Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

That night at the fair

U lysses

Me: I can't make it. Something came up.

Angel: Pussy?

Me: Not quite.

Angel: Tomorrow then. Don't be late.

Me: Roger

Deleting the message, I tuck my phone in my pocket, trying to focus on the fancy book Kandie didn't want me to touch.

So engrossed in the story it takes me a minute to realize the sounds reaching me are coming from her bed.

"No, come back," she cries out in her sleep, kicking off the covers. After a few moments, she begins fighting with an intensity I'm all too familiar with. I've seen it hundreds of times, as my fellow marines relive their experiences on the battlefield. I've seen guys go into full combat mode, ready to take on all comers when they were in the throes of a nightmare that wouldn't let them loose.

Quietly sitting the book down, I stand, moving on quiet feet to come and stand over her. Naked curves are exposed from the effort it's taking her to fight off the demons riding her.

The sweet intoxicating scent of her mixes with the Remy Martin VSOP she prefers. I don't question why the hell I even know what her drink is. For the millionth time, I wonder why I'm here. I could have called any of her fifty-eleven cousins to come and watch over her. Dr. Everything probably would have come, no questions asked.

Yet the same unnamable thing that had me turning around when I saw it was her seeming to stagger home, has me frozen in place watching her struggle naked in the sheets.

"Kerania," she cries. "Come back," she sobs, her voice sounding small, like her heart is breaking and damn if mine doesn't right along with hers.

"Shh," I say, bending over her. "It's okay, sweetness," I say, trying to ease her awake.

She stills as if she's been stung. Her eyes fly open the same time she rears back, pulling the covers with her.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Looking around wildly, she turns her bloodshot gaze on me.

Clutching the covers tightly to her throat, she pins me with a knowing look. "How long were you standing over me before you decided to wake me? Before or after you looked your fill?"

"After. I had to see if you were going to reinjure yourself with all your thrashing."

She screws me a look that says she's this close to sticking her tongue out or throwing something at me.

Taking the carafe from her nightstand, I refill her glass, handing it to her.

She drinks, her thirst evident. In a few short moments, she finishes sitting it on the table. "What time is it?" she croaks out. This girl is so dehydrated, she doesn't even realize it. Her little body is working overtime, trying to process all the alcohol.

Shit I thought I'd dealt with starts hitting me like an avalanche. "I'm alright, baby." I can still hear those whispered words watching Mom trying to get herself together to start her day.

The grief I feel every day in watching her waste away from cancer is no different from the sixteen-year-old boy watching his mom suffer from alcoholism. Only with cancer you can't get mad at the person for being sick; with addiction, it's allowed and what's worse, they feel like they deserve your anger.

"Four-thirty." Using the moment I have looking down at my watch to get unexpected and unwanted emotions under control, I take more time than I need to.

"Oh, dang it." She pops up, dragging the covers with her. "I need to shower and get down to the shop." Taking two steps, she starts to sway.

"Woah." I get hold of her shoulder, steadying her. "You need to take it easy."

"And you," she snatches herself way so hard she almost topples back onto the bed, "need to get the hell out of my place." She looks around like she's trying to assess if I've been rifling through her stuff as meager as it is.

"I didn't touch anything other than the book." I nod toward the writing nook where I sat reading most of the night after putting her to bed.

"Um, well, thanks for everything." Looking everywhere but me, she steadies herself, but I can't still help but feel like she needs someone looking over her and damn if I don't want it to be me, bad memories be damned.

As uncomfortable as she looks, I should take that as my cue to leave, but something won't let me leave her.

"You should take the day off. You have a concussion and you're banged up pretty bad," I tell her. "Not to mention you are barely sober."

"First of all, I can bake blindfolded. Second, I run my own business. I don't have thousands of underpaid workers doing the job for me. So, if I don't work, I don't eat." She's fuming. I let her little dig at my family slide because I couldn't care less about what people say about how dirty Shelby money is. My father cut ties with his family long before I was born.

"You. Have. A. Concussion." Slowly enunciating each word only seems to incense her further.

"Fuck. You." Adding a middle finger, she turns from me deliberately or still too tipsy or disoriented from her fall to realize she's showing her curvy backside to me including that big juicy ass that has me biting back a groan.

