🩸 An Ongoing FARGO Fanfic Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
☾⋆ MERCY Full Series Masterlist & File -> click here.
BOOK THREE • Chapters 1 -> 2
[cue up Ethel Cain for ultimate soundtrack feels]
Gator Tillman x OC!fem!reader
circumstantial childhood friends to teen rivals to slowburn lovers. angst to the max, dark humor drenched, heavy smut with heavier plot, hurt/comfort, Tillman Kingdom compliant madness. S4+ universe hot-take. Seedy town collides with old money and elite underworld. 18+
🩸CHAPTERS SUMMARY: Fargo doesn’t reset just because summer ends. Sophomore year begins exactly where it left off — bruised, breathless, and still pretending everything is fine. The same faces fill the halls: Babygirl Mercer, sixteen and already dancing toward a future she never lets herself name. Gator Tillman, reckless as ever, burning bright enough that no one’s asking what happens when the fire finally catches. Bill, still golden, still good and still standing way too close to said fire… loyal as ever. Crawford, too smart for his own good and stuck exactly where he chose to be. Andy and Tiff, loud, loyal, and holding the whole thing together with humor and teeth (the former still bugging the emotionally constipated boarding-school-esque rich boy who is smarter than the system containing, and the latter riding higher than ever, steady where Mercer feels split in two).
On the surface, nothing’s changed.
Underneath? Everything has.
This is the year where things are still “funny.” Where chaos looks charming, danger looks manageable, and everyone swears they have time. It’s the last stretch before consequences start keeping score. Before lines stop being theoretical. Before the past, long buried, begins to stir.
Roy Tillman still knows everyone’s secrets.
Jonathan Mercer still owns the ones that matter most.
And somewhere in the middle of it all is a debt that hasn’t been paid — only postponed. Though, some debts don’t get paid. They simply get inherited.
Welcome back to Fargo.
Nothing bad’s happened yet.
May God have mercy on your soul.
🩸AUTHOR'S NOTE: This took me a while to upload, but howdy y'all. We are so back mothafuckaaaaaas :) Book Three is official live! This one's the longest one yet in the saga. So get comfy, because it's also got the highest stakes so far...
🩸OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS/NOTES: TV-MA fanfic rating. Strong language, dark morbid humor, TOXIC Gator Tillman (who I shamelessly give way too much anti-hero redemption arc throughout) ruthless banter, bad childhoods, deeply rooted traumas, mutually detailed dark backstories, hatred mixed with underlying codependency (but it’s justified in this fic bc I said so) mutual jealousy, dirty politics. Very strong mature themes, matter and topics.
THIS IS AN 18+ FANFIC. Minors, do not initiate.
It’s a slowburn in hellfire: circumstantial childhood friends → teen rivals → inevitable lovers. Four novels of dark humor, heavier plot, sharper edges. Hurt, comfort, and every ugly thing in between.
— Sophomore Year —
Summer didn’t slip away.
It slammed the door on its way out.
Fargo’s air had already turned dry and sharp by the time sophomore year rolled in like a bad joke, and none of them were laughing.
Except maybe Gator. But that was just because he’d slept through first period again.
It’s not even two months into the new school year, and the gang’s all got their teeth fully sunk into the grade.
Mercer walked the halls like she owned them, chin slightly up, her crimson hair swinging behind her like punctuation. Everyone still called her Mercer, not Quinn. Not even the teachers. There was no announcement, no declaration, just the force of her presence reshaping the rules. She never had to say this is mine. She just walked like it already was. Whether it was in school hallways, the ballet studio, her father’s pristine office, or her own damn bedroom — she was entirely her own, wearing the name with just as much technique as she wore her pointe shoes.
Tiff was right beside her, effortlessly sharp. Slim pencil skirt, some top you’d never see twice. She didn’t dress like she was trying to impress boys, she dressed like she had dirt on your dad. Congressman’s daughter, sure, but she didn’t lean on that. She was a seductive whisper of scandal wrapped in Chanel lip gloss, already dreaming about the bell ringing so that she could mount her brand new four-legged stallion back on her grandmothers’ ranch. Because sophomore year was “officially shaped out to be her equestrian era,” even though she’d been riding since early childhood. It just happened to be the year she finally got to do it with her very own horse to care for, look after and train alongside.
“I’m already waddling,” she muttered to Mercer, shamelessly smug about it. Empowered by it. “I might not be a prim ballerina, but I’d say being a horse girl’s got its share of aches and pains.”
Mercer rolled her eyes fondly. “At least you’ve got a noble steed to celebrate it with. I just have bloody toes, callouses and dancer’s feet.”
