Page 83 of Sinners Reunion

Josie

Gary and Jim sing along with the radio in the sedan as King and I cringe in the backseat. This is one rendition of “The Fate of Ophelia” I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing. What a horrible day to have ears.

“It’s bloody bad enough when she sings it,” King says, motioning toward me. “Could you two blokes put on something more dignified?”

“Silence could be good too.” I ease my fingertips to my temples and press until it hurts worse than the budding headache.

King’s hands find my shoulders, and his warmth relaxes me almost instantly. Then his thumb digs into the tight muscles, and my eyes roll. My pussy flutters, and my stomach clenches, and I think I just had a mini-O.

He leans in and whispers, “Why so tense? Is everything okay?”

“For starters, I haven’t slept well these past two nights on the road.”

King nods, understanding.

Knowing someone’s mother now haunts the halls of my reproductive tract has a way of keeping a girl up at night. Despite a lengthy irrigation of my nether regions, I’ll never feel clean again.

After a triple scrub and a dip in bleach—the toothbrush holder, not my vagina—we returned what was left of Bennett’s mother. We did not disclose how we came into possession of her.

Ugh. Possession. My poor polter-gina.

That’s it. We’re calling a priest the moment we’re back in Florida.

The increase in stress and the decrease in sleep have resulted in a headache. This little outing is the last place I want to be right now, but Chef insisted we go shopping because he can’t trust anything in his pantry.

The squash casserole was the last straw.

As it turned out, Bennett was willing to take the blame, but a shopping trip with Jim was a bridge too far. That left us holding the bag; he said if we didn’t go in his place, he’d tell everyone our dirty little squash secret.

So here we are, somewhere in West Texas on a mission to buy food to replace an entire pantry because we’re all hedonistic sex weirdos, I guess.

And yet, for the first time I can remember, I’m kind of happy to be around people. I wanted to come on this road trip to get under King’s skin and get some kills . . . and maybe get laid, but that’s always a goal for me. What I didn’t anticipate was finding a group of people who just let me come in and be . . . me.

Jim sits forward, flailing his hand toward a set of golden arches in the distance. “Oh, Gary, look! Let’s go to McDonald’s. They’re still serving breakfast.”

“Oh, heck yes!” I say. I sit forward in my seat and peer past Gary’s shoulder as he flicks on the blinker. “We still have time to⁠—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” King says.

Gary turns off the blinker and stays straight.

“But I want a Sausage McGriddle.” Jim’s lower lip pokes out.

I tip my head back and groan. “Those are the fucking best. Those little pockets of secret syrup. That herby, greasy sausage.”

“It’s pronounced herby. Herby,” King says, enunciating the living fuck out of that H. “You’re dropping the first blasted letter! And fuck your silly sandwiches. It’s not even real meat!”

“Take it back,” Jim wails. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

King rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, and I wonder if he bought that black t-shirt a size too small on purpose.

I’m not complaining.

On the contrary. The next time I’m blessed with a bathroom featuring a detachable showerhead, this is the exact image I’ll think about.

Him, in that shirt, and those muscles⁠—

After a deep inhale and overly loud exhale, King says, “If we weren’t already so far behind schedule, you lot could have stopped and gorged yourselves batty on your blasted Sausage McGirdles⁠—”