“Belinda Mangina wants to press charges,” Pinkwater replies. “Said Faith tipped an entire jar of jellybeans over her head.”
I raise an eyebrow at my sister. Jellybeans? Really?
“Belinda Mangina deserved everything she got. She was behaving like an entitled bitch. Probably because her name is Belinda Mangina, who knows. And why should she get away with that?”
“Being an entitled so-and-so isn’t against the law, Faith. But assaulting someone with a jar of jellybeans is,” Pinkwater reminds her.
“Belinda Mangina was being rude to Lizzie, who works behind the counter. Called her slow. Started blathering on how she was wasting her time, then started in on her about her appearance. You know Lizzie suffers from terrible acne and Belinda-fucking-Man-Pussy made her cry. What choice did I have? I wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen, so I told her to shut her goddamn mouth or I would shut it for her.”
“How did the jellybeans get involved?” I ask.
“The old hag got right in my face. Got up real close and that bitch has terrible breath. So, I warned her… I told her if she didn’t step back, I’d make her step back. When she didn’t, I grabbed the jar off the counter, and as they say, the rest is history.”
“No, Faith. They say it’s assault,” Pinkwater replies.
To which she promptly rolls her eyes. “God, this is sooo boring!”
“Can I take her home?” I ask Pinkwater.
“Please,” he begs.
My sister’s black eyes burn into Pinkwater as he unlocks her cell door, and they side-eye each other as she walks past him.
“Sheriff.”
“Ma’am.”
I roll my goddamn eyes and follow Faith down the stairs to her car outside.
“When are you going to put him out of his misery? You know he’s had a crush on you since high school.”
“I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon.”
“I think you like it.”
“Like a hole in the head.”
“You know, you’re going to have to start playing nice with other women, Faith.”
She stops walking and turns to face me. “It had nothing to do with her being a woman and everything to do with her being a cunt.”
Some women don’t like the word.
My sister uses it like a javelin throw.
“You need to start working on your relationships with other people,” I mutter.
“I’ll think about it.” She gives me an amused smile over the roof of her car. “When they stop being a big bag of dicks. Thanks for bailing me out, little brother.”
“Hey, enough with the little.”
She winks before getting in her car.
Shaking my head, I walk over to my bike and climb on. I’m itching to get back to Bronte. A swell of excitement hits me right in the goddamn balls when I think about what is waiting for me when I get home. Our kiss still lingers on my lips as well as the memory of pinning her to the wall. And when I think about my hand between her thighs and how ready for me she was, my dick tells me to ride home quick.
Roaring out of the parking lot and into the late afternoon light, I can’t keep the grin off my face because I have a feeling I’m riding toward something so very fucking right.
My sixth sense tells me to get excited.
That everything I’m looking for is waiting for me back home.
I push my Harley through the late afternoon with a satisfied smile resting on my lips.
Dusky light slants through the trees fringing the road, casting golden beams through the shadows and bathing everything in a summer haze.
I’m less than a mile from home when I feel something hit me in the chest. It’s like a heavy thud against my cut, and I have to steady the bike when the split second of distraction almost sends me off the road and into a ditch.
It’s not until I pull into the driveway of my home that I start to feel dizzy. When I climb off my bike, my legs give way beneath me. Dropping to my knees, my hand goes to my chest and finds the hole in my cut. Dazed, I look at my fingers and see they are dripping with bright red blood.
The realization crashes through me.
I’ve been fucking shot.
BRONTE
I know something is wrong the moment he turns off the ignition. I’m standing on the porch waiting for him when I see him climb off his bike and fall to his knees.
Alarmed, I race down the stairs and across the lawn straight to him.
“Someone fucking shot me,” he groans, and I see the slick of blood coating his fingers.
I grab my phone from my jeans pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No!” Jack bites out, handing me his cell. “Call Doc.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s a gunshot wound,” he says through gritted teeth. “The hospital will call the cops. We can’t… we can’t have them sniffing around... not with the harvest so close.”