Chapter Text
“How’s the hand?”
“Hand’s fine.”
Dutch doesn’t look convinced. Not that it matters, you don’t need his approval, you just need him to quit questioning whether you can still pull your weight.
It’s just one finger, after all. The stump is raw and ugly, but you’ve seen worse. You managed to keep the one beside it, though mangled, purple, and looking like it won’t be moving anytime soon. And the middle finger works fine, good enough to flip off Micah when he runs his mouth.
You can’t shoot a gun with it, but you can hold a rifle. That’s all that should matter. That’s all Dutch should care about when deciding who rides with him.
He’s got a boat to Bronte’s mansion, taking a small group tomorrow to enforce whatever measure of revenge he deems fit. Arthur and John, of course. Bill and Lenny, for some damn reason. Not you. Not Micah.
After last week, you shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Dutch would walk away from that cabin with a bigger ego—if that was even possible.
He knows he can play with you now, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Sending you and Micah scouting or searching. All busywork. The O’Driscolls are a footnote now, Colm completely overshadowed by Bronte in his mind, but Dutch still demands heads to roll. You wouldn’t mind if you didn’t feel more like some circus act than an attack dog.
From his desk, Dutch shifts his gaze to Micah, standing a step behind. Then back to you, looking mournful now.
“Boat’s full,” he sighs, like he’s sorry. “No sense risking any more lives for this.”
You huff. “Leave Bill.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause he’s an idiot?”
Dutch laughs. Doesn’t give you anything else.
You don’t target Lenny, Dutch has some ill-placed fondness for the kid. So does Hosea, and Dutch somehow still values Hosea, as much as you hate to admit it. The idea that he actually cares sits uncomfortably, you’d rather he just be an asshole.
“Better luck next time, big man,” Micah chimes in. “Boss has got it all set.”
His drawl is easy, feigning uninterest, like he isn’t preening at the fact he’d told you, that you shouldn’t have tried to get on that boat in the first place. You toss him a glare, nose wrinkling.
Two taps against the desk—you stand down, redirect the glare back to Dutch.
“If you really wanna be useful, you two ought to make sure nobody’s sniffin’ around for us,” Dutch says evenly. “We got a bank to rob. Best we have a clear path.”
Nose still wrinkled, you look away. A scoff, barely stifled.
“Anything to say about that, son?”
Blink. His eyes command your gaze, bringing it back to him. He looks calm, almost serene. But you know better than to trust him when he gets that look, when he calls you son. He always has a reason for doing that. He calls Arthur son because Arthur folds at it. He calls you son because your blood boils over each time. It’s a dare, another way to see if you’ll bite or bend.
You take in a slow breath. “No.”
He smiles, placid, eyes twinkling. You want to scratch them out of their sockets.
“Move along, then,” he says, already turning back to his book. “Report to me tonight.”
Boot in the stirrup, you haul yourself up, flicking the reins, don’t even glance back before pushing through the front gate. You hear Micah falling in step fast, slinking up beside you.
He sniffles. “That went well.”
“Screw you, Micah.”
He laughs, low and smug, savoring it. “Should’ve let me handle that.”
The trees thin, opening on the Lemoyne swampy countryside. To the right, a train hisses and clanks, steel wheels grinding against the tracks. Your horses stop at a safe distance, and you chance a dry glance at your side.
“I know how you handle things with Dutch,” you spit. “Wasn’t lookin’ forward to a show.”
Micah rounds Baylock in front of you, too close to your horse, forcing you to pull back. “Oh, don’t get prissy on me,” he drawls, mockingly. “A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.”
Your glare follows him. Your horse stomps, tail flicking, just as irritated as you.
“And since when are you so damn comfortable with it, huh?” You sneer. “You fucking shameless now…”
Micah chuckles, circling again, keeping just out of reach. “We’re a bit past the point of shame.”
The train rushes past, drowning out the world for a moment. Micah leans in, voice dipping low.
“‘Sides,” he murmurs. “You ain't the one to be throwin’ stones.”
Your jaw clicks. “The hell’s that mean?”
“Just sayin’.” Micah shrugs, loose and easy. “You fall in line real quick when he tells you.”
His gaze flicks over you briefly before he turns, spurring Baylock forward.
Your horse shifts under you, catching your tension as you flick the reins and follow.
The fields are packed with corn, with cotton, with plants you don’t care to know about.