Keeping her back to me she disappears into the shower, not bothering to give me another look.

Now, I'm the one standing looking after her with my dick hard, rage simmering. Kandie Love clearly doesn't know what the fuck is good for her and it definitely isn't pushing me.

"Damn," I mutter, going back over to the seating area picking up the book she's so worried about. Just as I take my seat, I hear a crash like several bottles have tumbled, and a muffled cry.

Before I can even think of what I'm doing, I'm already shoving her bathroom door open. The rustic copper pipes are pumping steam so hard I can barely see my hand in front of me. Following the sound, I head over to the shower. She's on her knees fumbling with bottles.

"I knew I should have taken a bath," she mutters more to herself though something tells me she's perfectly aware I am right behind her.

"I told you to take the day." My voice sounds raw to my own ears. My heart is slamming in my chest like I ran a marathon. Seeing her like this —

"And I told you to leave," she spits out with a vengeance.

"Nobody likes a mean drunk," I tell her, stepping into the shower when it becomes obvious she can't stand on her own.

"Nobody likes a jolly alabaster giant know-it-all either, and put me down. I'll sit down but I'm not going around dirty," she argues, trying to push out of my arms.

Resisting I line her up against the shower's rose gold subway tile. Using one hand to hold her steady I squeeze the vanilla-rose liquid soap onto the sponge.

After squeezing it a couple times I start making long up and down swipes along her body careful of her still fresh bruises.

"Ow, you're too rough," she whines. "I'm not your truck, no, you'd be gentler with your brand-new taxpayer paid for ride."

I turn a hard gaze on her. She quirks an eyebrow like she's daring me to deny it. I don't bother, though my salary is not the best it does allow for me to live comfortably down here, along with my military pension. My Shelby money has been locked down, since my uncle Mathias has been in control of it. He found a way to hold back my father's portion when he refused to fall in line and join the law firm in Birmingham. I never bothered to inquire because I'm not willing to sacrifice my soul for his whims. So, her words don't affect me but the bruises and lacerations on her body do. Whatever sumbitch did this to her will be residing in hell very soon.

Immediately, I soften and slow my movement turning broad strokes into smaller circles. Washing away the faint tinge of beer and Remy, the vanilla-rose takes over mixing with her natural musk creating an aphrodisiac that speaks to my soul. Feeling my dick pressing against my leg, I make sure to shift away so I don't scare the hell out of her. She's gone through a horrific ordeal, the last thing she needs is a motherfucker looking like he's about to take her pretty little pussy.

"Turn," I grumble, shifting her away from me to take care of her back. Cleansing her tiny body takes much too short of a time.

"I'll let you handle the rest." Knowing if I reach between her thighs I would be lost, and it's wrong as fuck because she's still not all there.

Her head turns to meet mine and for the first time I see she's got her shower cap askew. Her eyes track my movements before snagging on mine. "You got yourself all wet." Brown mahogany eyes dipped in honey don't leave mine, but I know she realizes the effect she has on me. It's in her voice. But it's not triumph I hear, but longing.

I step back. "I have a change of clothes in my truck," I tell her, backing up like she's burned me.

"I'm much better, thanks." She's turning from me, letting me keep my dignity as I retreat, knowing I lost this battle.

"So, you're still going in." Eyeing the coffee from her small proffered hand, I ask the question. Her being dressed in her lilac edged with black pastry chef uniform makes the question redundant.

"You still take it black?" she asks, ignoring the question.

Instead of responding I take a sip swallowing the fragrant brew relishing the burn that will hopefully keep me from asking any more stupid questions.

"If you want more of a breakfast, you are going to have to come by the bakery. We have a breakfast menu now for the people who work the morning shift at the Creative Chaos plant. We also get the night shift people when they get off at seven a.m." Moving around her small kitchen, she puts away the milk and chocolate she uses for her mocha.

I just watch her allowing myself just to be this close as she quietly sets things to rights. She takes pride in her space in all that's she managed to do on her own. It's in the way she puts her things away. Like she cherishes everything she touches because she knows how hard she had to work to get it. Not only that. She lost not only things but people. Her folks loved her. Kerania was her best friend. Her nightmare showed me in such a visceral way that though she manages, she's still not over what happened. I know in a lot of ways I'm not. Yet, her broken cry will be with me for a long time, if not forever.

