Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
But it was just fucking. Never more than that. Never her inviting me to her house. Never me bringing her around my friends. Just our bodies doing what bodies do when they're starving for each other.
Basal instincts. Nothing more.
Our lives split down the middle a long time ago. She went one way, I went another. What's strange is that Eleanor didn't split with her daughter. While Savannah was getting ready to leave me behind, Eleanor was digging her way deeper into my life.
She set up a photography studio in Glendive. From the outside, it looks like a tourist trap—somewhere to buy overpriced prints of Makoshika State Park to hang in vacation cabins. But inside, in the back room with the blackout curtains, she takes pictures of me. The kind I never thought I'd let anyone take.
In most of them, at least lately, I'm completely naked. She positions me careful, though. Makes sure nothing too explicit shows. But her eyes are on me the whole time. Moving over every inch of my skin. Watching me. Seeing parts of me nobody else does these days.
She pays me for it, but only when I ask. I still can't figure out what that means. Does she think I'm not worth paying unless I remind her? Or does she not want to pay me because to her, what we do isn't business? The way she looks at me sometimes makes me think it's something else to her. Something personal. My body is her passion project. But I can't tell for sure.
Back at the truck stop, Savannah folds her map against the creases, shoving it into her purse.
"So, we'll stay in touch, right?" she asks, her voice suddenly uncertain.
I nod, knowing damn well I won't. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Diesel's third message today.
Savannah moves past me toward her driver's door. Our fingers brush for half a second. Not a kiss goodbye. Not even a hug. Just awkwardness hanging between us like we've never fucked under the moonlight in a field of tall grass.
Like we're strangers now.
She climbs into her Range Rover, and I can hear the air conditioning kick on full blast as the engine purrs to life.
I stand there, watching her pull away, the dust kicking up behind her tires. I keep watching until the dust settles back to the ground. Until there's no sign she was ever here.
Then I mount my motorcycle, kick the stand up, and fire the engine. The vibration between my legs drowns out everything else in my head. My phone buzzes again in my pocket.
It's Diesel, I know this. But I didn't wanna look at the text until Savannah was gone. Until it was really over.
Until there was no goin' back.
Tonight, the gates open for me.
Tonight, Badlands lets me prospect.
As Savannah drives toward her future, she releases me to mine.
The compound gates swing open as I approach as security cameras track my movement, little red lights blinking like hungry eyes. Three years ago, I'd have felt something about that. Pride, maybe. Or fear. Now I just feel the weight of being watched.
Twelve Harleys line the parking lot in perfect formation—chrome polished, leather oiled, each one angled precisely the same way.
I park my bike off to the side. Not part of the formation. Not yet.
Inside the clubhouse, the smoke hangs thick enough to walk on. Cigarettes, weed, something else burning that I can't name. A pool game stops mid-shot, cue ball frozen in its trajectory. Laughter cuts off like someone pressed mute. Every eye finds me.
Diesel emerges from the back hallway, his bulk taking up more space than seems possible. He's got grease under his fingernails and a fresh cut above his eye. No explanation offered for either. He tosses a rag at my chest. I catch it without thinking.
"About fucking time," he says, but there's no welcome in it.
Roach points toward a dark stain on the concrete floor with his chin. Blood. Not fresh, but not old enough to have set completely. Beside it a bucket of water—smells like bleach.
I don't ask questions. Questions are for people who have the right to answers.
My stomach growls as I head towards the stain and kneel down, the floorboards hard against my knees.
And then I start scrubbing.
My back muscles strain immediately. The blood has dried into the porous surface, requiring force to lift it out. Nobody speaks. Nobody offers help or explanation. I can feel Brick watching me from his chair in the corner, the weight of his attention heavy.
Minutes stretch. My knees begin to ache against the hard floor. The bleach burns my nostrils and the skin on my knuckles. Still, I scrub. Harder. More deliberately. Making each movement count.
Around me, conversations resume. Pool balls crack against each other. Someone laughs at a joke I didn't hear. I've become invisible. A ghost that only exists to perform this task.