“Mmmhph,” Tiff purred, throwing an arm around. “Talk dirty to me, yaaasss. Bunion babygirllllllll—”
Behind them somewhere, Crawford was probably already ten steps ahead in AP Euro, correcting the teacher under his breath and texting Andy to stop being a dumbass and read the syllabus. Because Andy had been strong-armed into the community college and a seafood job that smelled like musty mop buckets and old shrimp, but he still found time to give Gator a ride when Roy confiscated his truck.
Which, this week, he absolutely had.
Roy Tillman had had enough. Gator’s latest masterpiece of teenage idiocy involved a dirt bike, the roof of the VFW, and half a bottle of something toxic that should’ve stayed locked up. So now, sophomore aged Gator rode in the backseat of his daddy’s cop cruiser to and from school like a delinquent straight out of a PSA. Roy didn’t say a word the whole ride. Just popped the locks and let the humiliation marinate.
“Get your ass in,” was all Roy said that first day. Not even looking at him. Just chewing toothpicks like he was thinking about a prison sentence.
It was a weird week without Gator in the mix. He was texting like a man in solitary. Bombarding the group chat with memes, random ass selfies, photos of his food like prison ration day 2. Andy just kept responding with variations of “you did this to yaself, pookie,” while Crawford was sending screenshots of a community college syllabi and captioning them ‘learn from this clown.’ Bill always went over to help him study, which was the only friend that Roy let come over and exist within his sphere outside of their group chat.
But Mercer? She barely replied.
Which didn’t go unnoticed.
Because Mercer wasn’t laughing as much that week. Not at Gator’s texts, not at Crawford’s rants, not even when Bill made some deadpan joke about detention being Gator’s love language.
She was quieter. Not cold, just… somewhere else.
And Gator noticed.
Even if he pretended not to.
Because there wasn’t a hallway, parking lot, or house party in the entire school district where Gator Tillman’s name didn’t come up. And not because he was pulling straight A’s. Everyone knew what he was doing. Or at least, they thought they did. The rumors were their own wildfire.
Because Gator was having sex.
A lot of it.
Reckless, sweaty, stupid sex. Not for love. Not even for connection. Just for pure chaos and fill. Girls in his own grade who should’ve known better. Juniors who thought they could change him. Seniors who knew they couldn’t and just wanted a taste before they left town. He didn’t keep track, and he didn’t care to.
None of it mattered. None of it meant anything. It was just him, getting out whatever was burning inside him, one nameless hookup at a time.
And then there was Lilah Marshall.
If anyone was obsessive, it was her. The mayor’s angel daughter. Blonde bombshell with a deep southern drawl, perfect hair, and a body that had matured in all the ways that made people double-take, even when they shouldn’t. Lilah looked like someone who should’ve been on the cover of some regional teen pageant magazine, all pink lipstick and doe eyes and too much cleavage for a high school hallway. She dressed like every day was picture day. And she’s always had a big crush on Gator.
Everyone knew it. Especially him.
She trailed after him in hallways with that perfect little practiced flounce, voice dripping honey and innuendo. Always finding a reason to touch his arm, and always snapping him pictures she knew would make him sweat. Her snaps were infamous. Late-night mirror shots with low angles and cryptic captions. Little teases she’d act innocent about in person. But she wasn’t innocent, and they both knew it. Inexperienced? Mostly, yeah. But a goody-two-shoes? No. Hell no.
Bad boys like Gator knew that the good girls like Lilah were always the whiniest bad girls.
But he never actually slept with her. He’d never done anything at all with her. Nah, Gator just liked the attention. Of course he did. He liked that someone so clean-cut on the outside had such obvious filth on the brain when it came to him, probably moaned his name into her pillow as she fucked herself with her own fingers and came all over her sheets at night. It made him feel wanted, even if he didn’t want her back. He liked it. Being wanted. He liked knowing she was there, circling like a shark, begging to be his fantasy girl.
But that’s all she ever was.
A fantasy.
A body with no weight behind it. A quick, pouty distraction for when his brain was too full of Mercer and he couldn’t sleep and needed something easy to burn through.
Because Mercer… was something else entirely.
She never begged for attention. She never flirted outright, only with her piercing, all-knowing eyes and her way too clever comebacks. She never threw herself at him, never posted thirst traps and never tried to make him chase her. She just was herself. Brutal. Beautiful. Brilliant. And fuck, so entirely, so infuriatingly real. She called him out, called him names, kept him in check… and then turned around and made him laugh like no one else on the planet ever could.
There was no performance with Mercer.
Just heat.
Just gravity.
History.
She never said that she was in love with him. And she didn’t have to.
Everyone already knew.
Andy knew. He’d seen it from the beginning. From the first time they were thirteen, stealing liquor and lighting firecrackers in alleyways like they were building their own world out of static and smoke. Andy had been pulled into the orbit of their chaos early and never got free.