Everything’s the same. Country folk give you sideways looks, city folk grimace when you ride past, like you’re dirt. Micah had run his mouth at first, but the longer you ride, the quieter he gets, settling into a restless silence. Neither of you suggests heading toward the bayou. You both know why.
A short break in the forest near Rhodes, now long overdue. You’ve been riding in circles for hours, you can’t see the day getting more exciting than pissing against a tree. You finish up, head back toward the horses.
That’s when they show up.
Lemoyne Raiders. Six of them on horseback, rushing out from the trees. Young and cocky, still too green to know better. Their leader’s the loudest, some broad-shouldered bastard who talks with his whole chest, like the South never lost and he’s got something to prove.
You make a half-assed attempt to de-escalate, don’t mind it when they ignore it. They don’t notice the way your hand has already inched over your holster. Or how Micah’s stopped looking at them, eyes roaming for cover, fingers curling in that telltale way.
The shootout is short and sweet.
The loud one takes the first bullet, a clean shot through the forehead. Micah gets two more in the chest, and they hit the ground before they know they’re dead. The last three don’t even try to shoot back, their horses screaming as they disappear into the brushes. You fire off the last shots just to send them running, then holster your gun with a scoff.
“Fuckin’ rats.” You spit into the dirt.
One of them is still twitching, legs kicking like a deer who got unlucky. You go to put him down, fingers grazing the grip of your revolver—
Something heavy slams into your chest.
You flinch, hand darting up. Before you can reach out, you’re shoved back—back against a tree, bark scraping your spine.
Warmth right at your crotch. A hand, squeezing too much, too rough. You jerk your shoulders, raise your elbows and shove hard. Micah takes the shove and steps away, hands raised innocently, like he did nothing at all.
“The hell is wrong with you?!”
“Was wonderin’.” His eyes flick down, up again. “Is it the shootin’? Or the killin’?”
It takes a second to click. Then, you scoff.
Both. Either. You don’t know. One bullet, three dead men, and your dick stiffens like some boy who still can’t control himself. You never talked about it with Micah, but you figured it didn’t need saying. The way things were between you made the subject redundant. But Micah is still watching. Not your face, but lingering lower.
Dreadfully, you don’t mind it.
“Both,” you admit, shoulders relaxing against the bark.
Micah hums in his throat like he’s turning the thought over. His thumbs hook under his belt, dragging the leather half an inch down. You mirror him, baiting his gaze. You know what he’s doing, what he’s testing. His eyes flick down, roaming slow.
Caught it.
“Why so curious?”
“Told you,” Micah shrugs, voice tighter now. “Just wonderin’.”
You should know better. You do know better. But his head tilts that same infuriating way it always does, and it’s the third time he’s wet his lips, and whether he knows it or not, that’s not your problem. It's been some time since you both drifted into the woods and let this happen.
And you're still hard, getting harder now, while the man you meant to mercy kill has stopped twitching. Choked on his own blood.
There really is something wrong with you.
“Well,” you drawl. “Come wonderin’ closer.”
You’re still finishing the sentence when Micah steps in and drops to his knees, hands already working your belt loose. You knock his hat off, grab hold of his hair, too fast and too harsh. But neither of you is taking it slow, neither wants this to last longer than it needs to.
And it won’t. You’re half there already, stiff in his palm, throbbing at the feel of his breath. You don’t fight the sharp curl of your mouth, the shiver of excitement traveling up your spine. It’s been too long since Micah’s been on his knees in front of you. Last time, the roles were reversed, and he’d made damn sure you wouldn’t forget it. Now it’s your turn. You can hardly contain yourself before his lips even touch your cock.
But Micah doesn’t wait for you to force him down. He opens up and dives in—slack-jawed, eager and messy from the jump. You choke on it, fist his hair harder in retaliation. But it’s no use. His hands clamp around your hips, holding you against the trunk, mouth working wet and relentless. His tongue swirls along the underside, tip to root, dragging out your pleasure in thick waves.
It’s not like how it used to be.
Not like that first night under the docks in Blackwater, when his mouth had been good enough to fuck into, good enough to use and forget about by sunrise, or until he came crawling back. And all the other times, in the forest surrounding camp, quick and quiet and brutal. The times you left him raw and gasping, relishing in the sight of it, of him ruined.
You chance a look down. Micah’s eyes are closed, head bobbing steady, working like he’s been taught to.
You know by who.
