Chapter 34: Dawn Run’s Fire

The mornin’ after the Route 87 bloodbath broke cold and gray, Lubbock’s sky a bruised slab spittin’ drizzle. I woke tangled with Zoe in my bed, her warmth still clingin’ to my skin, the night’s events blurrin’ into half-remembered heat and whispered secrets I wouldn’t name in daylight. Zoe’s scent on my sheets. Another line crossed. Another secret compounded. The night had happened—whatever it was—and morning offered no absolution.

The best lies were the ones you told yourself—that I could wake up next to Zoe and not think about what that meant, that denial was just another survival skill I’d mastered.

The weight of my sins pressed down heavy, includin’ Laura’s unresolved justice, the ledger’s poison namin’ Councilman Hargrove, Doc Waller, Mayor Dutton, and Victor ‘El Perro’ Madrigal, Laura’s rapist, burnin’ my brain like a bullet. Twenty-four hours I’d had the ledger in my possession. Names that could destroy the town’s elite. And the one name that mattered most—Madrigal. Laura’s rapist. Finally within reach.

My body ached from the raid’s chaos. Harrison’s blood and those trafficked girls’ screams mixed with the cum-soaked haze of fuckin’ him, Zoe, Mathews, and that hospital threesome with Maria and Ethan Reed. Six people in the last 24 hours—Harrison in the ambulance bay, Maria and Ethan in the supply closet, Mathews and Zoe witnessed, Martin at home, and now Zoe again in my own bed. The count kept climbing. I’d stopped counting partners years ago but still kept a running tally, like the number proved something—my power, my corruption, my insatiable need. I didn’t know which.

Sleep had dodged me most of the night, chased off by the baby’s phantom movements, Martin’s dark sketches leanin’ against my bedroom wall, and the fifty pounds of weed stashed in my cruiser’s trunk, a secret heavier than my badge. Early pregnancy trick—the body imagining what wasn’t there yet. Gas. Muscle spasms. The mind playing games. But I felt it anyway, a presence that wasn’t quite real but wasn’t quite imaginary either. More real than actual things sometimes. The baby I was carrying felt more present than the people in my house, like I was haunted by the future more than the past.

Libra slept in her crib down the hall, tiny fists curled, those green eyes closed now but always seemin’ to judge me even in sleep, like she knew what I was, what I’d done, what I’d keep doin’. No judgment there, really. Just my projection. My guilt made manifest in a baby who couldn’t possibly understand. But the feeling remained—watched, judged, condemned by my own daughter. Babies were supposed to be innocent but Libra felt like a witness, like her green eyes would open and look at me and I’d see my own damnation reflected back. That was just me punishing myself because no one else would.

I needed to burn off the dread—the whorehouse warrant loomin’, feds sniffin’ after Salazar and Ramos’ escape, lies to Harrison and Mathews tickin’ like bombs. So I laced up for a dawn jog, cravin’ the pavement’s punishment to quiet the guilt. Maggie Leon’s operation, the warrant burning in my desk drawer, evidence about Laura’s case potentially hidden there. But raiding it meant crossing Nayeli, meant political fallout, meant exposure of my own secrets.

The new life growin’ in my womb was a fragile spark I guarded fierce, its pulse a faint drum stokin’ my fire—a fire that threatened to consume everything I touched, leaving only ash and bone, but also fueling my insatiable hunger. It destroyed and created simultaneously. I was burning my life down while building something new inside me. The baby was both my destruction and my salvation. That made no sense but felt true anyway.

I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Zoe, and dressed to provoke. Every piece clung like a lover’s hands, a fuck-you to Lubbock’s prudish stares.

Tight gym pants, skin-tone Lycra, hugged my thighs and ass. So sheer they molded to every curve, the seam diggin’ deep into my arse crack, a sharp bite that rubbed my hole with each step, makin’ my pussy pulse. No panties to dull the friction. The psychological armor of exposure—if everyone was staring at my body, they weren’t looking at my crimes. If I was a spectacle of sex, I couldn’t be a suspect. Hiding in plain sight was the oldest trick. You could commit any crime as long as you were loud enough about committing different ones. My body was a distraction from my badge.

From ten yards, I’d look stark naked, the pants’ hue blurrin’ with my tanned skin. Only up close would the faint fabric sheen show, my swollen cunt lips and crack outlined like a beacon.