Crawford knew, and secretly, he wished that Mercer would just date someone else, anyone else, if only to jolt Gator into realizing what he was wasting. Tiff felt the same, knowing that it was gonna take some consequences in order to shake some actual sense into him.
As for Bill? He mostly kept quiet… but he saw it. Understood it. He even prayed that Gator would get through the storm of girls and sex and self-destruction…and finally land where everyone knew he was meant to land.
But Mercer…
Mercer had started to ache.
Not with jealousy, exactly. She wasn’t petty. She wasn’t fragile. But it was there, gnawing quietly inside her, every time she caught Gator with someone else. Every time she heard a story. Every time Lilah flipped her blonde hair in his direction or laughed way too loud at a joke that wasn’t funny. It wasn’t about the sex. It was about the utter lack of care. The fact that he gave pieces of himself away to girls who didn’t even know him.
And Gator knew. Of course he fucking knew.
He wasn’t stupid. He saw the way Mercer went quiet sometimes, the way her face would shift, all subtle and unreadable, whenever someone mentioned his latest conquest. But they never talked about it. Neither of them ever said a word. They just kept doing what they’d always done. Ribbing each other, arguing and riding around town with music too loud and windows rolled down. Cracking jokes, swapping insults, laughing like nothing could touch them.
Bonnie and Clyde.
Everybody said it, everybody knew it.
But nothing ever changed. Because the second either one of them admitted how deep it really went… it might all go up in flames.
And maybe that was the plan all along.
Tiff watched it, too. All of it. With her dry one-liners and perfect nails, always rolling her eyes, but never missing a beat. She had her own thing going. Flings with the senior boys, mostly. Loud, tatted-up football players who lived for Friday nights. Rumor had it she even had something going with one of their older brothers, a college kid who’d graduated last year and probably should’ve known better. But Tiff didn’t care. She liked older guys. Liked the control. Liked playing dangerous just beneath the surface. She wasn’t looking for anyone to tie her down — just someone with rough, manly hands and a decent car who knew what the hell he was doing and didn’t have to ask where her G-spot was.
All of them were in it deep.
Mercer, Gator, Tiff, Bill, Crawford and Andy.
Wrapped up in the mess of each other. Locked in this half-wild, half-glamorous suburban fever dream where nothing made sense, and everything burned a little too bright.
And somehow… that was the point.
——
Today, the halls were chaos, lockers slamming like harsh gunshots, the smell of overripe gym clothes and cafeteria pizza in the air.
Gator would’ve thrived in the noise, strutting with his crooked grin and half-done homework. But he wasn’t here, because he was still grounded and Roy had gotten him cleared for the day to stay home and do yard work.
Mercer was here, though.
And she was trying to stay focused.
She’d just peeled off from Tiff, who was teasing her about some jacked-up football senior who apparently had a thing for AP girls with razor-sharp comebacks. Mercer had rolled her eyes and swatted her away with a, “Go get your football fix, you glorious designer trashbag,” and Tiff had laughed like that was the best compliment she’d ever received.
Then Mercer turned the corner and ran smack dab into Reed Calloway.
Literally. Ran into him.
He caught her by the elbow before she could stumble.
“Oh—damn, sorry,” he said, his voice low and way more grown than she remembered.
She blinked. “Hey.”
It was Reed.
As in Reed Calloway.
The kid who used to wear mismatched socks and draw on his shoes in eighth grade. Now? He was like six-two and had that kind of quiet confidence that made him seem taller. Broad shoulders, scruffy jawline, a vein in his arm that had no business showing up like that at 10:14 in the morning.
“Mercer.” He grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you still walking like the world owes you space.”
“I am the space,” Mercer shot back without missing a beat.
He laughed. Not loud, but real. “Still got that mouth.”
“And you’ve apparently got protein powder in your bloodstream now.”
“Gotta give the people what they want,” he said, eyes flicking down and then back up. Not gross, just curious. Familiar, in a way that made her stomach shift.
“Kidding,” he added with a wink. “Promise.”
She coyly smirked. “Oh good. Was afraid the last steroid shot might’ve inflated your ego.”
That made him blink. But then he chuckled. Hesitant, but genuine. It turned warm and warmer, a bit sheepish.
Mercer could tell he was a little flabbergasted. Maybe not used to that kind of rapport with a girl. So she threw him a lifeline.
“Also kidding.”
Reed shifted his weight, glancing past her shoulder like he was checking traffic, then back again. Like he’d decided something.
“You still dancing?” he asked.
Mercer blinked, caught. Not because it was invasive, because it was specific.
Also a bit daft. Because no shit she was “still dancing.”
But she didn’t have the heart to make him feel stupid for asking, when it was likely just his way of keeping conversation flowing.
“Yeah,” she said. “Always.”
