The Terms of Release by BA Tortuga Page A

for. That seemed like a fair assessment.
    “This ain’t right.”
    “What do you want me to say, Daddy?” He wasn’t going to fuss about this. It wasn’t the first time he’d had his ass handed to him; it wouldn’t be the last.
    “That you didn’t let them kick your ass because you were scared, I guess.”
    Sage looked at his dad, making himself stay easy. “I’m gonna go work in the other barn for a while. You have a good night.”
    Scared. Shit.
    Going back to jail would kill him. He’d rather let those assholes do it quick than have the state do it slowly and even more painfully. He’d never told his folks about the beatings he took, how his first week in, his head was dunked in bleach and he couldn’t see for days. About how they took his knees. About Keye.
    Nobody knew, and nobody ever would. Those secrets belonged to him.
    The barn, at least, was quiet, if not cool. Sweltering was more like it. Bile rose in his throat. No, he wasn’t no coward. He knew what he knew. Sage put his head down and started working, the pain becoming a steady thing, something he couldn’t ignore but could move through. He breathed with it, in through his nose and out through his mouth.
    “Sage Marlowe Redding!”
    Fuck. “Whut, Momma?”
    “What are you doing? You let us do the work today. You’re hurt!” She stood right inside the barn door, hands on her hips.
    “I’m fine. I’m almost done here. How’s your quilt going?”
    “It can wait.” She tapped her foot. “I told Adam Winchester I’d bring down enough spaghetti for him too.”
    “He’s a good man.” Sage put the shovel down and looked at her. “You okay with me… seeing him?”
    “As long as he has your back, yes. I think he really cares for you.” Her eyes flashed. “He hurts you, and I will cut off his balls.”
    “I’m gonna be the one gets him hurt.” It would happen, like night followed day. The sheriff or Angel’s daddy would make Adam pay.
    Her lips curved in a smile. “He’s a tough boy.”
    “He is. He was a soldier.” Sage wanted to die, to sit and stare at the TV and pretend he was sore because he’d gotten bucked off a skittish horse, not because he had the balls to go have a piece of pie at the diner.
    “Oh, Son, I’m so sorry. I know you could have stayed there in California and not had this…this mess.” Her face crumpled a little, and he panicked. She couldn’t start crying.
    “Stop it, Momma. I’m home where I belong. Let it go.”
    “I know you don’t want salad, but do you want bread with your spaghetti?” Her shoulders squared up, which meant she was ready to move on.
    “Yes, ma’am. If there’s enough.”
    “There is. I won’t toast it hard. You go wash up.” There was no arguing with her order. None.
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for supper.” Lord, his head hurt.
    “I’ll bring it down in a bit.” She turned on her heel, left him, and marched away like she was going to take on the whole world for him.
    “Christ on a crutch.” He put his shovel up, made sure everything was as done as he needed it to be, then headed to his trailer. Every step sent sharp jolts of pain through his knees, and he gritted his teeth against it, hoping his hot water heater had recovered since this morning.
    He stood at the bottom of the stairs and slowly crept up. Three steps, and he felt like he might sit on the second one and stay there.
    No way he was going to do that.
    No way.
    Never.
    Sage swallowed hard and made himself take another step. He collapsed right inside the front door, his legs giving out. He felt like a puddle of lava.
    If there was a God, he’d die here, basically happy, pretty much home. Of course, his momma might disapprove of finding him there, so maybe he ought to drag his ass to the—
    “Sage? Are you…. Whoa. Need some help?” He hadn’t heard a motorcycle, but Bulldog was right there next to him, crouching down.
    “Bulldog?” He blinked up and tried to stand, but he couldn’t.
    Bulldog