Chapter 9

"You believe that nonsense?"Del asks, hunched over his slab of prime rib. Our dinners at Hooch's after his bowling league nights were a coincidence at first. A year had gone by after his daughter had been taken from us, and I still hadn't found the backbone to face him. I didn't get to her in time, and that wasn't something I wanted to forgive or gloss over. He was my friend, and I couldn't bring myself to talk about her and remember her. But Del couldn't stop talking about her. He wasn't ready to let people forget her.

Fiona's death was ruled a homicide by a meth-head junkie found about a mile from the old tobacco farm. An old farmhand who had worked there years prior was squatting and tweaked out when the cops arrived. It had nothing to do with human trafficking or a drug ring. Or so the story was spun. Apparently, the intel was bad, and it ended in unnecessary loss of life. The case was closed before the grass started growing on her grave. None of it sat right. I left the force a month later.

I look up at the flat screen behind the bar. "No, I missed it." But the truth is, I'm still thinking about the woman who crashed my day. "My name sounds good coming out of your mouth like that." I honestly still can't believe she said that.

But Del keeps talking, and eventually I stop thinking about those pretty lips and the way she stood in the middle of my workplace dishing attitude right back to me. "What they're not saying is that this guy is some kind of ghost. My buddy up in New York says that somehow his last vic gets out of the storage facility she was being held in and escapes. Fire department shows up on the scene first and holds the guy. NYPD arrests him, and based on all the evidence they found, they're looking to pin a half dozen missing persons on him. Not many vics because he savors them. You believe that fucked-up shit?"

"Jesus Christ," I huff out. "This is what you and your FBI buddies talk about?"

He takes a fry from my plate. "Yeah. And the shit season the Yanks are going to have." He cuts into his rare cut, and over a big bite, says, "That perp, though, there's no pattern. It's unclear if there are more locations—besides that one spot. It's a damn nightmare up there."

"Thought most of your guys would be retired?" I ask. Del knows everyone. It's in his nature to ask questions and be the friendly guy. He always told me the bad-cop schtick was bullshit. You always got better details with honey than spit. "Retired or dead, but what the hell else are we talkin' about besides cases and sports?"

"You boys need a refill?" Marla interrupts. She's already pouring the pitcher of Ale-8 into our mugs. It's one of four options at Hooch's: water, bourbon, coffee, or Ale-8.

Del smiles at her. "Thanks, Marla."

"You remember when Fi used to only let me put on football or Unsolved Mysteries," Marla reminisces.

My throat tightens hearing her name. Five years and it's still like a punch to the gut. The undercurrent of feeling like if I had only driven faster, gotten there sooner, she would have had backup. I tune out the rest of the conversation until Del nudges my arm.

"Anyway, the perp, from up north, the girl who survived, there were patches of her skin peeled off. The sick fuck wasn't just torturing and killing them. He was eating them. Found other skins that were brining. Like he was pickling them."

I drop my burger on my plate and give him my best are you fucking serious? look.

He barks a laugh. "You lose your edge, Foxx?"

"Just my appetite now," I tell him, wiping my hands on my wad of paper-thin napkins. I take a swig of my sweet soda. "And we didn't deal with that type of shit here."

He nods in agreement, looking down at his plate, and I want to pull back the words I just muttered. It didn't matter what we saw or arrested in Fiasco, no matter how mundane or fucked up a call might have been, none of them would compare to the one where his daughter was the victim. We may not have had cannibals or mass murderers, but plenty of bad things happen, even in our small town.

"Heard there's a new tenant living on the Foxx compound," he says, changing the subject.

I watch Marla dry the glasses that just came from the steaming washer beneath the counter. She's not fooling anyone, trying to listen to whatever gossip Del is pitching.

But before I can refute it, Wheeler Finch, Hadley's father, pipes in from behind us. "City girl. Heard she was keeping your brother company the past couple of nights too."

