Chapter Text
The windows were fogged. The air thick with sweat and the smell of pine and sex. The leather of his truck’s bench seat stuck to his back as you bounced in his lap, skin slapping, the whole cab creaking under the rhythm of your bodies.
Outside, the lake was still. Quiet.
But inside, you were making plenty of noise.
Your head tipped back, throat exposed, lips parted as Tommy gripped your waist tight, pulling you down hard onto him again and again.
"Fuck, just like that," he groaned, voice gravel and praise all in one. "Goddamn, baby. So much better than her. So much tighter. So much hotter.”
His mouth was on your breast, his beard scratching, tongue dragging over sweat-slick skin. Your shirt was pushed up to your collarbone, your bra somewhere on the floorboard. He was talking into your skin like he worshipped it, like the way you moved in his lap was the only gospel he believed in.
"You know what you are?" he breathed, voice thick with it. "You’re a fuckin’ whore My perfect little fucking whore."
You moaned—loud, shameless—and he slapped your thigh for it, just enough to make you ride harder. Just enough to make your brain go white-hot.
And when it hit? It hit hard.
Your body locked, trembled, buckled in his arms while he held you close, whispering how good you were, how he’d missed you, how no one made him feel like you did.
He finished with his hands gripping your ass, low growls in your ear like he didn’t care who might hear him. Like the woods weren’t full of ghosts. Like your daddy didn’t die fifty feet from here with a gun in his mouth.
When it was over, you both slumped forward. Breathing heavy. Foreheads touching.
You kissed him, open-mouthed and sloppy. Desperate. Teeth clicking. His hand in your hair.
"I love you," he said.
You stilled.
His hands slid down your thighs. He tried again, a little quieter. "You know I do. I love you, baby."
You pushed off of him, off his lap. Shirt pulled down. Shorts still missing. Somewhere near the gas pedal.
"Don’t say that," you muttered.
"Why not?"
You reached into the backseat, found your purse, picked up your panties and shoved them in with your lighter and lipstick.
"Because I know what’s next."
He zipped up. Watched you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or beg.
"When are you gonna leave her?" you asked, eyes fixed on your bag. "You said you would after the Fourth. That was two weeks ago."
"It’s not the right time," he said softly. "She’s gonna have the baby soon. I can’t leave her now."
You nodded. But you didn’t look at him.
Just pulled your knees up onto the seat and stared out the window. Somewhere out there, your daddy's ghost was probably laughing. Or crying. You didn’t know which was worse.
You wiped your cheeks quickly, before he could reach over. He tried anyway, but you flinched.
"I gotta get home," you said. "Mama wants me to come for dinner tomorrow."
Tommy leaned in. "I’ll pick you up."
"Fine. Whatever."
You opened your purse back up. Pulled out your lighter. Lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Didn’t say another word.
Neither did he.
Tommy’s hand lingered on your thigh for just a second too long before you opened the truck door.
“Text you tomorrow,” he said, like always. Like it meant something.
You leaned in, kissed him once—slow and sticky, lip gloss clinging to his mouth—and then climbed out, tugging your shorts down over your ass just enough to keep your nosy neighbor from calling your mom again.
“Love you,” he added, almost too quiet.
You didn’t say it back.
Just flashed him a smile and shut the door.
Your apartment was one flight up and smelled like smoke, spilled beer, and cheap perfume. The wallpaper was peeling. Your shower took fifteen minutes to warm up. And the closet was full of church dresses your mama still hoped you'd wear.
But tonight, you were pulling out your uniform.
You tugged on your tiniest denim skirt, the one that made men at the bar drop whole paychecks just to watch you reach for a top-shelf bottle. The cropped plaid shirt came next, tied in a tight little knot just beneath your chest, showing off the slope of your belly and just enough cleavage to make good men stupid.
You threw your hair up in pigtails because you knew what it did to people. The regulars ate that shit up, made their hands shake when they handed you twenties, made their wives give you dirty looks from the tables.
A little blush. A little glitter. A heavy, smoky eye and the same cherry gloss Tommy had kissed off your mouth five minutes ago.
You looked like sin. And you knew it.
“God bless,” you muttered, grabbing your boots.
The bar was two blocks down, neon sign flickering like it had something to say.
You were late.
Again.
“Jesus, girl,” called Hannah, your co-bartender and the only person who knew almost everything. “You were supposed to be here at nine.”
You blew her a kiss as you stepped behind the bar. “I’m cute. I’m allowed to be late.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pigtails again?”
You smirked. “Perverts tip better when I look like a barely legal rodeo queen.”
It was true. You’d worked here two years now. Built up a whole roster of regulars lonely old men, drunk college boys, a few married assholes who tucked twenties into your bra like they were paying for prayer.
Some of them were harmless. Some weren’t.
But none of them mattered.
Not really.
You were pouring a Jack and Coke when the door opened near last call. You didn’t look up right away, too busy sweet-talking a guy with a wedding ring and a beer gut who came in every Thursday like clockwork.
But then you felt it.
That prickle.
Someone watching you.
You glanced up.
He was standing near the far end of the bar, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward like the world had tried to kill him and almost succeeded.
Older. Broad. Weathered in a way that made your thighs ache. His hair was dark with a touch of gray at the temples. His jaw was clenched. His mouth? Frowning. Hard. Sexy. Broody.
And he wasn’t looking at your tits.
He was looking at you.
"Need something, stranger?" you asked, flipping your pigtails over your shoulder like a weapon.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t flirt.
Just said, “Whiskey. Neat.”
That voice. Rough. Southern. Carried sin like a sermon.
You gave him what he asked for. Let your fingers brush his when you passed the glass over.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look impressed either.
Didn’t say thank you.
Just took a slow sip and looked you over like he was trying to decide if you were worth burning in hell for.
You leaned on the bar, lips curled.
“Not from around here, huh?”
“No,” he said simply.
You raised a brow. “You here on business or just lost?”
His eyes met yours. Still no smile. Just heat. Pure, slow-burning, unbearable heat.
“Little bit of both,” he said.