She doesn't rush me as I finish the coffee in a matter of seconds. Going over to her farm sink, I wash out my mug, setting it on the rack to dry.

"Ready?" The sweetness of her voice hits me square in my solar plexus. This woman. Her very presence makes me feel useless. How the fuck she still makes me feel like this, I can't fathom. Staying away all these years was supposed to mean exorcising Kandie Love from my spirit. Still, I see how fucking hopeless that is when I stand in her barely thousand foot loft, getting lost in her dark mahogany eyes and wanting to lose myself in her gorgeous curves.

No other choice but to follow her out of her loft, I head down to my truck as she gives me a jaunty wave before she heads around front to the open her bakery for the day.

From the start, I never had a fucking chance.

(Ten Years Ago)

"What do you want as your welcome home gift?" Mom asks, taking the corner to the city center where there seems to be some type of county festival. She already told me that she had to take over from Deputy Davies, who she'd promised the weekend off before I told her I was coming on a surprise leave. It wasn't a surprise, but when my plans fell through with Monica, my sometimes fucktoy, who decided she wanted to settle down with some rich guy in Madrid instead of going to Tokyo with me, I decided to come home for the first time since I graduated from high school.

"Nothing, little lady. Being here with you is enough," I say, realizing for the first time it's true. It took me a long time to get over her addiction — well, not over it, but able to process and understand it more.

Some people couldn't withstand heartbreak. It's no different from me abandoning her after my father died. I couldn't wait to be free of this place, the memories, the hate. The day of graduation, I enlisted and within a month, I shipped out. As soon as I proved myself ready, I earned my spot with Seal Team Three. Dad had been an Army Ranger, so I knew a little about the elite team I joined. Still, nothing could prepare me for the shit I've seen — I've done in the name of my country.

"If you're not too tired to come to the festival, I know people would love to see you." She glances over at me with hope shining in her eyes.

Biting back a groan, I say, "Sure."

Big Love Park, ironically named after a man who killed a bunch of people, is full of families buying goods and enjoying the annual Spring Festival.

"Well, I'll be darned, Marlene, you've been keeping a secret," comes the light voice of Mama-Pete. She cranes her head up, looking at me. "Looking just like your daddy, God rest his handsome soul. Don't he look just like Hezekiah, Pa?" She turns to the elderly gentleman of equal indeterminable age.

"Um, he sho do." Pa-Pete comes over from the barbeque he's tending. Standing at attention, he gives me a salute. "Well, alright then, young man." His eyes shine with a solemnity that only someone with shared experience knows.

"You look hungry." Mama-Pete tsks, moving behind her husband to pile a plate up with food for me.

"Even if I wasn't hungry, I wouldn't pass up a meal from y'all," I say, taking the food and sweet tea from her hands.

"Well, you and your mom are welcome to come by anytime." Giving me a little wink, she adds, "She's been doing a real good job. Best sheriff we've ever had besides Hezekiah."

My throat tightens hearing the praise for my dad. I knew he was a good man, but it wasn't until he died trying to save the kids from Bishop Smith's cult along with their granddaughter and three more brave men, did I realize the extent of all the good he'd done for this community.

We'd been inundated with stories of my dad. I think that was one of the reasons Mom finally got the strength to get sober. I was too young to take the reins as the sheriff, so she stepped in until they could have an election. The only thing was, there never seemed to be one. The election seemed to always be on the back burner for the city council. When I realized they — the Shelbys -- were pulling the strings just biding their time so they could press me into service as the sheriff, I took it upon myself to leave. As far as I'm concerned, the debt my father owed to his lineage was paid ten times over when he gave his life for it. He died so that I could be free. He never wanted this life for me.

"Now don't go grumbling when he eats you out of house and home come Sunday," Mom chides, taking a plate and iced tea of her own.

"Like we ain't used to feeding giants. I expect you next Sunday, Ulysses," Mama-Pete calls behind us as we take our seats at a picnic table.

