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“Hmm…” She sounds like she’s considering the merits of his argument. “What else?”
“I saw it running from the barn when I walked by. Cows don’t run. They’re fat and lazy.”
That’s not true. I’ve seen cows run plenty. Granted, it’s an odd sight, but it is possible. They run heavily, like elderly ladies trying to catch a departing bus.
“What were you doing here in the first place?”
She keeps him talking. They reach the gravel path I’m standing on. We proceed toward the cottage, knowing damn well that Ashton is high enough to make a U-turn at any point and go back to the cow, demanding his ride. We need to keep him engaged until we lock the door with him inside the house.
“I was looking for you.” He turns toward Rory, poking her arm with his cigarette.
Thankfully, it died because he couldn’t light it properly. My jaw twitches, and I slide between them, bracing his back and breaking their contact. It’s a relief to be protective of Rory. Trying to hate her was exhausting, and futile.
She had none of my bullshit, for one thing. And for another, I always felt shitty trying to make her sad.
“Why were you looking for me?” Rory blinks, puzzled.
“Because our host here was being a sulky-ass motherfucker. You know, I don’t think it’s just sex he wants from you, honey pie. The only time I saw him smile was when you were around.”
“Our host is married,” Rory says, the three of us walking up the road, back to the cottage. “To someone else. There was no need for you to look for me.”
“No, he’s not.” Ashton laughs, wildly and loudly and more annoyingly than legally allowed, I’m sure.
“You also thought a cow was a horse, Richards. Not sure you’re in a position to give your opinion about anything, least of all my martial status,” I mutter.
I’m not ready for her to find out. Not like this. I want to do this right, so we’ll have a chance.
We need to be alone. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can explain.
“It’s not an opinion.” He whistles, zigzagging on the road. I tighten my grip around his shoulder. “You ain’t married, dude. Ryner told me the story.”
How high is this dickhead?
“He has a wedding band,” Rory points out.
“That’s because he is marrieded,” Richards hiccups.
“Richards,” I start.
“Marrieded is not a word,” Rory interjects.
“’Course, it is. It’s married. But, like, in past tense.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, clawing his shoulder in a vise grip, but he is too high to notice.
“Like, divorced?” Rory kicks a stone. She’s been kicking it since we were on the gravel path.
“No, like a widower. Like, his wife died and stuff. How do you not know this shit? You’re his sex slave. Don’t you have small talk after you fuck? While he gets the whip or puts nipple clamps on you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Kids these days.”
Rory freezes, and that means all three of us stop, because we’re huddled together, me sandwiched between them. I stare down at my boots.
I can see her shaking her head. Biting her lip hard. I squeeze my eyes shut. Goddammit, Richards.
The fecker stumbles out of my grasp and looks between us, trying to light his cigarette again. The cigarette is not even in the same hemisphere as the lighter he’s flipping.
“Oh, I see.” He places his hands on his knees, laughing hysterically. “I see exactly what’s going on.”
We’re both silent. I want to tell her I didn’t lie. I was married to Kathleen. She died, but we were married. And it hurt. All of it.
The marriage part.
The dying part.
The part where Kathleen said I’d kill her one day.
And the fact that I did.
“You guys are not a sex slave and a master at all.” He finally gives up, tossing the cigarette aside. “You’re like…I don’t know. Fucked-up past lovers or something.”
More silence.
“You’re in love with her.” He shoves his finger to my chest. “Dude, you so are. And you…” He turns to her. “You’re…I’m not sure what you are. Confused as fuck, that’s for sure.”
“I have a boyfriend,” she mumbles, kicking the small stone so hard it flies to the other side of the field.
I can’t detect her tone, and it kills me, because she kills me. Tonight changed everything for me, but what if it stays exactly the same? What if it’s too late?
What if she will end up marrying the boil-balled fecker?
“Your boyfriend knows you’re looking at another guy like his cum is the nectar of the gods?” Richards asks.
I advance toward him and wrap my fingers around his neck, squeezing.
“Watch your mouth where she is concerned,” I warn, “or you will have no teeth to do it again.”
I release my bruising grip on his neck. Richards laughs and resumes his walk like I didn’t nearly break his bones. Rory and I walk a few steps behind him, at the same pace. He’s singing to himself now, oblivious to our existence. I don’t know what he’s on, but I hope it’s laced with cyanide, because every year he gets to live, our generation gets dumber and a (Victoria’s Secret) angel loses her wings.
