Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

Despite the blush tingling my cheeks, I don’t care that he caught me staring at him again. As ridiculously handsome as he is, he must be used to the attention.

Conor finishes loading up the place settings with bacon. I sit at the table and glance down at the rotting pieces of flesh on the plate in front of me.

Jarret leans in, and his mouth brushes my ear. “You look good enough to eat.”

A swallow lodges in my throat.

Conor lowers into the chair across from me. “Looks like my jeans are too big for you.”

“No, they’re fine.” I rub a palm along the worn denim. “Thank you for loaning them to me.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She smiles a lot. Considering everything she’s been through, I didn’t expect that. She’s obviously here willingly. Maybe Jarret and Jake aren’t the bad guys. Or maybe Conor is involved in the corruption.

“How do the boots fit?” Jarret angles his neck to see my feet under the table.

“Really well. Whose are they?”

“Jarret’s.” Conor smiles at him. “You wore those when you were what? Twelve? Thirteen?”

Jake steps to the table with a skillet of eggs. “He wore them during his Britney Spears phase. She’s the reason he started playing with his dick. A habit that would later be known as Oops!… I Did It Again.”

I can’t stop the amusement from twisting my lips.

“You know, Jake, this is why everyone talks about you as soon as you leave the room.” Jarret reaches over and snatches the bacon from my plate.

“Don’t steal her food.” Conor launches across the table to smack his hand.

He dodges her, holding the crispy strips out of her reach. “She’s a carrot muncher.”

“Oh.” Conor drops back on the chair and stares at me like I have a terminal disease. “I’m sorry.”

My eyebrows lift. “You’re sorry I’m a vegetarian?”

“Well… Yeah.”

Jake hovers the skillet in front of me. “No eggs, then?”

I shake my head.

“I’ll take her baby chickens.” Jarret shoves the bacon into his mouth and holds up his plate. “Survival of the fittest and all that. My stomach is a graveyard for the weak and helpless.”

If he’s trying to gross me out, he’ll have to do better than that.

Jake divides the eggs between the three of them and sets the skillet aside. “What does she eat?”

“Oysters.” Jarret grins.

I die a little inside.

“What does she have against oysters?” Conor stabs her eggs with a fork.

“Maybe she was wronged by one in a previous life.” Jake sits and digs into his food. “Can’t blame her for that. I like to double fist my enemies before I eat them. Especially if they’re Kentucky fried.”

“Kentucky fried death.” Conor laughs.

I reach for my glass and guzzle the water to drown out a string of ungracious retorts.

“A person can’t live on oysters and rabbit food.” Jake shovels in another forkful. “No wonder she’s so skinny.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. People in Chicago don’t blink an eye at vegetarians or vegans. I’m not even an extremist or health-food fanatic. I just choose to not eat animals that have been twisted and crushed with cruelty.

The microwave dings, and Jarret leaves the table. I silently beg him to hurry back and save me from this bigotry.

Conor waves around a strip of bacon and bites into it. “Doesn’t she realize pigs would eat her if they could?”

My face heats. “You know, I’m sitting right here.”

“Wasn’t Hitler a vegetarian?” Jake asks.

Was he?

“Yep.” Jarret returns to the table. “And lesbians. They don’t eat meat.”

“Straight men don’t eat meat, either,” I mumble. “Your logic is flawed.”

He sets a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, and it almost makes me want to forgive him for letting this conversation continue.

“She could never be an Eskimo.” Conor carries her plate to the sink. “I mean, how would she grow her food?”

“Here’s what I want to know.” Jake swallows his last bite and looks at Jarret. “If you start eating her out on the regular, does that mean you’re on a vegetarian diet?”

My jaw clenches. Teasing is one thing. This is crossing the line.

“Enough.” I place my hands on the table and temper my voice. “I know I’m a guest in your home, but this discussion is about as stimulating as a big bag of tiny dicks.”

Silence blankets the room.

I twist in the chair, meeting each pair of eyes. “You think eating meat makes you tough? Good for you. You want to put mechanically-separated animal parts in your bodies? After it’s been ground up and squished through a sieve—bones, beaks, eyes, guts, and all—and comes out looking like your Kentucky fried nuggets? Be my guest. I won’t stop you. But when you harass me for my dietary decisions and ethical views on killing, I will stand up for myself. I’m skinny because of my genetics. But I’m healthy, not that it’s any of your concern. As for your decision to eat meat, it should be within your own logical interest to save the fluffy chickens of the world. Not only is it a moral responsibility, the mass consumerism of animals is destroying the environment with its deforestation, pollution, water depletion, and species extinction. By supporting that, you’re basically confessing the worthlessness of your own feeble mortality.”