Page 32 of Ride or Die

Clara releases a shuddering breath, the kind I can tell she’s been holding onto. She looks away, her hand trembling a touchas she lifts her beer to her lips and takes what appears to be a few forced gulps.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. Scrubbing a hand down over my face, I consider my words carefully. On the one hand, I want to press her, have her open up to me, because I know it helps to talk about it. But on the other hand, the last thing I want is to push her too far. I wouldn’t put it past her to pack her shit through the night and leave again. The last thing she or them kids need is to keep on runnin’ right now. You can only run so far on fumes before the tank hits empty.

“My mama’s dead,” I say, throat thick, voice gruff.

Feeling Clara’s eyes on me, I don’t look at her, just continue staring straight ahead at nothing in the darkness.

“She died when I was sixteen. My daddy beat her so damn bad, he put her in a coma and she never woke up.”

“Oh my god,” Clara whispers, and then out of nowhere, her hand comes into view. I track it with my eyes, watching as she tentatively places it on my arm, her soft creamy skin in stark contrast to the dark ink of my tattoos.

“He beat her every chance he got.” I shake my head at the memory. “When I was a kid, he beat me too. Then I got big, and he realized he couldn’t touch me without startin’ a fight he knew he wouldn’t win. But when I was gone, she copped it.” I look down at the now empty can in my hand, tossing it onto the lawn for me to take to the recycling when I leave. “The more he drank, the meaner he got.”

“Cole…” Clara says after a beat, her voice shaky.

I look at her then, seeing the unshed tears brimming in her eyes.

“I… I’m so sorry.” She sniffles, quickly swiping at a wayward tear as it rolls down her cheek.

“You did the right thing by leavin’,” I reassure her in case she’s doubting her decision. “I can only imagine how differentmy life would be right now if my mama left… took me and ran…” I trail off, shrugging a shoulder and turning back to stare ahead.

“Where is he now?” Clara asks. “Your…him?”

“Hewasin prison,” I tell her. “Got fifteen years. But then he got his throat slashed on the yard a few months back, bled out and died before the guards could get to him.”

Clara removes her hand from my arm, and I feel the loss of her touch unexpectedly, in a way that don’t make a lick of sense. I look down at my skin that feels cold in a way I’ve never felt it before, and as a heavy silence falls between us, I feel Clara shrink a little, glancing sideways at her to find her cower in on herself.

“You’re safe here,” I say. I feel like she needs the reminder. Hell, she don’t know it yet, but this is probably the safest place for her.

She sniffs a humorless laugh. “You don’t know Cain.”

My brows knit. “That his name?”

She nods and I see her look at me from the corner of her eye, rolling her full lips together and biting them between her teeth like she’s scared she’s said too much.

“You can trust me.” I touch her arm gently, the way she touched mine moments ago.

“I don’t even know you…”

I huff a laugh. “Hell, darlin’, you know more about me after the last few minutes than most people in this damn town know about me after twenty-six years.”

Clara looks at me, a smile ghosting her lips that doesn’t match the harrowing look of fear in her pretty blue eyes. “He’s not going to stop until he finds us. And when he does, I?—”

“He ain’t.” I shake my head, cutting her off.

“He—” She stops herself, looking up to the night sky as if to find the right words to say. “He’s got… connections.”

“So do I.” I arch a wagering brow when she looks at me again. “My daddy didn’t slit his own throat.”

Her eyes flare a touch at that admission, but before she can say any more than she wants to, and before I can tell her any more than I damn well should, I push up with a grunt, standing and walking down the porch steps.

Tugging my ball cap from the back pocket of my jeans, I meet her curious eyes from where she remains seated on the step, watching me.

“Trust me, darlin’,” I begin, sliding my hat on and flipping it backwards. “He steps one foot in this town, he’s leavin’ in a fuckin’ body bag.”

The sun burns high from the midday sky, heat bouncing off the ground in waves, the wire burning even through the hide of my gloves.

“Hell, Cole,” Brady calls from down the line, one boot braced against a post while he leans his weight into the stretcher. “You plannin’ on fixin’ that there fence, or makin’ love to it?”