Page 75 of Savage Keepsakes

Not feeling good enough has the potential to weigh heavily on anyone’s mind, but especially after a childhood of trauma, it can almost seem impossible to put yourself out there.

“I love you.” He leans down and kisses me gently. His touch drives me crazy and I sigh at his lips. “When you get home, I will worship every fucking inch of you.”

“You better for all this work I’m doing for you.” I smirk and he slaps my ass. I slide into the car and start driving toward the farmer’s market to meet JoJo.

On the way, plot holes fix themselves in my book, but I have nothing to write it on. Billy told me that the drill bit would work, although I would cause temporal lobe damage if I wanted the person to live. I feel like I’ve been circling the drain with this story—who would even want to read it?

But Billy constantly reassures me. Whether it is the new notebooks with adorable messages inside, or the helpful writing manuals and general feedback, he has helped give me all the tools to enhance my author journey.

By the time I get to the market, I have to think if I actually stopped for any of the red lights or if I was in some sort of dazed thinking fog.

I grab the wagon that JoJo lent me from the backseat and fill it up. After grabbing the final two sacks, I lock the car and head toward the tables.

“Hey. Glad you could make it. I’ve seen people online talking about Lou’s Organic Soap and how excited they are to get some.” JoJo takes the bags from my arms and we set up the table together.

“So I sit all day and interact with customers?”

She gives me a weird look, squinting her eyes. “Never had to work a day in customer service, have you?”

I shrug and she pats my shoulder.

While I move items around on the table, my nerves twist my stomach. Worry fills me that I won’t be enough to sell anything, because I’ve never done this before.

Soon people surround the booths around mine, and as a lady walks up, her friends follow.

“These’re so cool, and locally made!” She picks up a wallet and digs in her purse before handing me money. “My mother is going to love this. Thank you.”

After she leaves, more people line up and I’m making change as journals, wallets, and bookmarks are sold. The organic soap sells out and soon everything is off the table.

I hand out flyers to anyone who comes along, but with no more product, most people pass me by.

“You can pack up and go. I know it can get boring once everything’s bought, but here’s a blueberry pie. It’s from one of the farmer’s wives. She’s a doll.” Jo hands me a box, and a smile crosses her face.

“JoJo, I can’t thank you enough. This was incredible, and I’m so excited to show Billy how much everyone loved everything.”

While driving home, I can’t help but feel a rush of excitement building inside me. Billy’s dedication and effort make me proud of him.

With the radio turned up, I can feel the bass pulsating through my body as I bounce my head tothe music. I miss being Billy’s passenger princess. Car rides are so much more fun with him.

I park in the driveway, holding the warm pie in my hands and inhaling the aroma of fresh-cut grass. It all brings me a sense of tranquillity. It’s that nostalgic scent that transports you to every cherished summer memory.

Heading inside, I place the pie on the counter before making my way upstairs. I trade my clothes for a loose-fitting tank top and casual jean shorts, perfect for the warm weather.

Once dressed, I slide my feet into a comfortable pair of Vans and walk out the door.

When I get outside, I decide to stroll to the barn. It’s not as long as he makes it out to be, but far enough that I never have to see the dead animals or smell anything that I don’t want to.

The front of the outbuilding is overrun with weeds. Grass tickles my shins as I follow the beaten path to the door that is cracked open.

The sound of 90s grunge fills the air from a speaker somewhere nearby.

When I step through the entrance onto the cold cement floor, a pungent smell of copper and urine fills the atmosphere.

I don’t know where he is, so I walk through a hall. The sight of a woman hanging by a chain in one stall causes my stomach to lurch and my knees to go weak.

Her head lolls to the side, and as she looks up, her eyes widen in sheer terror, her grunts barely audible through the tape across her lips.

My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, suddenly drier than the desert. While scanning my surroundings, I tread lightly back the way I came, convinced that freedom is within reach.

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