Sinner's Revenge(46)

“Said they recognized me. From Houston. They’re from the town just up the road, Shady. I was out getting shit for Carrie and they just confronted me. You think they’re onto us?”

I shake my head, but I’m still unsure. “Nah. Just coincidence. You know her name?” He hands me her purse and I find a driver’s license with her address and name. “Anyone else see you?”

“Nobody that I know of. But I was wearing black and it was dark so even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to make me out.”

I nod, putting my hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “It’s all right.” He just shrugs. Unaffected on the outside, but something tells me he’s struggling on the inside. “Get rid of them. I’ll call Tank to take care of her. She deserves a proper burial and her family deserves some kind of explanation.” It wouldn’t be the truth, but it would give them closure.

I put in the call to Tank, who shows up an hour later. He assures me he can handle it with no problems. I trust that he will. We burn the cuts at Rookie’s house, and the sun is up when I finally make my way back home. My phone flashes with a text from Diem.


See you around.

And just like that, my day got even shittier.





14


“I’M GOING TO be staying the next few weeks with you,” Diem informs me the next weekend. We’re in my recliner, watching westerns, and she’s wearing my shirt.

“You are?” I ask, unable to drown the happiness that is bubbling in my gut. I hate the feeling.

“I’m getting some home improvements done. Someone told me a couple of weeks ago that my house pretty much looks like shit.”

“Whoever they are sounds like a real douche bag.”

“Yeah, he is.”

This is how all conversations seem to go between me and Diem. There is no normal everyday talk. No how are yous, or was your day goods or can I get you anythings. We argue over everything. We call each other names. I hate her and she hates me. We fuck like wild rabbits and each time is better than the last. I like it this way. So does she.

This week will be no different. I’m sure of it.


* * *

“I need Carrie’s number,” she tells me on Monday. I’m at the table, pretending to work on my laptop. When what I’m really doing is playing a game of Solitaire—that she just rudely interrupted.

“For what?”

“Because I want to ask her something.”

“She’s not your friend, you know. You have no friends. Nobody likes you.”

“Give me the number,” she demands, but I don’t give out my friend’s numbers. So I call and give Carrie hers.

Thirty minutes later, Diem informs me that we are going to see a band in Concord tonight. She’s already confirmed it with Rookie, or Joe as she knows him, and Carrie and I don’t like being the fourth fucking wheel. So I call Rookie and chew his ass for making plans without me. He blames Carrie, like the pussy he is, because he knows I could never be mad at her.

We meet up at the club and I’m surprised to see Carrie in something other than scrubs. No wonder Rookie keeps her hidden beneath those shapeless clothes—the woman is built like a brick shithouse. She’s got a body like Kate Upton—big natural tits, thick legs, and long brown hair. I feel so guilty about checking out my brother’s woman that I tell him just how hot I think she is.

“Damn, Rookie. Carrie is fine. No wonder you don’t bring her around that often.” My eyes trail up her long body. She’s wearing a short black dress with heels so high they make her almost as tall as Rookie.

Pride sparkles in his eyes as he takes her in himself. “I’m gonna marry her,” he says, as nonchalantly as if he was telling me he had to go take a piss.

“What? Why?” I ask, shocked at his admission.

He just shrugs. “It’s important to her, so it’s important to me. Speaking of ol’ ladies, yours is pretty fine herself.” I follow the direction of his chin tip, and Carrie seems to blur out of the picture when I look at Diem.

Motherfucker . . .

She’s wearing a turquoise blue dress that ties around her neck. It dips down low in the front, exposing the sides of each of her perfect tits and dips even lower in the back—a hairsbreadth from the crack of her ass. Her olive skin looks darker against the material, and the silver straps of her shoes climb all the way up her calf. How the fuck had I not noticed her before now? The truck was dark. We were arguing when we left, so I was avoiding her. But was I really that blind?

“We’re going to dance,” she tells me, and all I can do is stand here and gape as she sashays onto the dance floor with Carrie in tow. Rookie claps me on the back, finally snapping me back to reality.