Page 49 of Slaughter
I had no destination in mind. No plan. Just the open road, the rumble of the engine beneath us, and Hope’s presence grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt in months.
The wind carried the scent of dry grass and wildflowers, and I could feel Hope’s fingers tighten slightly on my cut whenever we hit a straightaway and I opened up the throttle. She didn’t complain. Didn’t ask where we were going. She just held on and trusted me to take her somewhere worth being.
That trust settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and precious and terrifying all at once.
I pulled off the main highway onto a smaller road that cut through farmland and scattered patches of trees. The landscape stretched out in every direction, wide and open and endless. It reminded me of Tennessee in some ways. The rolling hills, the way the heat shimmered off the asphalt, but it was different too. Flatter. Drier. A place that felt like it had been carved out of the earth by wind and time rather than rivers and rain.
After another twenty minutes, I spotted a small building up ahead on the right side of the road. Run-down, weathered wood siding. A hand-painted sign that read:Joey’s Burger Shack—Best Burgers in the State.
I slowed the bike and pulled into the gravel parking lot, killing the engine. The sudden silence was almost jarring after hours of wind and road noise.
Hope’s arms loosened around me, and I felt her shift behind me, stretching slightly. I swung my leg over the bike and turned to help her off. She took my hand, her fingers warm and small in mine, and dismounted with the kind of simple grace that made my chest tighten.
“Where are we?” she asked, looking around at the small building and the handful of old pickup trucks parked nearby.
“No idea,” I admitted, stretching my arms overhead and rolling my shoulders. “But that sign claims they’ve got the best burgers in the state. Figured we’d find out if they’re full of shit.”
Hope smiled. A genuine smile, the kind that reached her eyes and made something in my chest loosen. “Sounds like a plan.”
I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the entrance. The place wasn’t much to look at from the outside: peeling paint, a sagging porch, windows that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. But there was something familiar about it. Something that reminded me of the dive bars and roadside joints I had stopped at over the years. Places where nobody asked questions, and the food was cheap and greasy and exactly what you needed after a long ride.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, and the smell hit me immediately—fried onions, grease, beer, and the faint tang of old wood and cigarette smoke that had soaked into the walls over decades. The interior was exactly what I expected. A bar lined the back wall, bottles of cheap whiskey and beer taps gleaming under dim overhead lights. A few old-timers sat on stools,nursing drinks and talking about nothing in particular. Their voices were low and unhurried, the kind of conversation that had no beginning or end, just a steady stream of words to fill the silence.
A handful of tables were scattered around the room, most of them empty. The floor was scuffed linoleum, and the walls were covered in faded posters advertising long-gone rodeos and county fairs.
I felt myself relax. This was the kind of place where nobody gave a damn who you were or where you came from. You ordered your food, ate it, paid, and left. Simple. Anonymous.
Safe.
I took Hope’s hand and led her to a table near the window, pulling out a chair for her before taking the seat across from her. She settled in, glancing around with quiet curiosity, and I found myself watching her instead of the room. The way the sunlight caught in her hair. The way her fingers traced idle patterns on the tabletop. The way she looked at me. Like I was someone worth looking at.
“Hi there!”
I turned to see a young girl approaching our table, maybe early twenties, with a bright smile and a ponytail that bounced as she walked. She wore a stained apron over jeans and a T-shirt, and she had the kind of perky energy that suggested she either loved her job or was very good at faking it. “I’m Abby,” she said, pulling a notepad from her apron pocket. “What can I get you?”
I glanced at the hand-painted sign behind the bar that matched the one outside. “That sign outside, right?” I asked, nodding toward it. “Best burgers in the state?”
Abby grinned, her smile widening. “Yes, sir. Ain’t no place around that can top Joey’s burgers.”
I looked at Hope, who smirked and leaned back in her chair, clearly amused. “Alright then,” I said, turning back to Abby. “We’ll take two burgers, fries, and two Cokes.”
“You got it,” Abby said cheerfully, scribbling on her notepad before skipping off toward the kitchen.
Hope shook her head, still smiling. “You really know how to pick them.”
“What can I say? I’ve got a gift.”
She laughed. A soft, genuine sound that made my chest ache in the best possible way. I reached across the table and took her hand, threading my fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away. Just looked at me with those dark eyes that saw too much and somehow still chose to stay.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“For what?”
“For this. For being here. For—” I stopped, struggling to find the words. “For not running.”
Her expression softened, and she squeezed my hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Chapman.”
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her, but I knew better than most that promises were fragile things. Easily broken. Easily lost.
