Caught by the Convicts

One, I can’t ignore any longer than I’m attracted to Klay.

It’s like trying to ignore an erupting volcano. It’s not going away.

Two, the passion between the three of us is circular. Flowing both directions. When I hunger for one of them, I hunger for both. It’s never for one now—it’s always for two. Arriving in Wendy’s bedroom tonight, I was horny as sin for her. But as that feeling rose and took shape, it included them both, naturally. And the same thing is happening now. As I break the kiss reluctantly and carry her over the threshold into the abandoned house like the precious cargo she is, she reaches her other hand out for Klay and it satisfies my soul to watch their hands connect. There’s no jealousy. There’s only this sense of rightness between the three of us.

It’s right. It’s permanent.

She’s ours.

I settle Wendy onto her feet and resume my post on her right side. Each of her hands holds one of ours, a slight tremor passing through her. That little tremble causes us both a great deal of distress. Klay’s throat flexes with an anxious swallow and my temples pound, a knot forming beneath my Adam’s apple. This girl should never be anything but happy, goddammit, and this place is doing the opposite to her with its moldy smell and rotted floorboards.

We trail our mouths up her shoulders, along the slope of her neck, a touch meant to comfort—and it eventually works. She stops shaking.

“That was my room. Back that way.” She tips her chin toward a dark hallway leading from the kitchen where we’re standing toward the rear of the small house. “He would…leave me a loaf of bread and some water. Lock the door and leave…sometimes for two weeks. Longer. Once I managed to pick the lock and get out. It made him furious. Furious. Because it was all about control. That’s still what it’s about for him.”

Klay’s jaw looks ready to snap. Mine is much the same. God help this man if we ever come across him. I’ll strangle him with his entrails in her honor…

The thought is halfway through my mind when I spy a duffel bag in the corner of the kitchen. It’s black, blending in, but the metallic zipper winks at me from across the room. With a final kiss to Wendy’s shoulder, I disentangle myself and cross to the bag, hunkering down in front of it, noting it’s not covered in dust like everything else in the house. “He’s been here.”

Wendy stiffens.

Klay’s gaze flies to the back hallway. “Stay here,” he instructs her, disappearing into the black before I can stop him. He should have let me do the searching. My back teeth grind together, but I relax when he emerges safely a moment later. “Empty. But no doubt he’ll come back.” He studies Wendy and moment, then moves to the kitchen sink, opening the cabinet below. He crouches down, hesitating for a beat before reaching inside and bringing a bottle through the opening. In the near darkness, I can’t read the label, but when he pops off the top, I can’t the distinct scent of lighter fluid.

Slowly, Klay moves back in front of Wendy, putting it in her hand.

Then he cups her cheek and speaks to her in that hypnotic way of his, tone low and rich. Impossible to ignore and easy to get lost in. “You can’t get rid of the memories, Wendy, but you can replace them with something else. Something you controlled.” He slides a booklet of matches out of his back pocket, tossing them onto the kitchen table. “Don’t remember this place as your prison. Remember it as a pile of ash. Burn it all down.”

Chapter 7

Wendy

Power tickles the tips of my fingers. They flex around the bottle of lighter fluid.

I’m not a destructive person, but I can’t deny the pressure that climbs my throat at Klay’s suggestion. Burn it all down. And I realize all along that’s what I’ve wanted. This place is symbolic of the pain. The past. The fact that it remains standing has been an offense to me. A needle jabbing into my throat. When I drive somewhere, I intentionally avoid this remote section of town. It has power over me.

Klay is right. I might not be able to confront my father, as I’d hoped.

But is this the next best thing? Setting fire to the pain?

Will that give me closure?

There’s only one way to find out. Pressing my lips together, I unscrew the cap and set it on the table beside the book of matches, upending the bottle as I circle the room. Liquid hits the floor, leaving patterns as I walk. I leave a trail all the way to my hated bedroom, pouring a little extra on the door itself, so it can never be locked again, and I make my way back to Klay and Ruger who appear anxious to have let me out of their sight for mere seconds.