He nodded once, like that confirmed something he’d already suspected and knew the answer to but asked anyway. “Figures.”
She lifted a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Reed shrugged easily. “Just… everyone knows. You’ve been at it forever. My mom used to drag my little cousin to that studio over by Penview. Back in like… ‘01 or something? She’d point you out like you were some kind of local legend.” He smirked warmly. “Tiny, terrifying, didn’t smile once.”
Mercer huffed despite herself. “I was five in ‘01.”
“Still,” he said. “You had presence.”
The word landed heavier than he probably meant it to.
“Still do,” she shot back, reflexive.
He smiled at that. Not impressed, not challenged — just genuinely amused. Like he liked that she didn’t fold. “Definitely still do.”
Mercer allowed herself a soft grin at that.
Which… weirdly felt criminal.
“So you’re still aiming big?” he asked. “Juilliard, New York—London, Paris… the whole thing?”
She hesitated. A beat too long. Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she didn’t usually let people ask the question.
“I’m aiming honest,” she said finally. “Big comes later.”
Reed watched her for a second, then nodded again. “That’s fair.”
There was something faintly off about the way he said it. Not wrong — just… finished. Like he’d checked the box marked interest shown and was ready to move on.
“Anyway,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “You always seemed like you had your shit together. Even back when we were all feral.”
Mercer snorted. “You literally drew on your shoes.”
“Custom art,” he corrected teasingly. “Ahead of my time.”
She laughed. Actually laughed — and that surprised her more than anything else so far. It slipped out before she could stop it, sharp and brief and real.
Reed smiled like he’d earned something.
They stood there a second longer than necessary, the hallway noise swelling and receding around them. Lockers slammed. Someone yelled. A bell rang in the distance. The world kept moving.
And then he went on ahead and said the thing.
“You doing anything tonight?”
Mercer froze.
She blinked once. “…like what?”
Reed shrugged, casual as hell, but still smiling. “Like, I mean, you wanna go out? Grab a nice dinner, maybe go catch a movie? If you’re down.”
She didn’t know what to say. Not because she didn’t know how to say no, but because her heart?
That fucking traitor… skipped.
This wasn’t the plan.
She should’ve said no. Should’ve smirked and made a joke and walked away. But Gator was grounded, probably jerking off to Lilah Marshall’s last snap and not thinking twice about her. So Mercer, just for a second, said fuck it.
Fuck it.
“Yeah,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear like she didn’t just feel her ribs squeeze. “Yeah, okay.”
Reed smiled. “Cool. I’ll swing by after school? Say 6 o’clock?”
“Sure.”
And just like that, he was gone.
She stood there for a second too long. Still smelling the faint whiff of his cologne and something else. Uncertainty, maybe. That tight feeling in her gut that didn’t quite let go. Not nerves. Not even guilt.
Something else.
Something worse.
Because she knew this wasn’t a betrayal. Not betrayal towards Gator, at least. Not betrayal of some imaginary promise he never made. But it still felt like one. Like she was crossing some line in the dirt they’d drawn together years ago.
The line they kept pretending didn’t mean anything.
The line they kept dancing around, over and over, like it wasn’t already tangled around both their throats.
She heard Bill’s voice in her head, that weird thing he always said when the world didn’t make sense: the gut is God.
And maybe that’s where she’d always belonged. With Gator. In the dirt. In the gutter. In the middle of some reckless, burning thing that had never had a name.
But tonight, she was going to try something different.
Even if it felt all wrong.
Even if her heart, that same stubborn, bleeding heart, already knew exactly how it was going to end.
Chapter Two
A Date with Reed Calloway
The first mistake was going on the date at all.
Mercer knew it before she even stepped out of her house. She knew it while she was gently curling her lashes in the mirror, and she knew it while her dad, ever the image of unbothered perfection, glanced at her from behind the Wall Street Journal and muttered, “just don’t let anyone less than you, waste your time, Quinn.”
She didn’t bother correcting him. She never did.
Even though it was Mercer.
Always Mercer.
The second mistake?
Letting Reed Calloway have a chance to touch her.
Not because he was some openly cruel jock. Not that he was loud or aggressive or anything textbook like that. No, Reed was chill. That was his whole thing. His “brand.” Laid-back and golden, built like the all-American boy. Varsity jacket, stubbled jawline like a Greek statue, that stupid casual grin he wore like armor.
But that was the problem.
He wasn’t Gator.
Not even fucking close.
He opened her door like a gentleman on autopilot, complimented her perfume like he meant it. Took her to Wally’s Diner, the only place in Fargo that still had red leather booths and greasy, syrup-soaked milkshakes that weren’t store bought.
