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What a dick I had been. She hadn’t deserved that shit. Hell, I made her feel like a freak because she wasn’t a slut. How fucked up was that?
God, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was driving me nuts. It was as if her face, her body, her voice, her hair, her scent, the taste of her were all imprinted on my brain like some primal connection that I couldn’t shed.
I had been on a jack-off bender for three weeks. Even having Roxie over for a nightly fuckfest hadn’t offered any relief from my thoughts and mental pictures of Lindsey.
Over the past week, I simply told Roxie it was over. The fucking just wasn’t any good any more. She had taken it in stride, taking her coyote howl with her as she moved on to someone else.
I thought about Roxie. Maybe Slate was pissed because I hadn’t told him on the phone that day that Roxie was my date for Thanksgiving dinner. After all, they had fucked once or twice. I hadn’t stopped to think about him not being comfortable with that since he was married now. Roxie had been okay with it. She knew better than to say anything about that to him or in front of Sammie.
We’d only been on the road for twenty minutes. It was going to be a long trip if we continued it in silence.
I knew he was worried about Lindsey; afraid that Jack Dennison had slipped back into the country, and was hunting her down thinking she might be able to offer him something. Everyone else pretty much wanted him dead.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed to break the silence.
“Slate, man, are you pissed off at me for some reason?”
He glanced over at me. His face was expressionless.
“Why would you ask me that, Taz?”
“You’ve been pretty quiet.”
“Have a lot on my mind at the moment.”
“Before that. Since Thanksgiving. I guess I owe you an apology.”
“Oh yeah? I’m listening.”
“I guess I should have told you ahead of time that Roxie was who I was bringing with me to dinner. I’m sorry, man.”
“You’re apologizing for bringing Roxie to the house? That’s it?”
“Well, yeah. What else is there?”
“Why don’t you fucking apologize to me for whatever it was you did to my stepdaughter, ass-wipe?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Taz. I was up the night you dropped her off. I was the one that lay in my bed downstairs and heard her crying right above me in her room for the next two nights. Then she fucking goes back to school a day early? What the fuck did you do to her?”
Now Slate was just plain pissing me off. He was butting into shit that was clearly none of his damn business.
“Why didn’t you ask her, man?”
“I did!” he yelled.
“Well?”
He was obviously flustered.
“She told me it was none of my business,” he snapped.
“So then maybe you need to back off, Slate.”
I could see his knuckles turn white as he gripped the steering wheel of the truck. Slate didn’t like it when someone shut him out. But the truth of the matter was it wasn’t any of his business.
A few minutes later, Slate spoke up again. He wanted to go over the strategic plan we had put together for the authorities in Charlottesville. We reviewed the file together; put contact information together for them.