We dig in. "If I wasn't so stuffed I'd asked for more," I tell Mom, eyeing the plate that's wiped clean of the mac-and-cheese, ribs, potato salad, baked beans, and collard greens.

"I know." She pats her tummy. "I won't be chasing anyone anytime soon."

"Since when have you ever chased anyone?" I ask, knowing good and well Shelby-Love doesn't have crime like that.

"You'd be surprised," she says, waving me off. "You mingle. I have to go protect and serve."

"I got it." Rising, I take the empty plates heading over to the trash.

Pride replaces the pain that's been riding me for years since Daddy died. Mom has found solace in her community. They rallied around her in a way I was unequipped to at sixteen after watching that building fall around my father, crushing him and his colleagues to death.

At least we had a body to bury. Kerania was nothing but ashes. The state had to bring in the FBI to test the minute evidence of her remains. People talked for the longest time about how Kandie maintained that her sister wasn't dead, that she could still feel her spirit up until the day she was shown the incontrovertible evidence that Kerania was in fact gone. I wasn't there, but Mom said that was the most heart-wrenching thing she'd ever seen. After her sister was finally buried, Kandie seemed to take on more of her own personality, or maybe hers was finally free to blossom, since she was no longer under the shadow of her twin sister. Regardless, the hellion heroine has laid terror on the town of Shelby-Love ever since. Our own wild child taking her grief out on everything and everyone.

Making the rounds of the festival, I'm greeted like the hometown hero I'm not and have no claim to. After maybe the tenth person thanking me for my service, I make a left, trying to get away from the picnic area heading toward the entertainment.

The whoops and hollering should have keyed me in something is amiss. The sight that greets me makes me stop stock still. Laying across a makeshift bar in a top tied under her breasts with cut off Daisy Duke shorts and cowboy boots is Kandie. Her hair is braided into long ponytails with pink ribbons holding them in place. She looks like a debauched cowgirl.

"Another," she giggles as Remy-Shane pours a shot of whiskey into her mouth.

"What the fuck?" I growl, striding through the crowd, shoving guys out of the way.

"Hey," she yells when I drag her off the bar. "What the hell do you thi—" she stutters when her eyes tracks up my body to meet my angry stare.

"Ulysses," she gasps, her mouth forming an O. The flush rushing to her round dimpled cheeks makes her dark skin look like she's applied rouge. She looks even more adorable with the guilty look she flashes.

"Y'all know she's underage," I say, my eyes never leaving hers, though the words are directed at the men surrounding her.

"Actually, I'm not underage. I'm twenty," she quips.

"To drink." I concede the fact, looking at her for the first time for real. Yes, she's a grown woman now. When I left, she still had that immature form I never bothered to notice. Now, only a dead man would be unaware of her. Curves for days. She may have gotten older, but she's not grown a bit. Still short as hell, her breasts all but bursting from the top she's wearing. Those shorts riding up her ass cheeks. The plump little tummy on display, begging to have salt licked off right before a shot of tequila. This girl is dangerous.

"Yeah, but not too young to kill for this country, though, huh?" She rolls her eyes at me, turning away. "You ain't nobody to be telling me what to do anyway, Ulysses Shelby."

Strutting over to the bar, she snatches the bottle of whiskey from the bar's edge, taking a long swig. Her eyes daring me to do anything.

Challenge accepted little girl. Striding right over to her, I snatch the bottle out of her hand tossing it behind the bar where an unmistakable crash is heard.

"Kandie-girl, don't tell me I went to get me a little taste of food and you already over here starting a brawl and with the sheriff's boy no less," Ms. Queenie calls, bustling over to us.

"How you doing, baby?" she asks me, skewering Kandie with a suspicious look.

"I'm good, Ms. Queenie. I don't want you losing your license for underage drinking."

I quirk a brow toward the little miscreant.

"Girl—" Ms. Queenie rounds on Kandie with exasperation.

"I had a line until he ran everyone away. He's the one that's bad for business." Totally unbothered, Kandie flips me the bird. "I'm going to dance."

Not sure if it's her intention for me to follow, I fall into step behind her. This girl is like a loadstone. I don't even have a choice.