Reed made mid-tier jokes, and Mercer laughed a little. Mainly out of politeness. Out of boredom. Out of some vague desire to convince herself this wasn’t a waste of time. And sometimes he would ask her questions, about her life, whenever he wasn’t boasting about his own with niche obliviousness. But when she clocked him half-listening? As if he wasn’t ever interested in asking the question at all, she kept her answers brief, pivoting the conversation back to him.
He was nice, at least. Predictable, sure.
And she hated every second of it.
Because Mercer didn’t do nice. She didn’t do boys who looked at her like she was a new car they’d saved up for. She wasn’t a prize to be won. She wasn’t some checklist. And she definitely wasn’t interested in the kind of boy who thought leaning back with his arm on the booth and smirking was enough to earn her attention.
Still, she smiled. She always knew how to play it smooth.
The movie theater parking lot was nearly empty when they pulled in. Gravel crunched underneath the tires of Reed’s car, the streetlights buzzing overhead like tired cicadas. But strangely, he didn’t park near the entrance. Just coasted them into the back corner under the long shadow of the nearby alley wall, where nobody else could see anything unless they went looking.
…not good, Mercer thought to herself.
She leaned back in her seat, one leg crossed over the other.
“Thought we were catching a movie.”
“We will.” Reed looked over at her with that same grin of his. Easy. Coyly assured. “Just figured we’d hang for a bit first. Chill.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Chill?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in, elbow propped on the console. “Maybe after making a little movie of our own.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
…what did he just say?
“You’re tense.”
“No, Reed. I’m observant. Big difference.”
He chuckled. “Damn, you’re cute when you’re mean.”
Every alarm inside Mercer’s head was already buzzing…
And then, he went for it.
Reed’s big hand slid onto her thigh. Bold. Casual. Like he’d done this a thousand times before with girls who just smiled through the fear, and let him get away with it as they went along with it. And maybe he had.
Either way, that ended today.
Mercer looked down at his large, veiny hand, like it was a venomous spider crawling over her jeans.
“Move your hand.”
Her tone was cool as ice.
Reed blinked. “Relax—”
“I don’t do warnings twice.” She cut him off. “Move. It.”
His grin faltered, just slightly. “Okay, okay. You don’t have to be—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
The air between them sharpened.
“Reed, I’m serious,” she said, eyes sharp and voice firm. Still cool. Just like her father’s. Her family name was ice coursing through her veins right now, as she warned Reed with her gaze, her tone, her posture. “You said dinner and a movie. That movie’s not going down here in your car. This isn’t a drive-thru and neither am I.”
That landed.
Even so, he laughed again, but it was thinner now. Forced. “C’mon, Mercer. Don’t be such a nun.”
She froze.
Not because she was shy. God no.
But because he wasn’t listening.
Because the minute he said that, he told her everything she needed to know.
That this wasn’t about her.
That he thought he knew girls like her. That Mercer was just another hobby to lean in on, smooth talk, press closer until she either gave in or got worn down. A formula.
And he had the audacity to try that shit on her?
She stared at him as his hand reached impossibly closer to her inner thigh, gripping it.
Claiming it.
“…Reed Calloway,” she warned, her voice low, as flat as it was cold. “Get the fuck out of the car.”
He blinked, stunned. “What?”
“I said get out. I’m driving home.”
“Mercer, don’t be fucking ridiculous—”
“Out.”
There was a long pause. Reed’s lips parted like he was about to say something. Maybe apologize. Maybe mansplain. But then he rolled his eyes, like she was being dramatic, like she was making a scene.
“This is my car,” he huffed. He gripped her neck. “Nice try. Now shut up and just—”
That’s when she reached back.
She grabbed the hefty liquor bottle from the floorboard. The one he’d stashed under a sweatshirt like she wouldn’t notice.
And without another word, she brought it up and cracked it against the dash.
Glass exploded. The sound was short and savage.
Reed jumped, visibly paling.
“Jesus fucking Christ—”
Mercer didn’t even look at him. Just stared straight ahead through the windshield, her voice the calmest it had been all night.
“I don’t. Ask. Twice.”
And he saw it. Right then. In her face.
That switch had flipped.
She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t bluffing. And the shard of glass that she now had clutched in her palm, ready to strike, made it crystal clear: she’ll finish the job if he doesn’t move.
So, he got out.
Fast.
Reed didn’t even close his damn door. Just stood there in the parking lot like a scolded dog as she slid across the seat and took the wheel, glass shard at the ready in case he got any ideas.
And then Mercer closed the door and drove.
Didn’t even look back.
Didn’t stop at the corner. Didn’t slow for red lights. Just pressed her foot down and let the engine roar.
The air inside the car still smelled like him. Like his musky cologne, his static testosterone and that dumb expectation she’d almost let herself fall into.
She swallowed hard. Her throat burned.
But she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not fucking yet.
She blinked hard and gripped the wheel tighter.
And kept on driving.
