Mercy (Sin City Outlaws #2)(22)

Words of anger sit in my chest, ready to spill. “You’re such a son of a bitch!” I seethe. Grabbing the whiskey bottle from his grip, I shove off the bed. “Zeek, I’m angry. Everything I’ve ever known or cared about has been ripped from my hands in the last two days. I don’t expect you to understand that.”

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Fuck you!”

He grabs my hand, stopping me. I pull at my hand, and glare at him. “Let go!”

“No, we’re going to f*cking talk about this. What happened with your dad, I don’t expect you to ever forget, Jillian, but—we are f*cking talking about it.”

“Talk, now you want to talk? What, you want to sit down and do the couple thing now that everything has f*cking gone to shit!?” I feel high on anger, my heart thundering in my chest. His face hardens, his grip tightening on my wrist.

“Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact, and you’re going to sit here and play the happy f*cking couple, goddamn it!” He tugs hard, forcing me to sit back on the bed, causing me to nearly drop the whiskey.

“Why are you doing this? Why are we doing this? Look at us?” I gesture between us. “We are a f*cking mess, we don’t belong together!” I shout. “How about that for starters?”

“You’re right, we don’t. It’s been f*cking hell since the beginning, but that’s because we’re defying the odds.” His grip lightens, catching my attention. “Do you want to be with me, Jillian?”

His words catch me off guard, my wall of anger crumbles. “Wh-what?”

“It’s a simple f*cking question, do you want to be with me?”

I stand, and rub at the tender flesh of my wrist deep in thought.

The question is anything but simple. I do want to be with Zeek, but how? That is the question that has been plaguing my mind, making me so angry. I’m a sheriff, and he’s an outlaw. How could we ever work, and that’s saying if we make it through this shit? Which isn’t looking promising at the moment.

Who else will get hurt because of our selfishness? Can he still be president if he’s with me? It’s his life, just like being a sheriff is mine. I don’t think I can take the only thing he’s ever known away from him. I just…can’t. That is when it hits me like a stack of bricks…I don’t hate Zeek. I’ve hated myself, and I’ve hated my father, but never Zeek.

Depending on who you ask, they say love can bring the worst or best out in a person.

Which am I?

“I—I don’t know, Zeek.”

I slam the door behind me, my chest heaving as a sob I can’t control anymore shakes my entire body.

Taking the cap off the bottle I take a huge sip, instantly regretting the amount I just took in when it burns my mouth like acid. Closing my eyes, I swallow. The liquid so strong it slows in my throat, threatening to retreat.

Using the back of my hand I wipe at tears that I didn’t even know were there, and look around the room.

I can’t believe I’m in a damn trap house. Alessandra would probably love it, curious as to how they run things. I miss her so much.

My toes press into the soft carpet as I make my way to the desk chair behind the table with the scale and empty baggies. Using the hand not holding the whiskey, I caress the top of the scale. I have seen these a million times in the department—confiscated ones even. Ones that had been wiped clean of any evidence. This one, though, has a faint dusting of white powder. Rubbing my index finger and thumb together, the powder is soft, like baby powder. Cocaine.

Sighing loudly, I shove the scale off the table, and sit in the chair. Slamming the whiskey bottle on the tabletop.

The voice of my father preaching about doing the right thing echoes in my head. Things he said, but didn’t mean. Not when he’s beaten them into my head, then turned around and did the opposite.

Taking another big sip of the whiskey, my eyes focus on the radio sitting on the fireplace.

Music, I need sound. Anything to shut these f*cking voices up in my head. Quickly I jump from my seat and head towards it. Flicking it on, “Used To Love You” by Gwen Stefani is playing. Pressing the top of the whiskey bottle to my lips I sing a few lyrics, and take another swig.

The burden that I was responsible for my father’s death becomes fuzzy, but not quite enough. The whiskey flows down my throat causing my body to swarm with a blissful numbness.

“One day, Jilly Bean, you’ll have a shiny badge, and you will get to put all the bad guys away.”

Rubbing my little fingers along my father’s shiny badge, my eyes lit up. I never wanted to do anything else ever again. To hell with figure skating, or modeling. I wanted to hold a gun and put bad guys away. From this day forward, it was my dream.

“Just like you, Daddy?” I asked, looking at the badge in awe.

He sighed, taking the badge from my fingers. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to hold it just a little longer. Having it in my hands I felt like I was holding Poseidon’s Trident, something with magical powers. I could hold this up and everyone would do what I wanted.

“Jillian, baby, let’s hope you’ll do a way better job than Daddy.” He fluffed my blonde hair, and walked away.

Opening my eyes, tears stream down my face.

My father was dirty, a murderer, Zeek said. My dad led me into a war I wasn’t prepared for. Realization strikes my subconscious that if I didn’t have Zeek, I’d be in a grave next to my dad. I wonder if Mom knows?