Chapter 12: Whispers in the Ruins

The ranch house was thick with the quiet hum of exhaustion, a sticky, sweet-sour stench of stale cum, spilled wine, and weed smoke hanging heavy in the air. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, just a faint grey smear on the horizon, but the frenzy of the night had ebbed, leaving behind a quiet, messy wreckage. I sat in the kitchen, badge cool against my chest under my tank top, trying to adjust my denim skirt, the fabric still damp and stretched from the hours of raw fucking. My body ached, a deep, bone-weary throb in my pussy and asshole, every muscle screaming from the savage rhythm of the feast. Martin was passed out on the living room floor, tangled in the cum-soaked blanket with Peter. Alex and Zoe were slumped together on the couch, snoring soft, a half-empty wine bottle tipped over beside them.

My mind was a war zone. Daniels was locked up, a traitor, but his words about Leon and the whorehouse on Route 87 clawed at me. Rico was in the wind, still a threat. Laura’s face flashed behind my eyes, then Nancy’s, their pain a sharp counterpoint to the depravity of the last few hours. And then there was Martin, my son, his young body still twitching in his sleep, covered in the proof of our sin. Guilt gnawed at me, a cold, hard rock in my gut, but beneath it, the thrill still buzzed, a dangerous current reminding me of the power I held, the boundaries I’d shattered.

I needed to pull myself together, get ready for the raid on Route 62. Rico’s crew might still be there, or maybe Leon’s dogs were already cleaning house. Duty screamed, but my body just wanted to collapse. I poured a glass of water, the cold liquid stinging my throat, and leaned against the counter, trying to clear the haze.

That’s when I heard the whispers. Faint at first, coming from one of the bedrooms down the hall. Lilly and Jessica. They must have stumbled in there after the milk bath, seeking refuge.

I moved quiet, boots silent on the worn linoleum, drawn like a moth to a flame, or maybe just needing to hear something that wasn’t the echo of my own fucked-up choices. I paused outside the door, cracked open just enough to let the sound spill out. The air inside was heavy, different from the living room, maybe just the scent of two young girls, high and exhausted.

Lilly’s voice was soft, shaky, still laced with the vulnerability of her first time. “It ... it hurt, Jess. Like, really hurt. And ... and there was blood.”

Jessica’s voice, more confident, almost casual despite the night’s intensity. “Yeah, the first time always does, Lils. Mine did. But it gets better. Way better.” A soft rustle of fabric, maybe them shifting on the bed. “You did good, though. Took him like a champ. Mama was proud.”

Lilly mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch, then, clearer, “I just ... I didn’t know it would be like that. With Martin.”

A sigh from Jessica. “Yeah, he’s ... intense. Sheriff’s boy, what’d you expect? He’s got that ... fire.” Jessica’s voice lowered slightly, a different kind of heat in it now. “But listen, that was just ... initiation. You gotta find someone who knows how to really make you feel it.”

Lilly’s voice was hesitant. “Like ... like Andrew?”

Jessica snorted softly. “Andrew’s a kid, Lils. He’s fine for a quick feel in the back of his truck, maybe a sloppy handjob, but he ain’t ... developed yet. No, I’m talking about ... someone else.” A pause, a small, satisfied sound. “Malcom.”

My grip tightened on the counter. Malcom Stewart. The kid I’d caught her with.

“Malcom Stewart?” Lilly sounded surprised. “From ... English class? Ms. Carter’s?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.” Jessica’s voice was suddenly softer, almost dreamy, a stark contrast to the raw talk of the night. “He’s ... different. Not like the guys at Rico’s dive, all grabbing and smelling like stale beer. Malcom ... he’s quiet. Reads books. Writes poetry, maybe.” A small, wicked giggle. “But holy fuck, Lils, when we’re alone...”