Page 4 of Rogue
One year earlier
Some people say revenge is sweet. Delusional people who talk the talk but never walk the walk. People who haven’t a clue what it feels like to have your world ripped apart, with you scrambling to find a Band-Aid large enough to secure all the shattered bits back in place.
Revenge is the salt on your tongue from the hailstorm of tears you’ve shed. Acidity churning like grease inside your gut when sorrow overshadows your desire to eat. An overwhelming bitterness after you realize the world isn’t made up of flowers and rainbows and honest, smiling faces. That despicable things happen even to the kindest of folk. Inexplicable things that turn your life to shit and forever sours your soul.
A motivating force stronger than worry, sadness, or guilt.
Or fear.
I should be afraid. Shaking in my worn and weary cowgirl boots along with the rest of the five thousand long-term residents of Shelby, Okla-fuck-me-over-homa.
Revenge also requires patience—something I’m sorely lacking in but remind myself frequently of.
Like . . . right now.
A shrill, off-pitch whistle pierces the air. I jerk in surprise, wincing as my head connects with the fallen tree I’m hiding beneath. The bird’s either swallowed a tequila worm or has fallen off a high perch and is whistling his last tune.
I’m not the only person who’s taken notice. The Prick patrolling the compound I’ve been spying on drops his cigarette and takes off running, allowing me the much needed alone time to wiggle out from where I’d hurriedly taken cover less than five minutes ago.
Close call. I’ve been watching these men for weeks without incident. Every Tuesday morning, rain or shine. Yet this is the first time they’ve patrolled to woods outside the barbed-wired fence surrounding the newly constructed compound located on the outskirts of Shelby. Shaking my head, I kick at the dirt to cover the lit cancer stick. Yeah, it’d serve them right if the large warehouse burned down in a forest fire.
Pulling out the sheets of notepaper and carpenter’s pencil stashed in the small pocket of my running shorts, I note the date, time, and activity. I’ve a whole book full of similar notations, with a flurry of activity happening early Tuesday mornings under the cover of dark.
Screw Sheriff Rush, his lame badge, and his do-nothing approach.
Homeland Security, it is.
And when they’re through carting off this group of foreign-born murderers, they can turn their attention to all the American-bred lowlifes who’ve ruined what was once a quaint western town.
I retrace my steps, following a familiar path through a crop of trees leading out onto a dirt road. My thoughts turn to my sister, Madelyn, and how I’m going to explain the muddied condition of the T-shirt she gave me as a twenty-third birthday present a few days ago. Over the years I’ve built up quite a collection of bold, eclectic T-shirts, most featuring classic rock or punk albums. Madelyn’s gift is neither rock or punk themed but all the same, I love the dark black T with its faint orangecan’t catch medecal plastered across the snug bosom. She’d laughed when I’d put it on, informing me how the print on the shirt suits me. How I never seem to settle long enough in one place and am always on the move. “Restless,” she’d said.
But she’s wrong.
I won’t stop . . . Ican’tstop until I get what I’m after.
With a final glance over my shoulder, I begin the long sprint back to town. The morning air cuts into my lungs as I take to the dirt roadway, working my way back to the winding stone-riddled streets leading into Shelby, picking up my pace like the world’s nipping at the heels of my worn, dirt-caked sneakers.
I wait impatiently for Sylvia, the town’s self-proclaimed moral compass—infamous for her long, knotted “thou shall not do” pointer finger that, with even the slightest rousing, she’ll poke you in the eye with—to open Shelby Quick-Mart for business. Heading to the bread aisle, I snatch up a loaf of Texas toast. A burden, my jogging home with groceries in tow. But it’ll be well worth seeing Mama’s and Madelyn’s faces when I whip up my infamous French toast. No better way I can think of for shaking off a stressful morning.
“My goodness, dear. You’re covered in mud. Did you have a bad fall?” Sylvia admonishes from behind the counter. Surprised? Not really—I’ve established a bit of a reputation with Shelbians for my “shenanigans.” Like the time their piddly Fourth of July fireworks display was overshadowed—or should I say overpowered—by my pyrotechnical skills. A few extra cups of carbon mixed within the blue, and the Oklahoma sky was ablaze with color. Afterward, my parents insisted I withdraw from chemistry class and enroll in beginning French. I simply kept quiet and only did the latter. It turns out, I excelled in both, which in my parents’ eyes, made up for my occasional acts of rebellion.
I give a mental shrug. It’s not like either disciplines are of much use in Shelby, anyway.
“Just out jogging, Sylvia . . .”
She raises an eyebrow, the skeptical old bat.
“ . . . but if you have a tissue . . .”
With a sigh and an eye roll, she hands me a Kleenex, which I use to rub across my cheeks.
“Do be careful, Kylie. This town isn’t what . . .”
“ . . . it used to be,” I finish for her, but rather than wait around for her pity party, I exit the mart.
With a tight grip on the bread, I hit the roadway, running hard and headed toward the far side of town.
Clouds roll in. Figures I left our house filled with determination only to trek back home wet and weary. Beyond weary. Tired. So bleeding tired of fighting battles no twenty-three-year-old should ever face. But these are the cards I’ve been dealt.
