Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"Oh, you know. Won the prison talent show. Twice." I pull from the cigarette, let smoke curl between us. "Food was five-star. Especially Tuesdays. Taco Tuesday in Whitefall is something spiritual. Made friends with the warden. Good man. Collects model trains and photographs of other people's wives." I flick ash toward the ground. "Got my GED. Then a PhD in theoretical physics. Wrote my thesis on the space-time implications of watching paint dry on cinder block."
Cash's eyes narrow just enough to tell me he doesn’t find me funny.
Which is fair. I’m not sure a single person on this planet finds me funny.
"So what about you, Cash?" I shift the weight of my envelope, watching his eyes track the movement. "Still breakin’ hearts? Or have you fucked your way through all the local fancy bitches and moved on to the rural trash?”
“Like your—” But he doesn’t finish. He catches himself in a way that doesn’t quite add up.
“Like my what?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “Were you gonna say my mother?” Who died nine years back? Nah. That’s not what he was gonna say.
But before I can ask questions about his remark, he tilts his chin toward the passenger side of the truck and jangles his keys between fingers weathered from reins and rope, calloused in ways money can't prevent. "Need a ride?"
The question hangs between us, simple on the surface.
But nothing's simple with an Ashby.
I take stock of my options. Released one day early. Governments fuck up plenty, but not about release days.
No club here to welcome me back with a patch I earned with my silence.
Cash shows up.
Twenty-seven dollars won't get me far and walking sixty miles back to Drybone isn't my idea of a good time.
I nod once. "Sure. Appreciate it."
No eagerness, or reluctance. Just survival math.
I slide into the passenger seat, body adjusting to the smooth, soft leather. The truck is new and isn’t a work truck, per se. Not with the upgrades. It was custom. So there’s a big ol’ screen built into the dash. Wide, and pretty, and full fuckin’ color. And on that screen is a picture of Savannah Ashby, Cash’s younger sister, her long hair catching the golden hour sun like an angel.
But she's not alone.
A man stands beside her, hand resting possessively on her lower back. Tailored suit. Political smile. The kind of man who's never had dirt under his fingernails that wasn't put there deliberately for a campaign photo op.
I let my eyes linger just long enough to catalog details. The way her head tilts toward him. The diamond catching light on her left hand. The careful staging of intimacy.
The photo sits prominently displayed. Impossible to miss.
Cash says nothing.
I say nothing.
The truck roars out of the parking lot the same way it came in.
Highways in Eastern Montana stretch long and far. Empty land on both sides, nothing but fence posts marking property lines that mean everything to men like Cash and nothing to men like me.
The first twenty miles pass in silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind that performs itself—two men who have nothing to say pretending they're just choosing not to speak.
I watch Cash's eyes flick to the rearview. Once. Twice. Third time his jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath tanned skin. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
He's worried about something.
Badlands, probably.
They're gonna be pissed about missing my release day. Three years of keeping my mouth shut, taking the fall, earning my patch—and now the welcome wagon's a no-show because Cash Ashby pulled strings to grab me first.
Why?
It’s anybody’s guess.
The AC hums cold against my skin. Some sad-sack country song whispers from the speakers, turned down low enough that I only catch fragments. Something about burying love next to the hunting dogs out back.
My fingers trace the edges of the letters inked across my knuckles. M-E-R-C-Y. My baby sister. Nine years old and already carrying the weight of our family's broken promises. The one person who never stopped needing me, even when I chose not to be there.
Because that’s what this prison sentence was.
A choice.
I didn’t do it.
And I get it, everyone says that.
But no. I really, really didn’t do it.
I was just the cleanest motherfucker without a previous felony record within reach. A guaranteed slap on the wrist.
Three years. I mean, I guess it’s a helluva lot better than twenty, but it’s still three fuckin’ years.
Cash clears his throat like he's about to deliver a sermon. His finger taps the photo, just sittin’ there on the screen in all its loud, static stillness. "That's Marcus," he says, eyes sliding sideways to gauge my reaction.
Here it comes. The whole reason for… whatever this is we’re doin’ in this truck.
"Marcus White Jr. Montana State senator's son. Georgetown Law. Worked on two presidential campaigns."
I don't give him the satisfaction of a flinch.
"He and Savannah have been together almost two years now." Cash keeps talking, voice casual like we're discussing cattle prices. "Getting engaged this weekend. Big party at the ranch. Half the state's invited."