Only days ago, in that cabin, how he'd looked up, pliant and desperate. Fingers clawing at the meat of Dutch’s thighs like he wanted to crawl inside him, like he’d found something good enough to kneel for. You’d seen it—the reverence, the little gleam in his eye. Like a priest at a goddamn altar.
Now he's on his knees again, but it’s not the same. You're not above him, you’re just another mutt in Dutch’s yard, another he’s gotta share his scraps with.
Your fingers twist deep into his hair, tilting his head back, demanding submission, compliance, something sweet and obedient. But all it gets you is a grunt. His lips flex tight around your cock, eyes squeezed shut, nails biting into your hips. Micah wrenches free before you can stop him. He sinks back in, taking you, all of you, into his throat.
A groan tears out of you as your stance widens, knees buckling, your hold in his hair slipping.
That’s when his eyes finally crack open, half-lidded and glassy. But there’s nothing obedient about them. They’re pleased in that infuriating way he gets when he knows he has the upper hand again.
Micah’s brows scrunch when you hit the back of his throat, but he doesn’t pull back. He swallows, tongue flicking, drawing out every noise he can from you. Teeth skimming over your skin, sinking the wrong side of pain, pushing you further towards the edge. You don’t get to set the pace, he doesn’t let you, doesn’t bend, doesn’t act sweet and obedient. Not like he does for Dutch.
You hate it.
You snarl and shove him off, breath heaving, cock aching. Micah catches himself on the ground, blinking fast. His chest heaves, breath shallow as his hand swipes lazy at his mouth. He stares as you shove yourself back into your trousers, fingers fumbling on the buckle.
He looks like he wants to speak, to ask why. But you’re already moving for the horses without a word.
“What’s your damn deal?” He shouts after you.
But he never gets an answer. Before he can even pick his hat from the ground, you’re already riding off.
You’re drunk.
Not a rare occurrence, but it’s been a while. Too much fighting, too much running. For months there hasn’t been anywhere safe enough to settle down and kill a bottle in one sitting. But tonight, you made the time. Stole the whiskey from a shit store near Saint Denis, or maybe in Rhodes, hoping no one there would recognize your sorry mug. You don’t remember now, and it doesn’t matter. The result is the same as it has always been.
Limb loose and mind empty. Not garbled with thoughts, that only happens if you don’t drink enough. After a certain point it’s just a placid quiet, like watching the ocean forever, not caring if the tide is submerging you.
Your horse huffs sharply as you barely hitch him to the post. You’re not even sure if you tied the knot right, but you let it go. Your eyes wander past the glow of the campfire, to the other horses hitched nearby. Baylock nods his big dumb head at you, like he knows you’re watching him. Him and his pale blue eyes, the same damn color as his owner’s. How unfair, you just managed to stop thinking about the bastard.
You huff, shaking your head, dragging yourself into camp. It’s late, most folks already sleeping, but not everyone. A guitar thrills somewhere near the fire, soft and low, Javier’s voice drifting along with it. You could sleep to that sound, let it pull you down easy, like slipping into a grave.
But you only make it past the fountain.
“Hey.”
Arthur’s voice stops you, calling from somewhere on your left. He’s slouched against a column, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes narrowing as he takes you in.
“Dutch’s lookin’ for you,” he says.
Your stomach twists, already uneasy. The thought of facing Dutch right now makes your mouth dry.
“What for?” you drawl, voice thick.
Arthur takes a drag, puffing smoke through his nose. “Dunno. Ask him.” Then his lip curls, a mean sneer cutting through. “Jesus, how much have you drunk, man?”
Your feet shuffle forward, gravity pulling harder than it should. A nasty, pulsing headache crawls behind your ears, promising hell in the morning.
“Not enough,” you mutter.
Arthur huffs but doesn’t stop you.
The house creaks too loud when you step in. From the side, some woman yaps at you about knocking first, but you don’t care, don’t even look at her. Your body moves on its own, dragging itself toward the stairs. Uncle is laying sprawled just beside the first step, snoring and mumbling, a bottle in his hand.
You give him a nudge with the toe of your boot. Not hard enough to wake him, just to make him groan. You wonder if you look as bad as he does.
Probably.
Dutch doesn’t ask who’s at the door, just opens it, gives you a long, unreadable look, and lets you stumble inside. The door clicks shut behind.
You didn’t even have to check. You knew Micah would be here. Half-sitting on the desk, arms crossed, looking at you like you’re late.