Through downtown. Past the high school. Past the empty lots and shuttered diners and the lonely neon signs that made Fargo look like some ghost town out of a forgotten western.
She didn’t stop until she hit Maple Street.
Gator’s street.
Mercer pulled up onto the lawn that stretched across the Tillman’s property, headlights off. And then, she finally let herself break for just a second. Not loud. Not dramatic or tragic. Just a few bitter tears sliding down her cheeks, streaking through the blush that she’d taken the time to apply for this date… as she let her head fall back against the headrest.
But she wiped them fast. Like they didn’t count.
Because Mercer didn’t fall apart.
The Mercer’s never fall apart.
They swallow everything down, bury it deep, lock it away. So, she did that now. And she waited until it stayed that way.
Gator Tillman was dead asleep.
Not peaceful, not sweet. Just knocked the fuck out, face planted in his pillow, sheets twisted around his legs like he’d been in a wrestling match with his own exhaustion. It was barely 10:08 P.M., and the bastard was already down for the count. Grounded, sunburned, and smelling faintly of gasoline, sweat and the hay bales that Roy made him haul all afternoon, even after a cold shower.
He hadn’t even bothered turning the lights off inside his room. Just collapsed like a corpse.
And then his window creaked open, followed by a quiet rustle. The thud of size seven boots hitting the floor.
By the time that Gator groaned and cracked one eye open, Mercer was already inside. Hair windblown. Jacket half-zipped. Eyes dark. Holding something in her fist.
“…What the—” he muttered, voice gravel. “Jesus fuck, Mercer—what time is it? What’re you—?”
She dropped onto his bed, hard enough to bounce the mattress. The keys she flung landed between them like a warning.
“I stole a car,” she said.
Gator blinked, still trying to peel himself out of deep sleep.
“Whose—what…?”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just leaned back on her hands, staring up at his cracked ceiling like it held the answers. “Reed Calloway’s.”
Silence.
Long.
Loaded.
Sinking into the bedroom like smoke.
Gator blinked once. Then twice. And then he leaned forward, hand dragging down his face. “You’re joking.”
She turned to him with a dry smirk. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
He stared at her.
At the glint in her eye. At the stolen keys in her hands. At the part of her jacket she hadn’t zipped up all the way. His brown eyes darted to her throat, to the way her breathing was still uneven.
And then, slowly, his mouth curled, dark and impressed. “You’re a goddamn menace.”
Mercer leaned in, her grey eyes narrowed. “Takes one to know one.”
He exhaled a short laugh, raking a hand through his messy bed head of dark hair. “Roy’s gonna skin me alive if he finds out we took off again.”
“I figured you’d say that,” she said, then she jerked her chin at the window. “So I figured we wouldn’t tell him.”
That’s all it took.
Gator grabbed the keys without another word. Because fuck Roy, and because Mercer never just showed up for no reason. Something was wrong. He could feel it sitting under her skin like shrapnel. But he knew better than to ask her outright what it was — because that wasn’t the way that anyone ever got anything out of her.
But a little night of careless chaos?
That oughta do the trick.
——
Reed Calloway’s car had a good engine. That much was true. Mercer had said so. And she never once charitably handed out compliments that she didn’t mean.
The engine roared as they tore down Highway 94, windows down, air ripping through them like a scream. Music blared. Something old, grungey, and loud. Just the way that Gator liked it.
He was driving like he had something to prove. Mercer sat shotgun, hair wild, one boot propped up on the dash.
Neither of them said a damn word for the first ten minutes.
“Reed didn’t call the cops?” Gator finally asked, squinting through the dark.
“Would you?”
He laughed once. Sharp. “Hell no.”
“Exactly.”
Gator knew damn well that no one would ever call the cops on her. Or him for that matter. He had his daddy’s badge on his side, and her kingpin of a father had dirt on everyone that would get the likes of his daughter out of any trouble he needed her out of.
But he also knew that whatever the hell had gone down, it had to have been enough for Reed to know better than to try and play the victim.
The town blurred past them in neon and silence. Gator reached for the volume dial, turned it down just enough to hear Mercer breathing.
Still fast.
Still shallow.
Noted, he thinks to himself with dread.
“You steal anything else?” he asked, glancing sideways.
“Just my dignity,” she muttered, dry as bone.
That made something twist in his gut.
But she didn’t give any him room to ask. Just leaned over, turned the music back up, and let the wind drown them both again. Aesrosmith blasted through the system, drowning out her thoughts as her fingers drummed the passenger side door.
Up ahead, the 7-Eleven sat like a greasy beacon under the flickering lights, half the letters on the sign burnt out. A classic pit stop for small-town degenerates and burnout teens. A perfect Friday night for rugrats like the two of them.
