Page 37 of Misguided
THIRTEEN
Dog
A semi breezes past us, headed in the opposite direction as I stretch my fingers out on the bars. Mel sits perfectly balanced behind me, her hand only touching me lightly on the shoulder when we take a bend—and there’s been fuck all of those.
Breakfast was awkward and quiet. I gave up waiting for the bitch to say something and took my staple of coffee and nicotine outside when she made it clear it was never going to happen.
She even managed to steer clear of me so fucking well afterward that I needed Callum’s help to track down where the fuck she was when I was ready to leave.
When King asked me to take her home last night, both my cock and I jumped at the chance. Now I’m counting down the hours until I can get this pretentious wench off my bike and head back to Lincoln.
She thinks she deserves better than me? Well, good luck trying to find it amongst the rough-as-fuck rednecks in Fort Worth.
They aren’t known as the asshole of the family for nothing. If you charted the club’s infractions and incarcerations on a goddamn bar graph, their tower would sail way above the rest of us.
And she thinks she’s too good for me …
Her flattened palm taps my right thigh as we sail past another exit. I catch her eye in the side mirror, and she mouths what I assume to be “bathroom.”
Bitch can wet her pants for all I care … then again, I must care some, otherwise, her attitude toward me wouldn’t piss me off so much.
I take the next exit and pull up outside a row of shops with a sign for public amenities. She dashes off toward the blue and white logo, while I saunter into a convenience store to grab a bite to eat.
The guy behind the counter watches me with a scowl as I open a Hostess pie and take a large bite. What I assume is his daughter, given the resemblance, eyes me as I peruse the aisles, a can of goods held paused in her hand.
I round her aisle and slow down as I approach, taking another bite while I watch the kid damn near shit herself. She has to be all of nine, ten at the most. Finishing my mouthful, I lean in close and ask, “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Hey!” comes booming from behind me. “Don’t you talk to my daughter, you fuckin’ animal.”
Bingo. Called it.
“Hey, I’m bein’ polite,” I protest, hands raised, pie and all.
The fucker comes at me with his gut swinging, and a—presumably loaded—shotgun at his side. “Get out of my store. We don’t need your kind of trouble around here.”
I arch my hands over my head to point at the half-eaten pie. “You want me to pay for this?”
He knows I’ve got him on this one. Assholes like this would just as likely kick you out anyway and then call the cops to report a theft.
“Make it quick.”
“Sure.” I drop my hands and take another bite, saying around a mouthful, “Just gotta get some other shit first.”
His face is contorted in one hell of a storm as his nostrils flare. “You talk to my girl again”—the end of the barrel is jarred under my chin—“I blow yer head clean off.”
He holds his ground as I slowly suck my lips into my teeth with a hiss. “See, now, I wouldn’t start that kind of trouble if I were you.”
The kid takes two hasty steps back as the gun digs painfully into the soft flesh beneath my jaw. “You threatenin’ me?”
“Dog!” I swing my eyes left and find Mel hustling her way across the store. “What the fuck?”
Damnit. She’s going to go and get herself shot rushing the guy like this. “Mel, stop would you?” Not to mention the fact a dead girl shouldn’t be getting herself recorded on security tapes.
The storeowner whips the shotgun from under my head and swings it toward Mel. I see red; every fucking shade there is on the spectrum. Like fuck he’s going to aim at her too.
“Hey, asshole. Put that away before you fuckin’ kill someone.”
I’ve got seconds to prepare as he twists it in his grip, and sends the wooden stock sailing toward my head. The butt of the gun strikes me in the forearm, glancing off and bruising my collarbone before the fucker stumbles back with the force of the impact.