Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
“And what line was that?”
“Disobeyin’ me.”
“You’re not a fuckin’ king,” he reminds me. “What you are is a felon out on parole.”
I clench my jaw at his reprimand. Sounds just like it did back when I was out and riling shit up at twenty.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” he keeps going. “You gotta keep your nose clean. Or you’re back in, serving your full ten-year sentence. And this time, even I won’t be able to help you.”
“Didn’t want your help last time; don’t need it now.”
“Christ,” Mars bites out. “You just keep diggin’ the hole for yourself. You’ve got no idea the lengths I had to go to, to get you that hearing after how you fucked it up last time.”
I did fuck it up last time.
In my defense, though, I stuck to the truth. They asked me if I regretted what I did, and I said no. I said if I got a do-over, I’d do things differently and instead of beating him bloody, I’d focus on choking the life out of him.
They didn’t like that.
So yeah, I was surprised when my brother called me about the second hearing. Apparently, the DA has a penchant for paying for sex with schoolgirls, and he’s up for reelection. But this time, I was determined to get out. Because this time, I had a purpose.
A plan.
The one my brother wouldn’t like, so I couldn’t clue him in.
“Especially when the Turners would do anything to keep you in,” he adds. “One chance, that’s all they need. One slipup and you’re back in.”
I’m aware.
The Turners would do anything to send me back in. Like they did everything they could eight years ago to get me a harsher sentence. Attempted murder in Montana gets you anywhere from ten years to life. The only reason I got the minimum of ten was because of who I am, a Grayson, and because the Turners wouldn’t let it go down to five. Now that I’m free without serving a full sentence, I know they would love to take me out. But unfortunately for them, I’ve got a plan that’s going to end not only what they started eight years ago, but also this fucking feud, once and for all.
“There isn’t going to be a slipup,” I say.
He scoffs. “Yeah, that’s a little hard for me to believe when you’re stabbin’ cops in broad daylight a week into your parole.”
“Cooper’s fine. He’s gonna keep his mouth shut.”
“Yeah, how do you know that?”
“Because I told him to keep it shut.”
“That’s—”
“And because his son’s in the program, isn’t he?”
This time when Mars breathes out sharply, it’s because he knows I won.
“I’m sure he’s not gonna do anything to jeopardize that,” I finish.
Which is why I roped him in, in the first place. I knew he’d do anything to keep his loser son out of prison. And if anyone can make that happen, it’s my brother and his fucking program.
I don’t like to mention it, the little prison program my brother’s got going on the ranch. I never did, and after everything that happened eight years ago, I hate it even more. But again, I needed someone who was beholden to us, and Cooper fit the bill.
“Now, if you’ve got nothing else—”
“Tell me exactly what the fuck you were thinkin’ marryin’ the Turner girl.”
Something shifts in my chest, my gut, at this.
I don’t know how to describe it, but it feels like the ground opening up. The ground shaking under the galloping hooves of a thousand horses before the earth gives in and cracks down the middle, breaking apart. Fissures running everywhere.
It happened the night that changed the course of my life.
Something broke apart inside of me, and out came fire and anger. So much of it that it was hard to contain, and I had to do what I ended up doing. Beating a man within an inch of his life because he destroyed mine.
Over the years, whenever it happened and I broke apart on the inside, I’d just find a motherfucker to beat up. It wasn’t hard; I was in prison, and there are a lot of motherfuckers in there. I wish I could do the same tonight as well. Beat someone up.
But I’m out on parole, and despite what my brother thinks, I do realize I need to be careful. I can’t be caught beating someone up, especially where there are cameras and word could get back to the Turners.
So I don’t know how to glue the cracks. How to shove all the things back inside, the fire, the anger. Her voice.
Her musical fucking voice.
That snuck into my bloodstream and crept inside the very core of me, despite the fact I only heard it three days ago. And it’s the first thing I hear at my brother’s “the Turner girl.”