Gator parked hard, right in front, tires squealing as Mercer tossed her boots off and padded with her socks inside. He watched her through the windows as she sifted through the aisle, then she came back with two Gatorades, a pack of gummy worms, and a cold stare.
“Girl dinner,” she lazily sang, tossing one bottle at him then another bag. “And your prison food.”
“Nice.”
They sat reclined in the car, windows halfway down, the music softer now. Turned down low. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistled.
Gator ripped into the jerky bag. Tossed her a piece.
“I thought you didn’t share.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Feelin’ generous.”
She raised an eyebrow, chewing it slowly. “You always this moody when you’re grounded?” she asked.
“I’m always this moody period,” he muttered.
She snickered. A beat passed and the tension eased. Not gone. Just resting, lingering in the in-between.
Mercer leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling. “So what now?”
He shrugged. “Drive till sunrise?”
Her lips twitched. “Sounds nice.”
Gator stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles against the wheel as she stared into space, lost in thought…
And that’s when he saw it.
A broken bottle.
Just sitting there, half-kicked underneath the seat. Top-shelf whiskey. Shattered. Splintered around the label.
Gator’s heart stilled.
That wasn’t there before she got a hold of this car.
Reed Calloway sure as hell didn’t strike him as the type to just hand out expensive liquor and leave it in a glass heap on the floorboard.
He side-eyed at Mercer. She was still staring out the windshield. But her shoulders were tight. Not relaxed. Not soft. Like she was bracing herself for him to put the pieces together.
…he knew.
Fuck, he knew.
“Mercer.”
Her breath hitched. Barely.
But he caught it.
She turned slowly, met his eyes.
And that’s when it hit him. The silence. The missing pieces. The fact she didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t run home. She took Reed’s car and drove it where she felt safest.
Drove to him.
She’d told him just enough to stop him from asking. But not enough to stop him from knowing.
Gator’s hands curled on the wheel. Knuckles bone white. He glared out the windshield now, mind wandering to bad places.
“Tell me he didn’t touch you.”
Mercer’s jaw flexed. “No,” she said, voice sharp. Final. But then, just once, her voice cracked. “He didn’t get the chance.”
Gator fucking lost it.
Not outwardly. Not yet.
But something inside him split wide open. Rage like fire. Like barbed wire wrapping around his ribs and squeezing.
He couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Because someone tried. They’d tried to get their filthy hands on her, on Quinn Mercer… and Gator knew what that meant.
What kind of kid Reed was.
What kind of car he drove and what kind of mind he had.
He knew because he had the same kind of mind.
But the difference was, Gator never touched a girl who didn’t want him. Never forced. Never begged. He never needed to, and while he was a slimy asshole? He wasn’t that breed of asshole.
And Mercer?
Mercer was still—she’d never once—
…he couldn’t even think of it.
“Say the word,” he said quietly. “And I’ll put him in the fucking ground.”
She looked at him then. Really looked. And her grey eyes were wet, but not weak.
“I already handled it,” she said. “He won’t try it again.”
“Why did he try at all.”
Internally, Mercer winced. Because she really did not wanna answer that. But she knew, either way, he oughtta know.
“Merce—”
“Because ‘catching a movie’ turned into him catching these hands. Alright?”
Well, that’d do it.
It was honest. It explained enough. It got the point across.
She’d gone on a date, and got treated like trashy in return.
Gator swallowed hard. The rage didn’t go away. It just sunk deeper into his gut, flipping it inside out. He took one deep breath in through his nose, sharp and audible, then exhaled just as deep. Nice ‘n slow.
He turned the key in the ignition again. “C’mon,” he said gruffly. “Let’s get you home.”
She knew damn well that he meant his home.
Not hers.
Which, at this point, might as well be the same thing.
They pulled up to the Tillman’s house just past midnight. Porch light still on. Roy nowhere in sight. Probably down at the station harassing teenagers for unpaid fines.
Mercer didn’t wait. Just got out in her sock feet, carrying her boots, silent as ever.
At the front door, Gator hesitated.
“You wanna—” He paused, eyes down on his house keys as he sifted through them, thinking. “You should probably call your dad.”
She pursed her lips, knowing he was right. She pulled her phone out. Hit one number. Waited.
“Hey,” she eventually murmured. “…yeah. I’m staying at Tiff’s. Movie was a waste.” She and Gator walked inside. “…yeah, I’ll be back in the morning. Or after school. Before class. Don’t wait up.” Another pause, then another. Then she faintly sighed. “Love you, too, daddy.”
She hung up. No questions asked.
Gator watched her carefully, face unreadable.
“You know where the guest room is.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She brushed past him, quiet in the hallway opening. Her shoulders were still stiff. Still bracing.
Just before she disappeared down the hallway, Gator called after her.
“Mercer.”
She turned.