Your eyes drift down, boots leaving prints on the floor. You don’t remember where you walked, if you walked. Dirt streaks across the wood, and some distant, stupid part of you knows Dutch won’t like that. You shake the thought away. You don’t give a damn what Dutch likes.
“I’d tell you to pour yourself a drink,” Dutch says, pacing past. “But seems you beat me to it.”
“Didn’t know it was forbidden,” you mumble.
Dutch chuckles, tossing you a wry smile. “Never said that.”
He moves to the desk, uncorks a bottle. He pours something dark and amber, swirling rich in the glass. But he doesn’t drink as you thought, he turns and hands the glass off to Micah instead.
“Thank you, Dutch.”
Syrupy sweet, sickening. If you weren't nauseous for the alcohol before, you’re definitely nauseous now.
Pouring himself a drink too, Dutch straightens, hand in his pocket, gesturing you to get closer. When you don't, his jaw sets.
Two taps on the desk.
You move because it’s easier than standing there under his gaze, feeling like some odd, pathetic thing dragged in from the wild, being inspected and figured out. You end up leaning on the desk, right beside Micah. Too close. His heat seeps into you, his eyes pressing against the side of your face insistently.
In front of you, Dutch takes a slow sip. He rolls it over his tongue, swirls the glass in his hand while he looks down at it.
“Are you alright, son?” he asks.
Quit callin’ me that.
You nod. “I’m fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, pondering. “That why Micah came back alone and you show up now?”
You snort. An ugly sound that punches out of you. “He needs tendin’ to, now?”
Beside you, Micah bristles.
Dutch exhales slow, already tired of you. “Answer the question.”
You click your tongue, rage clawing up through the drunk. “I left him behind.”
“We got separated,” Micah corrects. Micah lies.
That’s when you look at him. His own glass is untouched, body wound tight, free hand twisting his shirtsleeve. His eyes are too steady on Dutch. Like he’s resisting the urge to look away. To look at you.
“That so?” Dutch asks, voice lilting with false curiosity, before dropping lower, directed at you. “Why is that?”
“I didn’t wanna listen to him,” you sneer.
Micah scoffs, but you’re still staring at him, something ugly twisting inside you. The memory of that afternoon curdles in your gut. The way he looked at you. His eyes daring, mean and wicked. The grip of his hands, the way he wretched away from you, how his eyes held yours, smug and mean and—
You don’t know why you’re still thinking about it. Why it’s still sitting wrong in your chest, in your stomach. Treacherous.
Micah takes a sip. Murmurs something against the lip of his glass, too low to catch. But your mind whispers, fills in the blanks for you.
‘I wasn’t doin’ much talkin’.’
A flash of gold between his lips. Your hand moves before you think.
His eyes go wide when you reach for his shirt, when you press him back against the desk, snarling in his face. A crash of glass on the floor. In the distance, a voice calls you. You press him harder against the wood, relish in the way the shock morphs his face, makes it softer and open.
“Shut the fuck up,” you spit.
Your name. Again. You ignore it.
“Stand down, big man,” Micah says, and his voice too, is muffled. “This ain’t the—”
White-hot pain flares from your hand, rippling through your body, through the adrenaline, through every other thought in your skull.
The world tilts—your body yanked back, weightless for half a second before you’re shoved down. The desk slams against your ribs, your cheek smarting from the impact. All your breath leaves you in a sharp, ugly sound.
A hand around your broken one, fingers digging in, pressing deep. A hold on your nape, unyielding, pushing you down.
Dutch is right there above you, body braced over yours, his breath a warm rasp against your scalp. His grip tightens, the ridges of his rings biting into your neck, forcing you still. You hate it. You hate every inch of it—the heat rolling off him, the way he’s got you trapped, the way he knows he’s got you.
You buck against him, instinct more than anything.
Blunt nails sink into raw flesh, into the stump that pulses wildly against them. A scream tears out of you as pain explodes again, sharp and unforgiving. Warmth floods the makeshift gauze around your hand, blood oozing thick and wet. The scent of it sends your mind reeling.
Your teeth grind hard against wood. Tears sting, sharp and unwelcome, from the sheer, burning ache in your hand. You blink them back, and through the haze, through the dust rising from the table with each rough breath, you find Micah. He’s watching. No pity in his eyes, but no amusement either. When you hold his gaze, his head tilts, giving a silent shake.
Stay down.
Your stomach twists. You force a slow breath through your nose, let your muscles go limp.
