Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
And as I start to fuck my girl slowly again, I watch the sun sink deeper into the hills and realize I’m not falling for her anymore.
I’m already crazy in love with her.
It’s dark by the time we get back to her apartment. We shower together, and when she’s pressed against the tiles, I make her come with my tongue until her knees buckle and she can’t stand. Then afterward, we cook dinner in her tiny kitchen, and I get struck by how much I enjoy domesticated life and how easy it would be for me to leave the old life behind.
I’ve never pictured myself doing any of this—cooking dinner, talking into the night, falling asleep every night in a pair of warm, comforting arms.
But I’m here for all of it.
After dinner, we take our drinks onto the terrace and sit under a star-scattered sky. The night is warm and peaceful, and I’m fighting with the words on the tip of my tongue.
I want to tell her I love her.
But something is holding me back, and the words never come.
Even later in bed, when I pull her into my arms and she wraps her luscious curves around me, I’m still hesitant. Instead, I fall into a heavy sleep where I dream about a future with my girl and forget about the gnawing feeling I have growing in my gut.
A gnawing feeling that tells me something isn’t quite right.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I get up for a glass of water.
In the kitchen, something hidden behind the coffee canister catches my eye.
It’s a gun—specifically, a Ruger SR1911 handgun.
I don’t touch it. When DNA gets you wrongfully imprisoned once, you get shy about leaving your fingerprints and skin cells in the wrong place at the wrong time. And something about this gun being carefully concealed on the kitchen counter tells me this is one of those situations.
My gut churns with unease.
Why does Rory need a gun hidden behind her kitchenware?
I know she’s afraid of her stepfather finding her, and I get that she wants to protect herself if he does, but it’s not the presence of the gun that disturbs me. It’s the placement of it that gives me concern.
It screams unusual.
Too specific.
Like something I’d do. I push back on the thought.
Rory is as much a killer as I’m the Pope.
Still, something doesn’t feel right.
I don’t say anything when I return to bed.
Instead, I try to convince my instinct I’m wrong. That there’s no reason for Rory not to have a gun, given the circumstances.
The next day, Jack wants me to ride out to the grow barn.
The grow barn is a massive brick and timber structure that used to be a canning factory back in the 1930s. Flanked by two cornfields, it looks empty and abandoned, nothing like the growing facility where we nurture thousands and thousands of marijuana plants from seedlings to mature adults.
Most of our plants are grown throughout Appalachia amongst the outdoor crops of Christmas trees and tall pines on farmland we lease from farmers. But those crops are seasonal, and quality can depend on the elements. Our grow barn allows us to churn out a new harvest every three months, and the quality is never by chance. Alchemy, our expert moonshiner, also knows how to cultivate the perfect high.
Today, Jack and I are visiting to oversee the transport of the product to the drying facility a few miles away. Hired patrols help us keep the area secure. As we pull in, Gambit is standing with two men dressed in black. Everyone is wearing Kevlar and armed with heavy-duty rifles.
They wave us through, and we park next to a refrigeration truck where local workers load crates of freshly harvested buds into the back. Once loaded, they’ll head over to the packing facility we have at a farmhouse a few miles down the road.
Inside the grow barn, a sophisticated airflow system keeps the temperature where we want it, while protecting workers from getting high. But today, the aroma of freshly cut buds hangs heavy in the air. Sweet and sticky.
“Are we still on schedule?” Jack asks Alchemy, who is in charge of production.
“So far, we’ve harvested seventy-five percent of the crop,” Alchemy explains as he leads us through the barn. “We expect to have the other twenty-five done by tomorrow.”
Jack pats him on the back. “Good work, Al.”
Alchemy remembers something he forgot to tell the men loading the trucks and disappears outside while Jack and I walk through the sea of marijuana plants.
“So your girl, is that something serious?” he asks, inspecting the buds on one of the plants.
“It’s getting to be.”
He looks at me and nods. “Bronte liked her. Said she had a good feeling about her in her waters, whatever the fuck that means.”
That makes me smile.