His laugh makes his stomach shake the table in front of him. I didn't realize he was here. Maybe I am losing my edge. I usually know exactly who and what's happening around me. And knowing when Wheeler and his business partner, Waz, were present should always be one of those times. I've never liked Hadley's family. Her father especially. He loves to throw money at anything that'll take it as long as it gets him what he wants. He owns most of the horse trainers working in Kentucky, which means he gets an inside ear on what thoroughbreds look like winners. He's built an empire, similar to what my brother has built, but they're nothing alike. Ace is respected. Wheeler is feared.

"Didn't realize you were taking over for the book club ladies and starting rumors around here, Wheeler." I hate that he's talking about her, never mind trying to fuel the fact that she spent the night with my brother. I hate even more that I can't stop thinking about her thick thighs and the way she had no problem trying to put me in my place.

"It's not gossip when I know it's a fact." This fucking guy.

Del moves his hand to my forearm, and then has a wordless exchange with Marla, who looks up from her phone and moves toward the tables. One more word. That's all I need and then I'll have no problem getting in Wheeler Finch's face. It's clear as day that I need to hit my heavy bag.

Del leans closer. "Not worth it, Grant. I'm not going to be able to look past you decking that rich fuck in the face. You know he'll press charges. On top of that, you don't need to make that water between his family and yours any muddier."

To be clear, the only people I've ever punched are my brothers. When we were younger, it was over dumb shit. When Linc was nine and saw his first WWE wrestling match, he decided I was his ultimate opponent. It took a few years before I could really give him a run for his money. It was playful back then. As we got older, it was Ace who was the hothead. And Lincoln was always there for backup, regardless of consequences. They had gotten into their fair share of fights growing up, but none of them resulted in an arrest because of our last name. And into our twenties, I knew they skated over some legal lines, but they didn't involve me in that. I had always wanted to be a cop.

My brothers are the fighters, and they respect that I'm not. I wasn't getting into fights on their behalf, but they were there to either intercept or take over if someone said something out of line. That's the funny thing about Fiasco—there aren't many people backing down from a fight. Verbal or otherwise. When Fiona died, and then we lost Olivia right after, nothing made much sense to me. It was Ace who folded me back into the family business and then put up a heavy bag. He said, "Go to work, and then work it out. But don't get lost in the bottle or in bar fights." He was my big brother, and even though he was hurting too, he made sure we'd survive it.

The last name Foxx carried a lot of weight in this town. For most, it was who made the best bourbon in Kentucky. For a few who knew our history, we were the brothers who knew too much loss. But for those born and raised in Fiasco, it was the curse that we had been dealt. It was never discussed, at least in our presence, but Wheeler's lackey didn't get that memo. "She'll be gone soon enough. Everyone knows a Foxx can't keep a woman alive for very long anyway," he laughs out. Both men think they have the right to say that kind of shit and get away with it... Not today.

I'm moving for their table before I've even made up my mind to do it. At the exact same time, Lincoln walks through the front door, knocking Waz's shoulder, as he keeps the same fast pace moving toward me. His momentum with his hand on my chest pushes me back to the kitchen. "The fuck you come from, Linc?"

Wheeler laughs boisterously behind him and Waz has that smug look on his face, like this all is just a bit of dinner entertainment for them. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought it was perfect timing, but I did. I guarantee Marla texted Lincoln as soon as Wheeler opened his fat mouth. It would have been luck if he were on his way home from the distillery.

"Ease up," Lincoln grits out. My big brother isn't the bigger one anymore. He might have a couple of inches on me, but I had a good twenty pounds on him. When he shoves me out the door, I go back for him. He darts away, but he's not fast enough for the right jab that follows. It misses his nose, but nails him in the left eye.

"Fucking shit," he yells out and then crouches low.

I don't expect his shoulder to plow right into my gut. I hit the mud and gravel with a thud. It knocks the air out of me and embeds a good handful of rocks into my ass and back. I try to push him off me, but he gets in two punches to the kidney that'll likely have me hurting tomorrow.

"Fuck! Get off."

"You done?" he yells back, out of breath.

