town on the motorcycle. With my ear buds in and the music cranked up, I drown myself in the lyrics of Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars.

It’s such a remorseful song, but I can’t help it. I’m feeling things, overwhelming things that I can’t hold in.

Maybe the sex awoke the parts of my psyche I buried on my sixteenth birthday. Maybe the stranger’s dismissal roused the shit I abandoned in Chicago. Maybe it has nothing to do with Dalton and the ravine and everything to do with the girl I left on the side of the road a year ago.

That girl misses Jake. I miss him. I mourn his absence more and more every day, and I despise myself for it. I hate that he has such an unbreakable hold on me. A hold that makes my stomach cramp over what I did tonight.

I cheated on him.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense. He’s probably out there fucking all the Sara Gilly’s in the world, and it’s his right to do so. He let me go.

But I didn’t let him go. I don’t know how to do that, and goddammit, it hurts. I feel that pain like the strike of Dalton’s hand across my face.

A burn rises through my sinuses, but I refuse to cry. Instead, I focus on the icy wind as it beats at my coat, penetrating the fabric and shivering through my bones.

The motorcycle sucks in the winter, but I’m not getting rid of it. I just need a new jacket. A motorcycle jacket, like the one the faceless man wore tonight.

Wouldn’t the good folks of Sandbank shit themselves if I rolled up looking like a biker chick?

I’m definitely getting that jacket.

As I motor into Stillwater and pass a tattoo parlor, another rebellious idea pops into my head. I make a swift U-turn, park in front of the shop, and walk in.

“Can I help you?” A middle-aged man with a goatee looks up from a catalog at the front desk.

When he starts the head-to-toe perusal, I snap my fingers.

“I want a tattoo. Lots of them.” I hold out my arms. “Full sleeves.”

“Okay.” He laughs, meeting my eyes. “That’ll take time. Like months. Maybe longer.”

“I’m working on my doctorate.” I point in the direction of the campus. “I have years.”

THREE YEARS LATER…

The call comes from the prosecuting attorney. I should’ve expected it. Hell, I contact the attorney several times a year to stay apprised of Levi Tibbs’ release date. But as I end the call and stare at my phone, the hallway implodes. My vision blurs, and memory awaits me in the darkness.

Rope around my wrists, a gag against my tongue, cruel hands, crushing weight, can’t move, burning, forcing, agony…

Something bumps into me, and I whirl around, arms flailing.

“Hey!” A college girl holds up her hands. “Watch it.”

Shit. “Sorry.” I wipe the sheen of sweat from my face. “I’m sorry.”

I step out of the flow of traffic in the campus corridor and lean against the wall. Pocketing the phone, I think about the reason for the attorney’s call.

Levi Tibbs will go free in two weeks. He was sentenced to seven years, but he’s only serving six.

Six years for brutalizing a sixteen-year-old girl.

My breath leaves me. I’m not that girl.

You’ll never amount to anything.

I said I could and I would, and I’m doing it. I moved on, earned a bachelor’s degree in animal science, and I’m flying through veterinary college. If I keep up this pace, I’ll be a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine in two years. That’s faster than anyone expected.

You’ll end up on the street or shacking up with some man like a fucking whore.