Page 85 of Jensen

The nozzle clicks, signaling the tank is full. She’s still inside when I go in to pay. It takes me a moment, but I find her by the freezer section. She’s got a bag of rice, Crisco, and a jar of canned greens in her arms.

I stare at that Crisco, mint on my tongue.

“Can we stop at the farm stand down the road?” she asks brightly.

I blink, jerking myself out of my head. “That where you got the meat?”

She nods. “They had pork belly last time. How’s that sound with the greens and rice?”

I jerk my head, taking the items from her arms and carrying them to the front desk. The clerk is zoned out at the register. I clear my throat, and he jumps, tapping at the keypad with one hand and reaching for a paper bag with the other.

“I got twenty-five bucks on the gas pump too,” I say.

He nods, putting everything into the bag. The rice is the same brand Cherry used to buy, the same Holly kept in her kitchen. It’s a white bag of the material chicken feed comes in, red lettering and a picture of a barn printed on it. Cherry kept a bag of it on the sink, in a gallon Ziplock to keep the weevils out. And the fucking Crisco—is there really no other cooking oil to buy in this town?

We leave the gas station, and I watch her ass sway across the parking lot to the truck.

What am I doing?

She hops into the truck, flashing her panties under that tiny skirt. Oh, yeah, that’s why. Because Jensen Childress can’t say no to beautiful women, especially not this one. I get in the driver’s side, jaw tight, and we head down to the farm stand. There, I stand by her while she picks through the cooler, and I pay up after she finds some pork belly that satisfies her criteria.

We go home, and I take care of the horses while she cooks. When I get back in, she’s about done making the pork, rice, and canned greens up.

She’s subdued. Whatever Brothers said to her was upsetting, but she won’t reveal a word of it. I know it had something to do with her son. I haven’t been out to Brothers’ house since the day I left. Seeing it again was surreal. I’m shaken too—by going back, by seeing the rice and Crisco tin.

She turns off the stove and removes the pots. I’m standing by the table, watching her. Her brows rise, asking me silently why I’m staring at her like this is our first time meeting. The house settles, creaking. I glance up, thinking I saw something that isn’t there hanging on the wall, but no, just a knot in the wood.

“You loved what I did to you the other night,” I say finally.

Her pupils spread. “I…I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, Della.”

Her throat bobs, lips parting. “I liked it.”

“How much?”

She shakes her head. “Enough to come from it.”

I take a step closer. She lays down the rag slowly.

“I like your pain,” I say. “But only if you like it too.”

Her breasts heave. She’s still in her tight little dress, the fabric clinging to her curves.

“Strip,” I say quietly.

She obeys, eyes enormous. Her dress peels up and falls to the ground. Underneath, she’s wearing the same bra from the night we met. Her panties are cotton edged with blue lace. They remind me of curtains, but I’m not sure from where. Maybe back home, a long time ago.

She unfastens the bra, dropping it. Her nipples harden as her breasts hang free, naked in the cheap glow from the ancient bulb in the ceiling.

“You know what word to say if it’s too much,” I say.

She nods.

“Out loud, Della.”

“Yes, I do.” She lifts her chin. “I’ll say red if I want out.”