I sit up, resting my arms on my bent knees. "Yeah. I'm done."

"Weak jab," he says, spitting next to where he's kneeling.

"Fuck you," I laugh.

"You know I'm right." He stops smiling and asks, "What happened?"

I grab his outstretched hand to help me up. "That dipshit started running his mouth."

"Shit. Kinda wished you got a shot in before I got here, then," he laughs. "'Bout what?"

I shake my head.

"Anything to do with the new girl you're acting weird around?"

"Who? No," I answer him too fast.

"Just haven't seen you talk to a woman, never mind flirt with one, in a long time."

"I wasn't flirting with her?—"

"Not how I saw it."

But before he can get another word in, Del comes out through the back door, sizing up what happened. "Marla threw in a slice of buttermilk pie with your leftovers."

I take it from him with a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks, Del."

Lincoln nods. "Del, good to see you."

"You too, Lincoln. I'll catch you later, Grant."

I give him a wave.

"You need a ride? I just gotta fill up, but I can drop you."

"Nah, I got my truck," I tell Lincoln as we head toward the front lot. "Who's with the girls?"

"Ace has them tonight," he says, but doesn't meet my eye.

"You want company?"

He smiles at me with a look that answers before he does. "I do, but you're not the kind I'm looking for, little brother."

"Fair enough. Be safe."

Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling up to my house. The only lights on are coming from the studio cottage that sits less than two hundred feet from my front door. Julep's head pops up from the cottage porch. What is my dog doing up there?

When I get out of my truck, Julep just watches me. I clap twice at her to come, but she ignores the command and puts her head back down. Giving a short whistle, I quietly shout, "Julep, get over here."

Instead of listening, she rests her head on her front outstretched paws. I scratch the back of my neck. It's not typical behavior for her. She always comes when I call. Fine, stay there. I'm still keyed up and could use another few rounds of hitting something. I have no business feeling this unhinged about Waz and Wheeler talking shit, especially when it comes to a woman who's little more than a stranger, but well, here we are. I need to work off some of this energy. Or anger. Whatever it is, it has me on edge. The only outlet I have, the only one that won't talk, cause more problems, or punch back, hangs in my workspace.

My fist slams into the black heavy bag hanging from the rafters in my workspace. I square off and rotate my hips, driving right hooks in rapid succession, running through a series of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts before one of my knuckles split. Fuck, I need to wrap my hands. My hair is damp from sweat. Taking off my shirt, I use it to wipe my face, and then press it against my bleeding knuckles. As I stalk back out to my truck, I'm somehow more pissed off than I was before I got home. I search my gym bag in the back, and no luck; which means my hand wraps are in the laundry. Fuck it. My knuckles are already ripped up a bit. I slam the truck door closed, and Julep lets out a bark, still sitting on Laney's porch.

When I walk over, her head pops up. "Jules, let"s go."

But she's not interested in listening to me tonight, apparently. She puts her head back down and doesn't move.

"Is that how it's going to be?" I'm not in a good mood and I really just want my dog to follow me home. I nudge my head toward my house. "Let's go." But she's stubborn and just stares back at me. I grit my teeth. I can't believe I'm begging my dog to follow me. She always follows me. "I said, let"s go, Julep." But instead of moving off the porch, she flops her body over, paws up, presenting me her belly. I drag my hands from the back of my neck forward. I'm already lingering here way too long. I don't want to see my new neighbor right now. But of course, when I look back up again, Laney's standing in the doorway, watching me lose my shit. She's in a tank top, with no fucking bra on and a pair of shorts so tight and form fitting it's more likely that they're underwear.

She smirks at me. "You lost?"

Funny.

I give her a sarcastic smirk right back. "Just here to collect my dog. You can go back to getting dressed." I drop my eyes to her bare legs and back up again. "Looks like I interrupted."

"You're on my porch?—"

"Kind of isn't your porch." I tilt my head to the side.

"You woke me up." She shakes her finger up and down at me. "With no shirt on, by the way."

