Page 4 of Hotter than Wildfire

“You bitch, I’ll bet you’re in cahoots with him. All three of you, it’s a conspiracy, you’re robbing me and keeping me from what’s mine!” His voice rose to a raw cry. “You three think you’re so much better than me! Snooty bastards, I’ll show you!”

Harry’s mom frowned. “Hey, Rod, there’s no need to⁠—“

“And you’re the worst of all, you cunt!” he roared and swung the bat straight at her head.

The crack was loud in the room as Harry’s mom crumpled to the floor, bright red staining her long blonde hair. She lay still, a pool of red gathering around her head.

“You bastard!” Harry’s head filled with rage. “You killed her! You killed my mom!”

Rod stood for a moment, mouth open, the rotted teeth of a methhead like dark tree stumps. Harry jumped him, fists flying. He’d been fighting since he was five and though he had no training, he knew what he was doing. The first blows took Rod by surprise, then he shook his head and bellowed with rage.

With one backhanded blow, he slammed Harry against the wall, knocking him off his feet. Harry blacked out for just a second and came to just as Rod, screaming, brought the bat down hard on his legs. Harry cried out as his bones crunched.

Pain shot through Harry, so intense he nearly passed out again. He fought to remain conscious with everything in him, ignoring the ferocity of the pain, because Rod had straightened, knowing Harry was out of commission, and now was advancing on Crissy, step by step, screaming words Harry couldn’t understand.

Crissy pressed against the wall, shaking, as she watched him approach with huge, terrified eyes.

Harry shook with rage. Rod had killed his mom. Fuckhead wasn’t going to get Crissy, too. No way.

Harry tried to stand, but he collapsed in fiery agony. There was no way, both legs were broken, jeans already soaked with blood. A shard of bone had broken through the skin and stuck out from his left thigh, piercing his jeans. His hand scrabbled for his only hope as Crissy darted away from Rod’s big hairy paws swinging that bat.

Under the mattress was Fuckhead’s cell, which he used to make his deals. Harry had stolen it from him a couple of days ago. Some instinct had told him he’d be needing a way to call for help.

Rod was screaming now, completely out of control, lunging for Crissy who kept slithering out of his grasp. Hands trembling, fumbling in fear, Harry punched 911 and quickly gave the address. Rod’s bellows could be heard in the background.

“Hurry,” he whispered.

He was about to black out from the pain and had to grit his teeth to remain conscious.

Rod’s huge hand caught Crissy by the arm and Harry nearly threw up when he heard the sharp crack of her small bone breaking.

“Harry!” Crissy screamed, terrified eyes meeting his, and he pulled himself over to her by his arms, moving as fast as he could.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

Rod picked Crissy up as if she were the Barbie he’d held a few moments ago and slammed her against the wall. Blood spattered as Crissy’s tiny body crumpled to the ground.

“You son of a bitch!” Harry screamed as his hand found the bat Rod had dropped. He swung it with all his strength against Fuckhead’s kneecap and heard the sharp crack of his knee exploding.

Rod went down like a felled bull and Harry was all over him, swinging the bat against his head again and again until Rod’s face was a mask of mushy red tissue that bore no resemblance to a human face.

Panting, Harry threw the bat away and pulled himself with his arms over to Crissy, ignoring the fiery pain as he scraped his way across the floor. He gathered up her limp little body, holding her against him, smoothing out her soft golden hair. He wept, the sound raw in the room.

In the distance sirens sounded, the last thing he heard before the blackness took him.

ONE

Prineville, Georgia

Twenty years later

April 2

Gerald Montez paced his study as he listened to the track on Spotify. The song was beautiful, though Gerald didn’t give a shit about that. Beethoven, the Beatles—it was all the same to him.

But this song…oh yes. It was important to him.

Turning a Blind Eye by Eve. No last name. Just Eve. Like Madonna or Cher.