“You done?”
Dutch’s voice, right above you. Stern. As heavy as he is.
You don’t answer, just let your chest sink further against the desk.
A long, slow beat before he lets go, stepping back.
You suck in air, pushing yourself upright with a shaky, stiff movement. Your good hand braces against the desk, the other throbs, useless and cradled to your chest, fresh blood seeping into your shirt.
A soft clink of glass on wood. Dutch picks up his drink, takes a slow sip like nothing happened. Like you’re not standing here, bleeding all over yourself.
You turn to stare at him, at the way he smooths a strand of hair back into place with the same ease he bent you down, the same damn smug arrogance.
You can feel the heat where his fingers were, where they dug in the skin of your neck, where they pressed into the open wound like he had every right. Your blood is still wet on his fingertips. He hasn’t noticed or he doesn’t care. You don’t know which one would be worse to believe.
Anger still hums, steady and dark, just beneath your skin. Before your mind catches up, your mouth is already moving, words slurred and distant.
“I wanna be on that boat.”
Micah shifts beside you, a little twitch, like he’s about to open his damn mouth, like he thinks he has a say in this. But Dutch is already scoffing, shaking his head and watching you like some sad little creature gnashing its teeth.
“You have some damn nerve—”
“Leave Williamson,” you growl.
That gets him. Dutch tilts his head, mouth parting, but you don’t give him the chance. You push off the desk, watch his smug little expression shift.
“He’s no use.” You spit the words like blood. “You don’t need him.”
A pause.
Dutch blinks, his lips sealing tight. Something dies in his eyes, like one of the candles in the room got snuffed out suddenly. He sets the glass down, rubs a hand over his mouth.
Micah shifts beside you. He can feel it too, the way the air has changed.
“You come back here drunk, after disobeying my orders, with nothin’ to show—” Dutch’s voice dips lower, quieter, and that’s somehow worse than if he’d shouted it. “And you think you get to tell me what I need?”
Your breath is unsteady, not from nerves, not from fear—just from how angry you are.
“I do,” you bite, challenging. “You need me.”
Beside you, Micah has gone so still you can barely hear the rasp of his breathing anymore, but you don’t care.
You don’t know what’s showing on your face, only that your chin is high, and your fists are clenched. Your hand is still bleeding, but you don’t cradle it anymore. Let the blood drip, let it stain his damn floors.
Dutch eyes bore into you, searching for the weakness, the doubt, the hesitation. He doesn’t find any.
Micah exhales sharply through his nose, shifting forward. “Dutch—”
Dutch raises a hand to stop him, doesn’t take his eyes off you. Something lights back up in there, but you don’t think it’s anything good. He didn’t look like he was stalking prey before.
“Fine,” he says.
You don’t let yourself relax, you know something else is coming. A pause, a step forward. You let him into your space, don’t give him the satisfaction of backing away.
“You stick with Arthur. Anything happens to him, it's on you.” Another pause. His brows lift, pointed. “You understand, boy?”
You nod. You understand.
You hear the words he spoke, and the ones he didn’t. He’s throwing you a bone, not because you deserve it, but because he thinks you’ll fail. Because he wants you to fail. Because failure would be the worst punishment he could inflict on you. He knows, he’s known from the start, back when he met you. That’s what he saw in you that night. Pride. That’s what saved you.
It should make your blood boil, the way he’s challenging you like this, using your weaknesses so blatantly, but you don’t care about it now.
You got what you wanted, that’s all that matters.
You’re dismissed coldly, with nothing but a wave of the hand and a bored—’Get some rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.’
The night air hits sharp, colder than when you first stepped inside. It bites through your clothes, settling deep in your bones. Good. It numbs the ache in your hand, in the places Dutch’s fingers had sunk in. You flex it once, jaw tight, watching as more fresh blood seeps through the sorry excuse for a bandage. You should find Pearson, get it changed before tomorrow.
Behind you, the door slams.
Heavy boots on the porch. Micah paces, leaning against the railing, arms crossed.
“That was a damn close one.” A pause. Then, sharper. “The hell was you thinkin’?”
You huff out a laugh, already fishing through your pocket. Your fingers quickly find what they’re looking for. Cigarettes.
“Aw, you worried about me?” you sneer around the filter, with the same saccharine voice he would’ve used if he were in your place.
“Worried ‘bout my own damn hide.” Micah snorts, shoving off the railing. “You go down, you drag me with you.”
