Bronwyn awoke around three and lay very still so as not to disturb her father. Her leg ached from being in one position for so long, and she desperately needed to pee, but she didn’t want to move.
In the changing light from the TV, she studied Deacon’s face. He was a handsome man; he was, in fact, her standard of handsome. His jaw was firm, his eyes steady without being cruel, and his mouth settled into a nice neutral line when he wasn’t actively smiling. He wore his hair longer than most men his age, which also made him look younger. In her sleep-fuzzed mind, she realized that if he wasn’t her father, she’d definitely find him attractive and probably let him know. The thought woke her all the way, and she blinked hard to dislodge the idea.
And yet he was, always, her father. From her earliest memories he’d been the strong, steady influence that she both craved and rebelled against. He was fair but unafraid to be tough, and whenever he’d taken the belt to her backside, she knew she deserved it. She’d never forget the time he’d whipped her for nearly setting the house on fire with a bottle rocket; she found him later sitting under a tree, looking sadly at her baby picture in his wallet. No amount of blows to her ass could ever make her feel as bad as that tableau.
She carefully changed position so she could rest her head in his lap. When she was a little girl they used to watch car races and football this way, Deacon stroking her hair and explaining the intricacies of the sport to her. She wanted to be a football player and a race car driver then, so he’d be proud of her. He never told her she couldn’t.
His breathing was steady and deep, and he smelled of hay from the barn dance and the old-fashioned aftershave he always wore. The fabric of his jeans, warm from his body, pressed into her cheek. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how safe and happy she felt here, with her daddy in front of the TV. But the emotion hovered just out of reach.
Then she felt his hand lift and gently run down the length of her hair. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Worried about your mama?” he asked sleepily.
“Worried about everything.”
“That’s a big plateful. Maybe you shouldn’t get everything from the buffet all at once.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
He shifted a little as he stretched and yawned. “You know, I suppose I am. But honey, the song goes on. The music carries on the night wind. If your mom goes, I’ll still hear her again when my time comes.”
She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “I’ve seen people die, Daddy. I may have even killed some. It’s not pretty like you taught us. There was no song, no night wind.”
“That was them. This is us.”
“And what if I never learn the song? What if—?”
He lightly pinched her cheek and said, with mock sternness, “What if I turn you over my knee and smack you? I know that no-account Gitterman boy was out here tonight. He tore up the front yard with that big truck of his. You ain’t never too big for me to spank, you know.”
She smiled. She didn’t have to tell him that she’d sent Dwayne packing. “Yes, sir, I know.”
He twirled one strand of her hair around his finger. “We’re the Tufa, honey. Our songs go on, just like they did in the Green Country, just like they have since we got here. You’ll learn your mama’s song.” After a moment he added, “And you need to get well enough to come to the dance. You need to stretch your wings.”
“I know it, Daddy,” she agreed.
17
Dwayne popped open a fresh beer and took a long swallow. He closed his eyes to savor it, then heard the rippling buzz that meant he’d drifted onto the warning ridges at the shoulder of the highway. He overcompensated and swerved into the other lane. Luckily there was no traffic, and he managed to get back on his side of the road. The yellow and white lines in his headlights grew hazy and split into multiples the farther they were from his truck.
He had an erection that ached. All he could think about were the times he’d had Bronwyn Hyatt. In the two years she’d been gone, no other girl had come close to turning him on the way the Bronwynator did. He needed to fuck her again, to muscle and slam that wiry, strong little body until he found release as deep within her as he could manage. He needed to hear her scream and moan, to feel her retaliatory blows as he hurt her.
Seeing her had been awful. He shouldn’t have gotten stoned first, he realized as he inhaled the smoke from the joint. That was his mistake. It always dulled the edge of his charm. He should’ve watched patiently until her family departed, then maybe taken a few tokes for luck. He definitely shouldn’t have smoked a joint and a half, as well as shotgunned three beers, as he waited for the Hyatts to leave.
Yes, if he’d been straight, she would’ve dropped to her knees and sucked him off before even saying hello. He was certain of that. He recalled the many times he’d looked down at the top of her head, her wide bare shoulders visible below her tangled black hair as she willingly serviced him, and the ache only intensified. God, he had to fuck her again, and soon. His balls would explode if he didn’t.
He almost missed the curve where the road turned toward Needsville. Low branches slapped his windshield as he came close to the ditch.
He took another drink and tried to form a plan. If he could get Bronwyn alone, he could have her; there was no way she could physically overpower him, and he wasn’t above tying her down if she gave him any trouble. In fact, he remembered times when she’d enjoyed that. But the opportunity to do that was twenty minutes ago, when he’d stood outside her door. Just a simple yank to open the screen, then a few slaps to show her how much he needed it. He’d make it up to her later, after his urges had been sated. Her cast might be a problem, since it meant she couldn’t wrap those thighs around him. He could always turn her facedown, he supposed, and take her that way. He was sure Chloe Hyatt kept some Crisco in the kitchen that would do in a pinch to ease things along.
But she’s a First Daughter, the seldom-heard voice of his conscience managed to say. Just like her mom.
He was so lost in the sudden fantasy of a threesome with Bronwyn and her mother that he didn’t notice the blue lights pull out of the roadside darkness and onto the blacktop behind him. By the time he spotted them, the state trooper was almost on his bumper.
“Fuck!” he yelled, tossed the roach into the open beer, and threw the can out the window. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
Bob Pafford didn’t need to run the license plate of the truck in his headlights, especially when he saw the beer can fly out the window and bounce into the dark. He knew it at once, and he smiled grimly at the thought of who was inside. Would he be lucky enough to catch Bronwyn Hyatt as well as Dwayne Gitterman? Or would it just be the redneck thug alone? Perhaps some other girl was with him, one willing to do anything to keep from getting a police record….
He thanked whatever urge sent him off the interstate and onto the Cloud County secondary roads. Normally there would be so little traffic on a Sunday night that he might not see another car at all, let alone one he could pull over and ticket. But on this night, the Cop God had smiled on him.
Suddenly Gitterman’s truck leaped away like a spooked frog. Pafford floored it, and the big Crown Victoria’s rumble rose to a solid, intimidating whine. The hash marks between the lanes blurred into a single line.
At the last second, Dwayne saw the road that led past the fire station. His truck skidded wide as he tried to turn, and both tires on the passenger side left the pavement. He cut ruts into the grass bank and felt the rear bumper slam into the side of the ditch before the tires got traction and shot the truck up, its front end now off the ground. It slammed down onto the blacktop, and Dwayne winced as he bounced up into the cab’s roof. But he was back on the road, and he both floored it and switched off his lights.