Page 141 of Painted Scars
A buzz vibrates from August’s jacket. He removes his phone.
“Update from Grayson,” he says, and threads an arm over my shoulder. “The public is demanding arrests and formal investigations. Hashtags are trending with Blackthorn’s name everywhere. Too much to scrub. Headlines: Police Chief Holds Press Conference. Preston Blackthorn Under Investigation for Covering Up Sexual Assaults. Blackthorn Family Denies All Wrongdoing.” He scrubs his face. “Fuck, they’re already on the PR campaign to bury this.”
I exhale deeply and lean my forehead on August’s side. The tide is finally turning. We cracked a secret vault open. The residents of Shadow Lake want answers. We’re not out of danger by a long shot, but I’ve got all the time in the world to write my articles up here. Grayson set up a secure line to the new bunker where I transfer my words on encrypted backchannels in between coffee and brownies. He handles the uploads, formatting, and filters out the unhinged commenters. The blog’s exploded since August’s transmission.
Three weeks ago, I was yelling into a void, hoping a small minority would read my story. Now we’re communicating with a crowd that’s finally listening. And a major independent news outlet in Sterling City emailed me to ask if I will consider syndication. Grayson’s verifying their channels lack connection to our enemies.
The dark voice in my head keeps expecting someone will pull the plug and the world will forget. That I’ll be discredited, doxxed, and dismissed again. The angelic voice counters, saying the truth’s got teeth this time, and so do I.
He sets me on the sofa, and I relish the softness of the cushions beneath me after hours on a stone floor. “Stay there.”
He comes back in a matter of seconds, armed with the chocolate gifts, feeding me broken off pieces.
“This is a survivalist’s wet dream.” I swipe away a crumb from my lip with my tongue.
He growls at me and bites my lip. “That’s my job, Glitter Bomb.”
I sift my fingers through his curls, loving that they’re not helmet crushed for once. “Sorry, Daddy. Permission to do it again.”
He sucks on the cookies, melting the chocolate chips, and brushing it over my mouth. I moan as he licks it off until we’ve gone through two cookies and onto a brownie.
I drink in every shift of his mouth, every flicker of his eyes, the softening of his jaw under my hands. I’m glad the helmet doesn’t steal the truth from me anymore. Now he’s mine to read, mine to undo, and I get all of him. It feels decadent to kiss and taste him without barriers.
I grin against his mouth. “I finally get to see your grumpy scowl without the mystery man filter.”
He nips my lips, which makes me laugh.
“Don’t pout, Daddy. I like watching you trying not to smile when I ruin your broody aesthetic. This is a two-for-one deal where I get your reactions and dessert.”
His mouth twitches with the hint of a smile, and I lick the line of it.
We’ve barely settled into somewhat of an illusion of peace, coffee cooling on the sofa table, when tires crunch on the gravel driveway. I freeze and go for the gun August insists I carry. He’s out of his seat, peering through the lace curtains, palming his pistol. I creep up behind him, fisting his puffy winter vest. It’s not danger that strolls up the cabin’s stairs, it’s chaos in gothic boots, doggy paws, and a lunatic grin.
“Easy,” August uses the code for safe, moving to the door and holstering his weapon.
He cracks the door open, and Josh trots inside, sniffing around instead of coming to his momma, who he hasn’t seen in days. We all know who the “sparent” is here. Spare parent, meaning me, since Harper’s the favorite.
My bestie and her companion enter after the dog. They don’t hold hands to suggest a relationship, but they’re close, one shadowing the other, and I’ve heard them messing around late at night, but he never stayed for breakfast or came to dinner. The man surveys the place, gaze flicking to each exit in a practiced rhythm.
Harper rests a box on her hip to push her dark glasses down her nose, clocking the cabin with a slow, appreciative glance. “Well, Officer Daddy, I didn’t know you had a domestic side. When are we knitting tea cozies?”
I snort and move around August’s large frame to greet her. “You haven’t tasted his cooking. He’s a very domesticated grumpy stalker.”
“How about we knit you a ski mask?” August claps his friend on the shoulder, then shakes his hand.
Her companion moves around the small space like he owns it, lifting a bottle of champagne from the counter with a predator’s grin. “This is a good vintage.”
“Put it down, Katar,” August growls, bristling like he’s about to burst the cork and shove it somewhere creative.
The man drops the bottle on the counter with exaggerated care. “Last time I save you, Daddy Dildo.”
“Daddy Dildo?” I echo, eyebrows shooting up, needing an explanation pronto so I can torment my grumpy biker with it.
“Kate, this is Katar.” August gestures between us. “My enforcer slash lieutenant.”
Katar flashes a wolfish grin and steps closer, extending a hand. “Pleasure.”
Before I can take it, August intercepts our handshake like it’s a live grenade. The warning accompanying his head shake is clear.Touch her and die.I’m here for it.