He ran a hand through his hair. Swallowed the lump in his throat.
“You’re safe here. Got it?”
A pause. Then, just for a second, her subdued expression cracked. Her eyes gave her away. Those grey, piercing irises of hers.
They always did.
“I know,” she replied quietly.
And then she disappeared down the hallway, making her way into the small room that always allowed her the best sleep in the world and kept her safe from anything outside of this house.
Gator didn’t sleep.
He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging loose like he didn’t trust them not to do something stupid if he clenched them. The room was dark except for the faint orange wash of the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. Dust motes floated in it, slow and lazy, like nothing in the world had gone wrong.
His house creaked around him. Old wood. Old bones. The sound of it settling felt louder tonight, every pop and groan setting his nerves on edge. He kept his eyes on the window, jaw tight, replaying it all on a loop he couldn’t shut off.
The bottle.
Her voice.
That split second where it cracked.
That one second of raw vulnerability she’d verbalized.
He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his teeth.
He could still see it in his mind, like the beginning of a horror movie in his head. The way her shoulders had gone rigid the moment he said Reed’s name. How she’d braced — like she was expecting impact. Mercer didn’t do that. Not unless something had already hit.
Gator’s fingers curled, nails biting into his palms.
He stood up abruptly, pacing once across the room, then again. And again. Restless. Wired. He crossed to the door and cracked it open, peering down the dark hallway. Quiet. Empty. The guest room door was shut, the faintest strip of light glowing underneath it from the lamp she always left on. Like she had when she was little. Like she still didn’t trust the dark not to take something from her.
Good, he thought. Stay asleep.
He moved through the house barefoot, silent as a ghost. Checked the front door first. The lock was already turned, but he twisted it again anyway. Once. Twice. Then the deadbolt, slow and deliberate, listening for the click to settle into place.
The back door was next. Same thing. He tested it with a firm tug, shoulder squared like he was daring it to give. It didn’t.
Windows. One by one. The one over the sink that never quite shut right unless you lifted it and slammed it down. The one by the couch that rattled in high wind. He fixed them all, movements efficient, automatic. Muscle memory doing the work while his mind stayed somewhere darker.
This was what his dad did. Had always done. The rounds. The quiet checks. The way Roy Tillman moved through a space like it was his job to make sure nothing crossed its threshold without permission.
Gator had never questioned it. Not really. He’d just grown up inside it. Like this was normal. Like this was what houses were for.
He paused in the hallway again, glancing at Mercer’s door.
She was safer here. He knew that in his bones. Didn’t matter how high the gates were at her place, how many cameras there were, how much money sat behind those walls. This house didn’t look like much, but it had teeth. It had history. It had him.
And that knowledge did something to him. Settled something sharp and violent in his chest, even as it fed it.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall across from her door and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees bent, arms draped loose over them. Like a guard dog that didn’t need a leash.
The rage was still there. Thick. Coiled. He knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Knew he’d be up until dawn, eyes burning, mind replaying scenarios he didn’t want to see all the way through.
He knew where Reed Calloway lived.
Knew his car.
Knew the kind of dumb confidence guys like that walked around with.
Gator's jaw tightened.
He thought about what could’ve happened. About how close it had gotten. About the way she’d walked into his room like she always did, boots in hand, spine straight, eyes dark — like she hadn’t just stared down something ugly and come out swinging.
His thoughts skidded, sharp and sudden, and he stopped them there.
Because no.
No.
He wasn’t finishing that sentence. Wasn’t letting his mind go there. Because if he did, he didn’t trust himself to stay sitting on this floor. Didn’t trust himself not to grab his keys and do something irreversible before the sun came up.
So he focused on what was real.
Mercer was down the hall.
Behind a locked door.
Breathing steadily.
Safe.
For now.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, just for a second. Not to sleep. Just to listen. To the house. To the quiet. To the fact that, for the first time he could remember, there was no one telling him to do this. No voice in his ear. No expectation hanging over his head.
"It's our job top keep her safe," Roy always told him. "That's all there is to it. Jonathan's got his hand in too many boiling pots of hot water to not keep an eye on the burner. So it's up to us to watch over his kid. You got it?"
Gator remembers how much he used to push back on that. How frustrated he got with his dad, not understanding why Quinn Mercer had been left in his care like some unorthodox ward of his. Why she was suddenly thrust into their care at just four years old, and why that wasn't changing. But as time went on, he'd stopped pushing his luck badgering Roy about it. At some point, he figured out it wasn't changing anytime soon. That it didn't matter that they've been stuck with the Mercer girl ever since pre-school. All that mattered was that she was theirs to protect, even if Roy hadn't given him any say in the matter.
Because this wasn’t just his daddy’s rule anymore.
This wasn’t just a debt he didn't understand or know about.
