Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“A bar,” I answer, gesturing at the stretch of counter to our left. One of
Jonas’s men, Vincent, sits on a stool behind it, picking his teeth with a plastic
fork.
She makes a face at him, then glances around. “How did I get in? I’m not
twenty-one yet.”
“You’re with me, and the same rules that apply for the general public
haven’t applied to me in years.”
Placing my hand on her lower back, I try not to admire the soft cotton feel
of the little red sundress she has on. The neckline plunges between her
cleavage, knotting below her breasts, and I want more than anything to untie
it and feast on her right here, right now.
In the days since the flash drive showed up on my porch, we’ve settled
into a sort of routine; I’ve been working overtime trying to find the culprit—
to no fucking avail—and she spends hers ordering shit with my credit card
and trying to figure out how to use it.
The first day, it was fishing. She ordered a neon pink pole and matching
tackle box, and was up and out of bed at four in the morning, prepared to put
her research to the test.
She was back inside within an hour, huffing about how no one told her
fishing was so boring.
Another day was stargazing, though she passed out before the best
constellations appeared.
I only know because I haven’t slept since her arrival, sitting in the living
room armchair each night with a bottle of scotch, trying to get up the nerve to
join her in bed.
But there’s a reason she hasn’t seen me naked yet; same as why I can’t let
myself be that vulnerable next to her. The cartography of my body, though
lean and sculpted through years of rigorous exercise, is marred with many
blemishes.
Evidence of my evil deeds tattooed permanently into my skin.
All of that has nothing to do with why I haven’t fucked her yet, though.
There really isn’t a concrete reason behind that fact, just the reality.
When I fuck her, I want to do it right, and I don’t want to risk losing a
hard-on because I’m too busy thinking about the people coming after us, or
how my plan is unraveling before I’ve even executed it.
Hence, our arrival at the Flaming Chariot. With its rickety wooden floors
and the boards nailed into the windows, blocking all sunlight, I’m surprised