Gravel waltz beneath the truck the only true indication of a straight trajectory. Shattered mountain tops a fix of pebbles and grit on roads industry and local alike whirled and kicked up at the impending lines of rubber tread and misaligned suspension. Booze bubbling in Boyd’s system a neufragous rock impeding at every corner meant his grip on the steering wheel was both lax and overcompensating. Every time the dance of marble beneath came back in an off-note Boyd knew the road had begun to get away from him. A jerk, a clutch rock and a light tap on the brake the only compensation for a vision severely compromised.
Guiding lines of foliage wall falling away to a damped field had Boyd slow, crawl the vehicle on belly and burnt oil as he attempting to reconcile with the more sober version of his metal faculties. Was he about to issue an apology? An ultimatum? Profess some outlandish version of a drunk man’s truth? Disconsolation mounted as the peaks of metal slat roof indicated the span of time he had to come up with something pertinent to say. Condensing into outright indigestion as he parked in his older brother’s driveway, engine still humming beneath him he found himself at a loss.
Out pour of headlight beam the only indication of his arrival, Boyd practically tumbled from his position behind the wheel. Limbs having no interest in upholding a man with a bottle of ‘Beam recently polished meant an ungraceful crash to the ground. Peaks and jagged edges of shifting rock biting into the bare flesh of arms in defense had a howling moan liberate itself from split lips. Desperate display of reconciliation had him round out his legs, rouse them into willful employment as he stumble streaked. Able enough to basically make it to the porch, intoxication became the bearer of all intended purposes as he pounded a strict fist against the door.
Bam —Bam -Bam
The darkness of the living room enveloped the fair haired belle as cerulean hues intently fixed on the outdated television in front of her. Finally, a semblance of peace; Bo got what was coming to him all these years and the thick air which suffocated Ava dissipated the very moment Raylan confirmed his death. But as much relief as she’d felt, there was a nagging, pigmy sized pang of grief lingering within kind and tender heart. Shit. Even after all the anxiety and nail biting stress he caused her, he was still her father in law. The only remaining family she had left now was Boyd and his whereabouts were unknown since the incident. Was she worried? Unsettlingly so against her own will, but he was a big boy capable of making his own decisions. If he wanted to embark on a suicide mission in the name of revenge, that was his problem, not hers.
Left without single soul neither to confide in nor count on, Ava decided to turn to her only trust worthy friend. One who consistently and loyally remained by her side through it all. Slender frame shifted from comfortable position and long digits curled around worn out couch cushion. Rising to her feet, itty-bitty waist swayed rhythmically side to side in direction of mahogany liquor cabinet where Jack patiently awaited visitation. Upon opening cupboard door, crystalline hues overlooked and second guessed him at first, wondering if some gold ol’ Southern Comfort would be the cure to her dismal ailment, but it wasn’t long before gentle grasp coiled around his neck and set him down. She gathered fragile double shooter and twisted cobalt polypropylene lid. Lazily joining glassware with a clink, room temperature rye and mash flowed smoothly to brim and she ceased pouring.
Porcelain visage tipped in reverse and the familiar singe of whiskey surpassed lush lips and trickled down delicate gullet in haste. Warm tongue rolled over lower tier and she quietly set the shot glass down. Light crept through thin vintage curtains, capturing her attention. Furrowing perfectly preened brows in befuddlement, Ava was not expecting company. White, fuzzy slippers shuffled across hardwood floors and dusty rug upon tip toes as she bee lined for her sawed-off shotgun napping peacefully against hardly lucullan arm rest. With weapon at hand, she scurried nervously over to front window and cautiously peeled back drapery. Ava arrived just in time to witness none other than the man unwantedly renting space in her thoughts approaching her front porch.
Bam —Bam –Bam.
Lashes fell and frustrated sigh escaped her lips. Pads of fingers grazed over tired eyelids, then returned to wooden stock. So what if she held some concern for the youngest Crowder? That didn’t necessarily mean she wanted him on her property or anywhere near her for that matter. Word of mouth about his safety from the locals would’ve sufficed beyond her troubled needs. This must have been god playing some sick and twisted joke on her. He was probably laughing and watching as she approached her home’s front entrance in carelessly tied robe and nightly apparel. As usual, Boyd had awful timing.
Why me?
“Damn it, Boyd. I done told you fifty-eleven times to stay off my property, or else!” She hollered, pulling open creaky wooden door and pushing open tattered screen exterior. Raising sawed-off barrel in his direction, she didn’t bother giving his condition a thorough once over. “What’re you doin’ here, it’s well past midnight. Ain’t you got somewhere else to go?” Squinting, sapphire orbs met his, bloodshot chestnuts through the darkness and red flag waved. “Are you drunk?” Voice pitched in disappointment. Azures broke his hazy gaze and for a moment, envy flourished her facial features. Ava was not nearly drunk enough herself to be dealing with such an unexpected predicament. The armed woman finally took note of weeping injuries glistening in the moonlight and guardedly lowered the nose of her gun into a slightly less threatening position. It looked as if he might have needed a stitch or two, but it was hard to tell considering the absence of porch light. Although anger and aggravation, amongst other things were coursing heatedly through her veins, a part of her couldn’t ignore the incessant voice in her head telling her to give Boyd a chance to explain his actions.
“The hell happened?”
Firmly holding her post, she didn’t budge an inch from concrete stance beneath her home’s threshold. She wasn’t going to let him in over a couple of bumps, scrapes and bruises. If he tried anything, she was armed and more than capable of putting one through him within a graceful bat of an eyelash. The idea of Boyd thinking to come to her in a drunken stupor for refuge baffled her. He might have helped her escape those Miami thugs, but that didn’t mean she owed him anything, or did it? Internally conflicted, her clutch tightened around fore-stock. She fought back the urge to retract and release. If she allotted a single, persuasive word utter past his lips, her fallible conscience would overcome reason. The pit of her stomach whispered, she would regret her inquiries and find herself inclined to grant him passage. Ava could only pray he was too intoxicated to formulate a pertinent justification for trespassing. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel as guilty for turning him away.
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