I push away from Grant. He doesn’t let me go far. His hand remains shackled around my wrist. I settle into his side, a good foot away, but he hauls me close and clamps an arm around me. At first I resist because it’s weird to be touching Grant in public but then a fluttery feeling of excitement swims around me. Here, fifty-some miles north of Fortune, no one knows us. We’re a couple just like the two in front of us. The thought of going to a party, holding Grant’s hand, and being called his girlfriend is too thrilling to resist.
“What time?” I ask. Grant gives me a side eye. You can’t be serious, his gaze telegraphs. I give him a wide eyed smile in return. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“Um, now, if you want. You can walk with us.”
Grant rises from the table and grabs the four bottles that are left and in a low whisper, “You may want to cover up.”
I look down and sure enough my chest is still wet. In the firelight, maybe no one will notice. I slip inside the tent and pull on my bikini top and slide a red tank over the top. Grant’ll keep me warm if it gets too chilly tonight.
I step out and Grant gestures for Becca to lead the way.
“We’ve got beer,” she says.
“My girl drinks what I provide,” he says flatly. No booze, no weed, no drugs from people we don’t know. That’s the rule Judge pounded into us.
Becca raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Your funeral.”
We walk on the road which is wide enough for the four of us but Becca pulls me ahead. “Your boyfriend always this fierce?”
I laugh. “Yup.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Nope. He’s watching out for me—aren’t you, babe?”
He winks. “I’m always watching you.”
Becca’s mouth turns down at one corner. “I’m guessing you guys aren’t into the swap scene then.”
I choke a little. “No. Is it that kind of party?”
I drop back and Grant lays an arm around my shoulders, a gesture that Becca doesn’t miss.
“It’s a lot of young people and a lot of alcohol and goodies. Stuff happens.”
“Truth is, Becca, I’m a lot more jealous than my boyfriend so spread the word—he’s taken.” I share a wicked grin with Grant. I can tell he likes my possessive words.
When we get to the party, it’s already full of boozy people.
“Reminds me of the club,” he whispers as we stand at the entrance of a ring of tents surrounding a big campfire. The group camp fits probably twenty tents but there’s no direct car access. These folks had to haul everything here.
He’s right. There are people drunk, blissed out, and already having sex and the moon has only started to make its trek above the horizon.
A guy next to Grant takes in his cut. “Wicked…tattoos, bro.”
Grant fingers the edge of the leather. “Thanks. It’s a family design.”
We share a smirk. The guy offers Grant a hit off a small, hand-rolled joint. Grant shakes his head. He leads me over to a recently abandoned log and pushes me down. I open my legs and as if we’ve done this a thousand times, he settles in between them. Two twists of his wrist and our beers are open.
“I invited Danilo to the homecoming party,” I share in between sips.
Grant laughs. “Wanted to see some fireworks, did you?”
“Not necessarily. Those two must love each other because no matter how many times they break up, they get back together.”
“What if he wants some strange at the party?”
“Ugh, I hate that term.”
“What term?” Becca asks, settling in beside me with a red Solo cup. Her man with the dreads is over at a keg filling his own cup. A girl with long black hair, ripped jeans and a black bikini top has her hand on his ass. Becca doesn’t seem particularly concerned.
“‘Strange’ to refer to other girls,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s an ugly term.”
“How so?” Grant asks.
“Because it’s like you are tired of the familiar and want something different.”
“Don’t you worry, sweetness, I’m not tired of you,” Grant growls and reaches up to pull me down for a quick kiss.
“You guys are sweet.” Becca sighs. “You been together long?”
I open my mouth to say no but Grant beats me. “Since she was seventeen. I had to wait until she wasn’t jailbait.”
For that he deserves a light punch in the arm. “Sixteen is the age of consent, grandpa.”
“I thought he was your brother, not your grandpa,” drawls a new voice. We all look up and Sara Ellerby’s brother is standing in front of us with an assessing look.
“Step,” Grant says slowly, drawing the word out as if it has two syllables. “You’d know the difference if you hadn’t killed all your brain cells by shooting up every night.”
He stretches his legs out and Sean is forced to move backward. Grant shifts again, almost imperceptibly pushing Sean even farther away.
“Jealous that you weren’t able to do that because you were in the pen for the last three years?”
Becca draws in a swift breath. Sean bares his teeth in some gruesome approximation of a grin. Even in the flickering firelight, the meth toll is evident. His teeth are blackening near the roots and his face is gaunt. There’s at least one sore above his pierced eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were sitting by a murderer, didja?” he directs toward Becca.
She leans away from Grant and me and then pours her beer on the ground. “Beer’s warm. Think I’ll get a refill.”
Sean sits down in her place and reaches up to run his dirty hand over my hair. Grant is on his feet and pulling me away before Sean’s hand can find its target. “Didn’t realize you were so hard up, you had to fuck your brother, Chelsea. Should’ve come to me. I’ve got what you need right here.” He jostles his package.
Grant clenches his fist and winds up to introduce Sean’s face to his knuckles. Quickly I grab Grant’s biceps and haul him back. I don’t want him touching Sean, for one, and for another, he can’t get into a fight because an assault charge would revoke his parole. “Let’s go, please. Your parole,” I plead. He jerks forward but checks himself. With a visible effort, he tries shaking off his anger.
“You keep your trap shut, Ellerby, or there won’t be a dealer within one hundred miles who’ll sell to you,” Grant spits out and then grabs my hand. The sweetness of the night has been poisoned and our walk back to the camp is in uncomfortable silence.
When we get back to the campsite, Grant, well, he tries to fuck the fear out of me. He’s attentive and vigorous and it’s nice but I can’t lose myself. When I come, it’s short and not terribly fulfilling. Grant throws himself off my body, chest heaving and glistening with sweat. He pulls off the condom, ties it and throws it in the corner.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He draws me in for a rough kiss. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Do you think Sean Ellerby is living up here?” I ask.
He heaves a sigh. “Dunno. Never gave it much thought.”
He curls on his side, rubbing a hand over my bare breast, fondling the nipple. It tightens into a hard point. Despite my worries, my body never fails to respond to him.
“Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”
“He’s a fucked up meth head. Even if he is talking shit, no one is going to believe him.”
“Aren’t you even a little concerned?”
He jackknifes to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find Sean Ellerby and let him know if he opens his mouth about you that he’ll be drinking his food out of a straw for the next six months.” He fumbles around for his clothes. The tent is small and low. It’s barely big enough for the two of us.
“Grant,” I warn. “Grant, you can’t go.” He ignores me and finishes shoving his shorts on. He pushes things around, making a huge mess looking for his T-shirt. I grab his leg and shake it. “Your parole.” I sound like a
fucking parrot who knows only one word.
He throws one boot on the ground with a vicious curse. “I know. Goddammit.”
Shaking off my hand, he tries to unzip the tent flap. It gets stuck halfway and he wrenches at it, making it worse. “This fucking zipper,” he curses. “It’s stuck. Fucking goddamn fucking piece of shit. How long have we had this? We should have stayed in a goddamned hotel.” He pulls and pulls; the muscles in his back are bunching up. I’m afraid for the tent. Afraid for him. “This thing is strangling me,” he shouts over his shoulder.