Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

Happiness. I have that to look forward to. Starting over won’t be easy, but I’m stronger this time. Less gullible.

But first, I need to right the wrongs that have been done to me.

Finished with dinner, I discard the containers in a trash bag and settle into a more comfortable slump behind the steering wheel.

Just as my eyes grow heavy with sleep, the sound of an approaching vehicle jerks me into awareness.

I crane my neck until headlights emerge on the hill in the direction of Julep Ranch. Grabbing the key in the ignition, I wait for the motorist to pass.

Tires crunch, followed by the blare of an unfamiliar country song. Then a pickup truck similar to Jake’s rolls past.

An elbow perches on the window frame. Broad shoulders. Wide-brimmed hat. Sculpted profile.

Jarret Holsten.

Following him will be tricky until we get into town. I force myself to wait a full minute before I start the engine and speed off after him.

When I arrive at the main thoroughfare, he’s nowhere in sight. I scan the passing trucks. Which way did he go?

I turn toward town center, hoping it’s the right direction.

A few blocks later, I spot his truck at a gas station. My heart rate doubles as I park in the shadows of an adjacent lot and watch him stroll inside the convenience store.

Doesn’t take him long to return to his truck with a small bag in hand. I’d bet the case of canned oysters in my backseat that he just purchased a box of condoms.

Oh God, I’m watching a man buy condoms. Of all the things I’ve done over the past couple of months, this is the first time I’ve felt like a bona fide stalker.

What am I doing? Am I actually going to follow this guy to wherever he goes to get laid? What if he sees me? What if I see something disturbing? Like freaky, fucked-up sex shit? Some things can’t be unseen.

Considering the crimes I think he’s involved in, this might not end well for me. He’s not exactly the kind of man I want to piss off.

I’d rather focus on Jake instead, but he seems to be attached to Conor’s hip. I need to keep some distance from her.

When this is all said and done, maybe I’ll have my conscience examined. Until then, I need to stop second-guessing myself.

I have to finish this. If I don’t, the mystery surrounding my total ruin will forever haunt me. I need an explanation.

I need closure.

With a tight grip on the steering wheel, I hit the gas and follow Jarret Holsten.

I trail three cars behind Jarret’s truck, my shoulders tight and hands locked at ten and two, just like my mom in Chicago rush hour. God rest her soul.

I loosen my grip as he leads me through town. He swings onto a residential road lined with huge trees and tiny houses, in the opposite direction of the Big Sugar.

After several turns, he pulls into a driveway and kills the engine. I veer onto a side street and park on the curb, out of view. Then I sneak toward the house on foot.

Since I’m new at this stalking business, my attempt at tiptoeing is anything but quiet. Because I forgot to change my damn shoes.

I click-clack back to the car and consider my options. Heels or ballet flats? Neither would allow a fast getaway. I opt for no shoes and, after a moment a deliberation, grab the small hunting knife I keep under the driver’s seat.

Untucking my shirt, I wedge the sheathed blade between my waistband and tailbone and creep barefoot down the inky, quiet street.

A dog barks in the distance, and my heart jumps. The humidity clings to my skin, and I tremble so violently my lungs seize, making it impossible to suck air without sounding asthmatic.

His truck comes into view, and darkness cloaks the front of the one-story house. Nothing moves. No sound. He must already be inside.

Curtains conceal the rooms within, but a spill of light casts a flicker over the side yard.

I head that way and find an uncovered, illuminated window near the rear. A bedroom?

Indecision holds me in place.

Can I assume he’s in there with a woman? What else would he be here for? His only family in Sandbank is his brother. Is he visiting a friend? In a back bedroom? Maybe he’s blackmailing or murdering someone.

If he hauls out a rolled-up rug, I’m out of here.

Keeping to the shadows, I slip between the houses, duck beneath the window, and slowly peek over the sill. The vantage point gives me a straight shot through the glass pane, into the bedroom beyond, and…

Oh my God, that escalated quickly.

A slender brunette climbs up Jarret’s body, all legs and hands and frantic kisses.

He just stands there, letting her paw and lick him ravenously. She lifts his shirt, and he raises his arms so she can pull it off. Then she’s on him again, clawing at his chest and eating at his mouth, as if he’s the first meal she’s had in days.