"It's hot out." I just continue to glare at her, not letting my gaze drift to those fucking thighs again or at the way her tits are awake, nipples hard, just begging to be sucked on.

"Clearly." Looking down, she does a double take.

"Let's go, Julep," I say again, trying to ignore the way just looking at her has my cock stirring.

"You're bleeding." She nods at my hands. I don't glance down at my numb hands. Instead, I just keep my eyes on her, trying to figure out why she would even care. What the hell is she really doing here? This isn't an Airbnb. Why the fuck would Ace move her in?

"Your right hand. Wait, I might have band-aids," she says as she moves back inside.

I turn and walk away. I don't need a damn band-aid. I can"t do this. I'm going to end up trying to fuck her. "Julep," I shout out over my shoulder. "Let"s go!"

I stalk back to my yard, around the back of the house, and through the screen door. Julep is nowhere in sight and still probably on that porch. Rifling around the kitchen, I look for a towel to wrap my hand. I throw on the faucet and watch the cold water turn from pink to clear. My hand starts to throb, but I'm so flustered that it barely registers.

"Shit." Leaning my hands on the counter in front of me, I hang my head. I need to calm the hell down. I try a deep inhale, holding for three, and a full exhale. But it doesn't do much. "Fuck my life, I want her."

The way her lips look puffy and pouty. Like she's not getting her way after just finishing sucking on a cherry popsicle. The way I want to see how she'd take me. If she whines or moans when she feels good. If she'll submit if I ask. The way it would feel to tuck my cock between her tits and then paint them when I'm ready. Make her lick me clean.

Fuck it. I can hate myself later.

I unbuckle my belt, flip open the button of my jeans, and let them drop. Once I kick off my boots, I step out of my pants. Then I'm spitting on my hand and gripping my cock. She's not dainty or fragile. I bet she'd grip me nice and tight. I can't hold back the groan, thinking about her on her knees in front of me, licking those lips and gagging on it as I hit the back of her throat. I close my eyes and imagine the way she'd look right up at me with those pretty eyes, her perfect goddamn tits out, and then how she'd slowly spread those legs for me.

"Fuck. That's it." My bare ass hits the counter, but I don't give a shit about where I am or that I'm not wearing a damn thing. I keep the pace slow and hard, the same way that I'd play with her. Rocking my fist back and forth, I edge myself, because I could have come on the third flick of my wrist. This is the second time that all I have had to do is exchange a few words with her and I'm hard. Ready to fantasize about how wet she'd be if I told her all the filthy things I could do to her.

Tightening my grip, I swipe my thumb along the tip and, shit, that feels good. This is what I get for being celibate for too fucking long.

I think about the way she'd smile when I'd tell her I wanted to bury myself in that delicious-looking cunt. Fuck, I miss eating pussy. I think about how she'd feel warm against my tongue and taste sweet like honey as I'd rub her arousal around my lips. How I'd sink inside of her and fuck her so deep that she'd lose her breath. I imagine the way a woman like her would feel if I came inside of her. If she'd milk me dry and then beg for it again.

I fuck myself faster. My body wound so tight that the tops of my legs feel numb, sweat slicks my body, and I'm ready to dive over and succumb to this. With my head tilted back and resting against the cabinet, I picture her looking at me like she'd never want anyone else. I

imagine her lying like an offering in the center of my bed as I watch my cum drip out of her and then how I'd push it back in with three fingers, just to see her come all over again.

"That's it, honey. Look at me."

Goosebumps run up my arms as scuffing sounds on the other side of the screen door, and at the idea of her seeing me like this, I come so fucking hard that my body shudders against the counter just as I splash my chest with my own cum. I gasp from holding my breath as I come down from the full-bodied orgasm that lingers, tingling across my limbs.

Holy shit.

It takes me a few minutes to realize I'm ass naked in my kitchen, before I wipe off my mess while moving toward the back door, checking for Julep. But instead of my pup resting on the stairs, there's a box of band-aids on the railing.