Page 37 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
“Alex!” I bolt down the street.
Her voice echoes again—closer this time.
“Alex!” I yell louder.
When I round the corner, I see her, backed against the tailgate of my truck. With that piece of shit, Chase.
“Not very wise of you to be out here all alone in the dark,” I call out, stepping closer.
“You could—”
The sharp click of my 9mm fills the silence, sharp and unmistakable.
“—get hurt,”
“Finley, I didn’t mean—” Alex starts, her voice trembling.
I lift a hand; eyes still locked on Chase. “I wasn’t talking to you, sweetheart.”
I’m now close enough Chase can see the look in my eyes. His gangly frame trembles, he recoils in absolute terror.
“Now—don’t you think there’s something much safer you could be doing on a Saturday night, it’s Chase, right?” I say, my voice low. “908 South Union Boulevard. Chase Collins, correct?”
Chase starts to back away, voice cracking. “I just wanted to talk, man.” He tries to leave, but I grab him by the collar, spin him around, and slam him against the back of my truck.
“Then let’s fucking talk,man.” I chuckle, low and sinister. “If I can even call you that… Alex, get in the truck.” Chase swallows, averting his gaze as she obeys.
Gun still firm in my grip, I say, “You know Chase, I have to say—I’m glad you’re here tonight. I thought I’d have to find you taking out the trash at the 7-11. That’s where you work, right? The one on Hooks Street? Five p.m. to midnight, Monday through Thursday?”
His face pales and he gulps hard, his chest heaving.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I call to Alex, and she cracks open the door. “There’s a black velvet bag in the glove box, bring it to me, will you?”
She does, returning to the truck afterward.
“I even got you a little something, Chase,” I say, opening the bag. “I actually had it custom made—just for you. It was pretty expensive, so I hope you like it.”
I pull out the electric branding iron Dakota made for me and flip it on. “It just takes a minute,” I tell him, watching the little light change from red to green.
I press the barrel of my gun into his ribs and whisper through my teeth, “If you move, my finger may find the trigger. Now put both your hands on the bed step.”
Chase is shaking so violently I think he might throw up or pass out.
I slam the branding iron down on the top of his hand—the heat sears; he wails. I shush him and yank the iron away.
“Look down and read that to me. Aloud,” I command.
He’s sobbing, his chest heaving. Between ragged breaths he stammers through the words. “W—w…woman—” he gasps, hyperventilating.
“Come on now. Are you fucking illiterate?” I snap.
He takes a shaking breath and forces the rest out. “B—b…beater,” he finally manages, sobbing.
“There you go—guess youcanread,” I say, slamming the iron into his other hand. He screams, knees buckling.
I switch the iron off and set it down. I press the barrel of my gun deeper into his gut. “Look me in the fucking eyes, boy.”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine, face contorted with pain, still sobbing. “Next time you think about coming near Alex, you’ll meet the forge that made this iron.”
