Deploy, Part One (Rawlings #1)(34)

And the more he thought of his bullshit story he was going to tell, and as he drank the beer he had taken with him, the worse he became.

He kept thinking of Declan and Justice, his hands on her, him getting one single emotion out of her. He kept thinking about how big of an ass Declan was, how his whole family was a worthless, Roughneck joke.

Knowing he had to kill even more time to make any fight believable, he had gotten out of the truck to piss and look for more beer in his toolbox. Again his bag spilled out, and again, he winced and cussed as he picked all the balls and his bag up then he tossed the bag in his truck bed and hopped in after it. He was taking a piss off the side when he saw distant headlights.

Son of a bitch, he thought.

Not a single car or truck had passed him since he left Justice’s—it had to be Declan in the distance.

More of the night before flashed in his mind. He remembered Jacks coming up on Nolan’s truck, how well he had aimed.

Right then, it clicked. He knew how to cause some serious damage and not have to swing nearly as much, which was good, one blow to his chest and he’d be done. Hell, pitching was going to kill him, but he’d pitched through worse.

Most of the road further down had been washed out from where the river rose, which is why the bridge was blocked off now. He knew that was why Declan was going so slow, and saw it as a gift from above. The slower speed would give Murdock a chance to actually get more than one ball thrown. Enough to get Declan to stop. And when he charged Murdock, he’d throw a few more, cause some damage. Then they’d finish this fight. Hopefully, it would end with Declan in jail for some made up reason the way his daddy, Monty, wanted it to go down months back with Nolan.

Boom.

Murdock threw the first one. It hit the windshield dead on. Murdock bellowed out a grunt of victory as he threw another landing near the same point on the windshield, then he threw another—and again. So many he had to reach down for another handful. With his next throw, the truck sped up which made no sense because it was not charging toward Murdock, but in the opposite direction.

In a drunken haze, it took Murdock a second to see the driver hunched over, and even longer for it to register the truck was plowing through trees that had already taken a beating the week before and then: BOOM. SPLASH.

The truck charged right into the Savanna River.

For a second it bobbed as it moved with the swift current. In the dark, from where Murdock was, he was sure he saw it all wrong. He was sure Declan had hit the brakes, if not a stump or something had stopped the truck, but then the truck started to sink.

Murdock stood stock-still, too shocked, too drunk, and too lost to find the will to move.

The night was dead silent then. There was no splash, no yell for help, nothing.

Finally, he snapped to his senses and jumped out of the bed of his truck and ran to the edge of the street. There he stopped.

It was over, and he knew it.

Instead of rushing down the path of broken trees, rocks and mud, he ran up the street, in a panic, looking for his baseballs. Rain started to come down, a few drops here and there. By the time he had found so many balls that his shirt was full of them, the rain was down pouring.

He ran to his truck, climbed back in and opened the toolbox, dumping all the balls in there. Then he hopped down and made it to the driver’s side.

He knew the only man who could protect him from going to jail, help him find the right story, was Brent Rose.

***

The last thing Justice wanted to do was walk across the property in the dark following her father. She could tell he was drunk. Every other step he’d sway and then curse because he had.

This was not his sad drunk. This was not I love you and need you to be good—you be good and I will be—drunk. This was his fury drunk. This was the drunk that had broken ribs in the past, blackened her eye, and sprained her wrist.

Once in the shop he turned and charged toward her, causing her to step back—she was even debating just running for it, wondering how far she could get. Who would believe her? And if handling the repercussions of her path down the road was worth it.

“You’re a whore just like your mother,” he slurred.

She didn’t bother to speak, speaking just made him aware she was really there, not some drunken delusion.

“Are you f*cking a Rawlings?” His eyes were ablaze with hatred.

She was silent. Whatever he thought went on with her and Declan was now imploded into something sick—something she should be ashamed of. His imagination was vast and not in a good way.

Fear caused goose bumps to race across her skin. She felt herself flush, her heart race, tears well. She silently thought every prayer she could, and all but begged God himself to snatch her from this hell she was born into.

Just like all the times before, she had no idea how she’d gotten there, the shock of going from normalcy to this so often was something she had never gotten used to, and doubted she ever would.

When it was bad, she wished for death, for a way out. When it was good, she told herself it was never as bad as she thought, that her emotions made it out to be more than it was. She told herself every family fought, she told herself every father yelled and behind closed doors, everyone battled their own wars.

“Answer me!” he raged, moving to get in her face.

She heard him then, not her father. Declan. “You deploy any and all defense you need when you need it. Don’t question if it’s right or wrong. Don’t doubt your strength or your worth. No one lays a hand on you. You hear me?”