Mongrel [bxb] | Bad Moon Book III

Chapter 1: Jolene

The first time the voice in his head spoke, Matt was driving sixty-five miles an hour down Interstate 5.

The road felt non-existent beneath the Wrangler's new suspension, wheels rolling like water over worn asphalt roads. He beat his hands against the steering wheel shamelessly to the sounds of Dolly Parton, window rolled down, wind chill raking through his hair. The engine groaned along to the music, the beast rumbling beneath his heels. 

God, if his father saw him now. This kinda music's for cuckholds and sissy-fucks, he would say. Then he'd change the radio to Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash and nod his head with a cigarette between his paper-thin lips—creased to jowls from all the decades of leering at the world like the honest to God piece of shit he was. That's the stuff, he'd say. That's the stuff.

That wasn't the stuff. Fuck your stuff, Dad.

Thank Christ Matt had learned at a young age what a misogynistic, selfish old bag looked like before he became one himself. Any song sung by a woman was for cuckholds. Any man who enjoyed it was a sissy-fuck. And what in God's name was a sissy-fuck anyway?

Matt pressed his foot to the gas and screamed out into gushing, billowing world he left behind. Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene.

His old man wasn't here to lay out the old brittle bones of his over-baked masculinity. There was just Matt and Dolly and the open road. This was the only place he felt like himself lately. The only place where things made sense. The only time Matt ever seemed to feel comfortable anymore was when he was riding the passing lane, leavin' every shitty thought behind him at sixty-five miles an hour.

"I'm beggin' of ya', please don't take my man."

Matt swerved toward the median to the sound of a voice that wasn't his own. He snapped his head to the empty passenger seat, glanced in the rearview mirror to the back of the Wrangler's empty cabin. And when he found no one, Matt decided it must've been the radio—maybe the wind vortexing the sound of Dolly's voice. He turned the dial down and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, shaken at the knees to lose control like that. Maybe it was for the best that he failed the entrance exam. A cop who couldn't drive a car along a damn near empty interstate wasn't fit for the badge.

Fit for the badge. That was what his dad had said.

Guess you're just not fit for the badge.

Matt reached to turn the volume back up.

"You may wanna pump the brakes pal. Figuratively and literally."

This time when Matt looked to his right, a man sat in the passenger seat. He wore the heavy winter-weather gear of an army soldier, face dark with gritty soot.

"Eyes on the road sweetheart," he said, turning his gaze to the horizon. "You're about to have yourself a day."

Matt hesitated—too long before turning his eyes back to the road.

A loud pop burst through the open windows and Matt veered to the right to evade the tarnished tire that came flying toward him. A wheel had blown from the tiny red sedan, several yards ahead and the car was weaving for control. It crossed lanes in an effort to reach the shoulder, then—

Matt flinched. A pickup truck had been trying to pass from the right. Couldn't slow down in time. It clipped the edge of the sedan, threw the car off balance. It twisted to the side, went tumbling beneath an overpass. A chunk of metal came slewing across the pavement and Matt slammed on his brakes, new tires burning against the earth. His seatbelt dug into his chest and the Wrangle reared, throwing him back against his headrest. Smoke cloaked his path to the sedan like a blanket of fog, probably from the burn of his own tires. Matt put the Wrangler in park, his heart slamming against his throat. He shoved his hand into his jean pocket and felt around for his phone.