The match hisses as you strike it against the pillar, the flame warm on your face for a moment. You light up and drag deep, let the smoke curl in your mouth before you exhale slowly, right in Micah’s face. He only glares.
“Bullshit,” you scoff. “I go down, you dance on my grave.”
Micah doesn’t confirm, doesn’t deny. With a short jerk of his chin, he nods at your cigarette. You sigh through your nose, body too tired and brain still buzzing, you’re past caring to start a fight over a damn cigarette. You flick one out of the pack and pass it over.
Micah takes it and lights up. Then, he walks off.
For some damn reason, you follow.
Somewhere in the distance, the murmur of camp carries through. Javier’s guitar, still humming some half-finished tune, someone’s voice slurring the lyrics, someone else mumbling, demanding silence. It all slowly fades as you make it for the shore, always a safe space from the water and the alligators infesting it.
It’s not long before you’ve drifted all the way to the outskirts of the clearing, over the trees on the northern side. The fire glow distant now, flickering against the wall of the house. Your eyes caught up with the darkness, you can make out what’s around you, the moonlight catching the blades of grass and shining dull on the murky water. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and something wild roaming the tall trees just ahead.
You sit first, sinking onto something you wish is a fallen log and not a damn gator. Micah follows after a beat, casual, like it was his own idea. For a while, there’s nothing but the hum of crickets and the occasional ripple in the water.
Then Micah shifts, his tone sharp, all business.
“You do this thing with Arthur and that damn Italian, and then we’re back on what matters.”
You exhale, hard and dismissive. “I got on that boat. That is what matters.”
“That ain’t how you win Dutch’s trust, dumbass.” His expression twists. “Jesus, you that thick?”
Blood spiking, you turn to him, the air between you going thin.
“I ain’t gettin’ on my damn knees—”
“Then, tough fuckin’ luck!”
Micah barks it out so loud the sound carries, and that’s when you realize why he dragged you both this far from camp. No interruptions or witnesses. He wanted this conversation alone. You don’t react, too sluggish for surprise and too proud for fear. You only stare, watching the fight drain out of him, as quick as it came.
He clicks his tongue, shakes his head slow, like you’re some fool who just doesn’t get it.
“Grow up,” he says. “It’s a damn rotten world, man screwin’ over man since the dawn of time. You don’t get someone’s trust actin’ like he owes you a damn thing.”
You roll your shoulders, bristling. “Ain’t lookin’ for a sermon.”
“Ain’t givin’ you one.” A pause. Then, clipped. “Just tellin’ it how it is.”
The words sit wrong in your chest. You want to spit them back, tell him he doesn’t know shit.
But he does.
Not because he’s smart, no matter how much he thinks he is. He’s just right. That makes it worse.
Dutch won’t give you anything for free. He’ll take, and take, and take. Until there’s nothing left but the parts he wants to keep, the parts that serve him. You should accept it like Micah does, let yourself be shaped how Dutch wants, reap the fruits later on. But you don’t want to bend, you never did, you don’t know how.
All you know is how to bite back.
And you still don’t know what you’ll get out of this. Maybe neither option is worth it.
Micah takes one last drag, flicks his cigarette in the dirt. You follow, crush your own under your boot. Then, before you can stop yourself, you open your mouth.
“Reckon this will really work?”
You hate your own voice. Hate the hesitation in it. Hate the way it makes Micah smirk.
“Havin’ doubts?” he teases.
You scoff, lips curling as mean as you can. “With you? Always.”
“You just gotta be patient, big man,” Micah muses, elbows on his knees, glancing at you sideways. “And stop actin’ like some rabid dog. Think a little.”
You turn to chew him out, but before you even see it coming, he moves. He leans in too close, expression smug and nasty, smoke in his breath, hot on your face. You see the little shameless dart of his eyes over you before he speaks. Voice sultry in that manufactured way, the one that makes your hackles rise every time.
“See? You can still learn from old Uncle Micah—”
Your boot slams into his leg before he can finish.
Micah stumbles back, grumbling loud and sharp, shoving himself up with that crooked swagger. He straightens, watching you longer than he needs to, weight shifting like he’s thinking real hard about what to do. You simply stare at him, upper lip still curled, searching for whatever that something is behind his eyes.
Then, without a word, he shakes his head and walks off, the crunch of boots fading off in the distance.
The swamp stretches out ahead.
Somewhere north, a bird lets out a keening cry.