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“Tomorrow’s Dex’s big day, huh?” I say, bringing up the rager we’re going to be throwing at the clubhouse. “Graduation party and all that.”
“Yeah,” she replies, a hint of laughter in her voice. “My cousin’s really worked his ass off.”
“Yeah, he has. You wonder what he’s gonna be using that fancy schmancy degree for?”
Jordyn giggles lightly, “Hell if I know. I’ll only assume something that will benefit the club.”
I nod as I unstrap the picnic basket, careful with every move.
It’s packed to the brim with everything she loves.
A lot rides on moments like this and most men don’t realize it—small gestures, thoughtful touches.
I spread out the blanket near the creek, the water’s sound providing a calming ambiance.
Jordyn watches me, curiosity mixed with something deeper.
“Sit,” I tell her, and she does, gracefully folding her legs beneath her.
I lay out the food—sandwiches, fruit, even some damn fancy cheese I picked up in town.
Not exactly gourmet, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Wow, Bama,” she says, genuinely surprised. “This is . . . amazing.”
“Only the best for you,” I reply, feeling a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the sun above us. “Honestly, I’m glad I fessed up and told you how I really felt.”
“Me too,” she says, her smile bright enough to light up the darkest parts of my soul. “You make me so happy.”
I reach over to brush a stray hair from her face. “Good,”
Her skin is soft, inviting. If only life could stay this simple forever.
“Tell me something,” she suddenly asks, breaking the spell. “What was your life like before you came to Billings?”
“Not much to tell,” I say, my voice dropping. “I grew up in a rural town in Alabama, lived in a trailer park. My mom . . . she was addicted to drugs. Started with pills, then shifted to heroin. It was . . . rough, to say the least.”
She reaches out, her fingers brushing mine, offering silent support.
I take a deep breath and continue. “Things weren’t any better with my old man. He was an abusive alcoholic. Used to come home drunk every night, looking for someone to take his anger out on. Most times, that someone was my mother, but sometimes it was me.”
Jordyn’s eyes fill with empathy, but she stays quiet, letting me tell my story at my own pace.
“Used to dread hearing his truck pull up. Knew what was coming next. Never gave a shit about us–me or my mom. Just wanted another excuse to swing his fists. I even remember a time when my mom wasn’t so bad. She got put on pain pills and then eventually it turned to heroin,” I swallow hard, the memories clawing their way to the surface. “That’s why I left when they died. I came here to Billings, looking for a fresh start. And I found one. It’s all thanks to Rosa, she told me Zane was lookin’ for prospects.”
“I’m sorry. You said they died?” she asks, offering silent support.
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Mom overdosed. As far as my father goes, well, he offed himself the same day.”
The horror in her eyes matches the darkness of my memories.
But there’s more—what I don’t say, what churns inside me, is that I damn well know I killed him.
That night, my anger and hatred boiled over.
When I told him about my mom dying, he acted like it didn’t matter at all, and I snapped.
I beat the shit out of him and then slit his wrists.