A cropped tank top, same skin-tone, gripped my heavy tits. Nipples stabbin’ through, the hem slicin’ below my ribs, barin’ my flat stomach, sweat beadin’ in the humid air. Nothing showing yet. The secret still mine—belly flat, only the tender breasts and constant nausea betraying the life growing inside. Too early for anyone to notice unless they were looking for it. Pregnancy was the ultimate secret—a whole human being hidden inside another human being. Mine was double-secret because of who the father was. The longer I kept it, the harder it would be to explain.

Beat-up skin-tone Nikes, laces frayed but tight, blended with my legs like I was runnin’ barefoot. Their quiet slaps were a rhythm to my chaos.

No bra, no underwear. Just defiance clothed in illusion. My clit throbbed with every stride as I left the ranch—Martin still sleepin’ in his room, Libra in her crib, Peter down the hall, Alex probably already up makin’ coffee, and Zoe warm in my bed. My fragile haven built on lies. Martin—my son, my lover, father of the baby in my belly. Libra—my infant daughter, product of incest. Peter—Zoe’s fifteen-year-old son, another participant in our web. Alex—Zoe’s sister, keeper of secrets she never acknowledged. And Zoe—my deputy, my confidant, now my bedmate. They were supposed to be safe but mine was the most dangerous place I knew. I’d turned my home into a crime scene and my family into accomplices. That was the only way I knew how to love.

The run tore through Lubbock’s frayed edges, where the town’s polish peeled to grit.

I started down the ranch’s dirt road, dust kickin’ under my Nikes. Drizzle specklin’ my arms made the gym pants stick tighter, the seam sawin’ deeper into my arse. A sweet sting kept me sharp. The wet Lycra chafed my clit with each stride, a sharp, electric jolt that made my cunt pulse harder. The constant stimulation turned exercise into foreplay, every step rubbing the seam against my clit, building sensation that wouldn’t release until I allowed it. Control through denial. Just delayed surrender. I was building toward an orgasm I wouldn’t allow myself yet. Discipline and depravity were the same muscle exercised differently.

Left, the Texas plains stretched endless, scrub grass and mesquite thorns glintin’ wet. A jackrabbit darted into the haze. Right, a saggin’ barbed-wire fence marked abandoned cattle land, posts leanin’, rusted wire knotted, a “No Trespassin’” sign creakin’ loose.

The wind carried the scent of wet earth and decay, a reminder of the rot festerin’ beneath the surface, the darkness clingin’ to this town like a second skin. And the faint, metallic tang of my own arousal. The town boundaries—physical and moral—blurring together. Beyond the fence was wilderness. Inside the fence was Lubbock. And I operated in both territories simultaneously. They existed to be crossed. The barbed wire was supposed to keep things out but I was always breaking in or breaking out. I lived on borders—between law and crime, mother and lover, human and monster.

I hit town’s edge, passin’ a shuttered gas station, pumps rusted, windows boarded. Red graffiti snarled “Fuck the Law.” I smirked, knowin’ I’d fucked it harder.

The drizzle, the run, the constant, maddening grind of that Lycra seam against my clit had left me parched. My pussy was aching, weeping, but my throat was a desert. Ahead, the fluorescent lights of a 24/7 7-Eleven cut through the gray dawn fog like a sterile beacon. I needed water. But as my eyes swept over the empty parking lot, a deeper, darker craving hit me. I craved the confrontation. Thirst versus hunger. The physical requirement for water versus the psychological requirement for power. The confrontation wasn’t about sex—it was about dominance. Cravings multiplied. I’d gone in for water and ended up hunting for something else. Every need I satisfied just revealed another one underneath. I was insatiable.

The glass door chimed, a pathetic, tinny sound announcing my arrival.

The air inside was a shock—a blast of arctic air conditioning and the sterile smell of stale coffee, donuts, and disinfectant. A violent contrast to the primal, animal state I was in. I was a beast of sweat, rain, and arousal, and I had just walked into their clean, well-lit cage.

My skin-tone Nikes squeaked on the freshly mopped linoleum, a sound that seemed to echo in the dead silence.

There were two of them. One was a kid behind the counter, pimply, maybe sixteen, his jaw hanging slack as he stared. His eyes were glued to my tits, to the dark, hard nipples stabbing through the transparent, skin-tone tank top.