think.
“That means you don’t talk back,” he said. “You don’t question me in front of the others. You don’t question them. In fact, the less you do, the better. Is that clear?”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes.”
Instructions. Following instructions from a stupid man too stubborn to know how stupid he was.
That brought back up a bilious set of memories from Randall.
Goddamn, you talk too much.
Wear this. You’ll look pretty on my arm.
Who the fuck said you could go out with them, huh? Answer me, girl!
For almost all her life she'd wanted to grow up to be a biker's girl. Then she took up with a man she thought had been tough and strong in Randall, and he had just been an insecure bully.
Then she met Beretta—who she thought had been exactly the kind of tough and strong she'd wanted her whole life. But his strength scared her; his furious passion, the ease with which he burned away all her resistance. It had terrified her the way she had come to depend on him in such a short amount of time after Randall had abused her trust so completely.
And so she had left him.
“Good,” he said. “Well. Freshen up how you want. There’s some stuff there.” He pointed to a small pile. “I’ll take you around to a place I know and you can wash off, later on. For now there’s that sink on the far end of the warehouse. You come join us when you’re ready.”
At least Beretta was nicer to look at than Randall had been. Far and away nicer, and Randall wasn't exactly ugly. She had counted herself so damn lucky for a time when her affair with Beretta began. And while Beretta was cruel now, even heartless, there was something about it that seemed put-on.
With Randall, every time she suffered from those indignities, those little abuses, it had felt more like a revelation of what was powering through his sick core inside.
Beretta was too direct to have secrets. Not for long, anyway.
I’m a man of my word, Helen. You’ll see.
So, there was that, at least.
That’s right. I’m a fucking monster. But I’m all you have.
And that, too.
She sighed and walked to the other end of the warehouse for the sink. It was still as dirty as the day before, covered in old rust, particles of steel flaking away like dirt off a stone. Again, she checked the door—just in case. But it was still chained shut.
The outlaws had the entrances and exits pretty well controlled. For a moment, she felt almost flattered that they had taken the trouble just for her. Then she remembered that it had probably always been that way because they needed to keep the Copperheads out.
There was not a whole lot she knew about this gang war that they had going on. She hadn't lived in Stockland long enough, moving from Marlowe just half a year before. The Copperheads had been in Stockland for several years, maybe close to ten. At first, they had only been a nuisance. If they killed someone, it was just someone else in their game—someone dealing, someone stealing.
Lately, though, over the past two or three years, the Copperheads had grown bolder. Their meth traffic had gotten bigger and bigger, and no one seemed to be able to do anything about it. Corruption in the police department was the biggest shared, unspoken secret in the town.
It didn’t take a lot to keep a man on a cop’s salary quiet, especially in a small city like Stockland, so far outside and away from the rest of civilization.
Stockland was located deep in West Texas. Far from the border, but not so far that there was no opportunity to traffic drugs back and forth across it. Far enough, instead, for the Copperheads not to be at war with any gangs down south of the border.
Helen wasn’t an expert, no. She just read the papers. The rest, she could put together on her own from overhearing conversations between gangbangers and outlaws and the like during her shifts.
They spoke in broken, jerry-rigged versions of Spanish and English; hard to follow, but once you got the cadence
“That means you don’t talk back,” he said. “You don’t question me in front of the others. You don’t question them. In fact, the less you do, the better. Is that clear?”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes.”
Instructions. Following instructions from a stupid man too stubborn to know how stupid he was.
That brought back up a bilious set of memories from Randall.
Goddamn, you talk too much.
Wear this. You’ll look pretty on my arm.
Who the fuck said you could go out with them, huh? Answer me, girl!
For almost all her life she'd wanted to grow up to be a biker's girl. Then she took up with a man she thought had been tough and strong in Randall, and he had just been an insecure bully.
Then she met Beretta—who she thought had been exactly the kind of tough and strong she'd wanted her whole life. But his strength scared her; his furious passion, the ease with which he burned away all her resistance. It had terrified her the way she had come to depend on him in such a short amount of time after Randall had abused her trust so completely.
And so she had left him.
“Good,” he said. “Well. Freshen up how you want. There’s some stuff there.” He pointed to a small pile. “I’ll take you around to a place I know and you can wash off, later on. For now there’s that sink on the far end of the warehouse. You come join us when you’re ready.”
At least Beretta was nicer to look at than Randall had been. Far and away nicer, and Randall wasn't exactly ugly. She had counted herself so damn lucky for a time when her affair with Beretta began. And while Beretta was cruel now, even heartless, there was something about it that seemed put-on.
With Randall, every time she suffered from those indignities, those little abuses, it had felt more like a revelation of what was powering through his sick core inside.
Beretta was too direct to have secrets. Not for long, anyway.
I’m a man of my word, Helen. You’ll see.
So, there was that, at least.
That’s right. I’m a fucking monster. But I’m all you have.
And that, too.
She sighed and walked to the other end of the warehouse for the sink. It was still as dirty as the day before, covered in old rust, particles of steel flaking away like dirt off a stone. Again, she checked the door—just in case. But it was still chained shut.
The outlaws had the entrances and exits pretty well controlled. For a moment, she felt almost flattered that they had taken the trouble just for her. Then she remembered that it had probably always been that way because they needed to keep the Copperheads out.
There was not a whole lot she knew about this gang war that they had going on. She hadn't lived in Stockland long enough, moving from Marlowe just half a year before. The Copperheads had been in Stockland for several years, maybe close to ten. At first, they had only been a nuisance. If they killed someone, it was just someone else in their game—someone dealing, someone stealing.
Lately, though, over the past two or three years, the Copperheads had grown bolder. Their meth traffic had gotten bigger and bigger, and no one seemed to be able to do anything about it. Corruption in the police department was the biggest shared, unspoken secret in the town.
It didn’t take a lot to keep a man on a cop’s salary quiet, especially in a small city like Stockland, so far outside and away from the rest of civilization.
Stockland was located deep in West Texas. Far from the border, but not so far that there was no opportunity to traffic drugs back and forth across it. Far enough, instead, for the Copperheads not to be at war with any gangs down south of the border.
Helen wasn’t an expert, no. She just read the papers. The rest, she could put together on her own from overhearing conversations between gangbangers and outlaws and the like during her shifts.
They spoke in broken, jerry-rigged versions of Spanish and English; hard to follow, but once you got the cadence
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