Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
The land out here tells the truth. Nothing can hide in these broken hills. Every scar, every edge is visible for miles. Wind and water carved this place over centuries, stripping away anything soft, leaving only what's strong enough to endure.
Kinda like prison did to me.
Kinda like what Elenore did to her.
I'm more like these badlands than I like to admit. Carved out by forces I couldn't control. Weathered. Broken in places. Full of sharp edges and unexpected drops. But still standing. Still here.
We pass by many forgotten places. Places that were abandoned years ago, windows staring out like empty eye sockets. That's how it is around here—everything’s temporary. When you’re up against nature, nature always wins.
Once we’re settled into the ride, my mind starts spinning with the words I was writing earlier. I left my notebook in the blind. I'll have to go back and get it, but like always, it doesn't say much in there.
It's just rambling. Me, doin' my best to make sense of nonsensical things. I've always been fightin' the demon. I've had that fuckin' sword in my hand since the day I was born.
But ever since Savannah came into my life when I was fourteen, the battle has breaks. Little pauses where I can—not let down my guard, that's never gonna happen—but just settle a bit.
I stop grinding and take a look around when Savannah is next to me.
I wonder what I feel like to her?
I wonder how she fights her demons?
I wonder if I'm her demon.
The turnoff to the Dun property appears, marked by nothing but a weathered red mailbox. I slow down, taking the dirt road at a crawl to keep the dust down.
The bike's suspension protests at every rut and hole, but I navigate them carefully. Savannah's grip has relaxed a little, her body moving with mine, learning the rhythm of the road.
As we crest the final rise, the Dun place comes into view. It's nothing like the Ashby compound—no pretension, no grandeur. Just a simple white farmhouse with green shutters, a wraparound porch, and a red barn off to the side. The kind of place that says people live here, not just exist for show.
The sun catches on the tin roof, making it shine like a beacon. Around the property, life is happening everywhere you look. A fenced arena to the left holds two tiny girls on ponies, circling under the watchful eye of Havoc's oldest girl and June.
To the right, a homemade dirt track winds through a stand of cottonwoods, twin boys racing dirt bikes around it, their excited shouts carrying across the evening air.
The smell of grillin’ meat hits me as I cut the engine. Havoc stands on a wooden deck off the back of the house, manning a massive grill, smoke risin’ around him like he's some kind of war god overseeing a sacrifice. He's shed his cut, wearing just jeans and a faded black t-shirt, lookin’ almost normal except for the gun I know is tucked into his waistband.
Savannah's arms slowly unwrap from my waist as she takes in the scene. I feel the absence immediately, like someone turned off a heater.
I swing my leg over the bike, offering her a hand to help her off.
"This is... not what I expected," she says quietly, removing her helmet, then the elastic holding her hair in the ponytail. It falls down around her shoulders, tangled from the wind.
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Something more... outlawish?"
I snort. "Havoc's got a basement full of guns and probably three bodies buried out back. Don't let the picket fence fool you."
Her eyes widen, and I realize too late she can't tell if I'm joking. I'm not sure I know either.
The twin boys, maybe seven or eight, come tearing around the side of the house, dirt bikes forgotten now. They stare at Savannah like she's some exotic creature that wandered out of the woods.
"That's Legion," one whispers to the other, loud enough for us to hear. "Dad says he killed a man with his thumbs once."
"Did not," the other argues. "Dad said it was with a pencil."
Fuck's sake. I'm going to have a word with Havoc about the bedtime stories he's telling his kids.
Savannah's hand finds mine, fingers threadin’ through with surprising strength. I look down at her, expecting to see fear or regret. Instead, I find something that looks almost like amusement.
"With your thumbs, huh?" she whispers.
"Apparently my reputation exceeds reality," I mutter, squeezing her hand. "You okay?"
She nods, eyes scanning the property again. "It's beautiful here," she says softly. "Peaceful."
It is. That's what makes it dangerous.
Places like this make you believe in things like normal, and safe, and forever.
They make you forget that the world is waitin’ just beyond the fence line, ready to tear it all apart.
But I don't say that.