Double Bucked (Double or Nothing #2)

1. Ransom

1

RANSOM

I ’m tongue-deep in Jade. Her fingers curl into my hair, locking me in place.

“Goddamn.” She pants. “You work that mouth like you get paid for it.”

I smack her thigh. “You giving me a raise?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Hm?”

“ Don’t talk . You’re ruining it.”

I flatten my tongue up the seam of her, the way I’ve learned she likes, and lick upwards, suctioning my mouth around her swollen nub. My efforts earn a shaky moan.

Jade and I are something with benefits. Not quite friends. Not quite coworkers. Her husband is my boss. What does that make me?

An asshole, I suppose.

But we recognize skills in each other. I make her come. She makes me forget.

Win-win.

She’s got strong thighs—the thighs of a woman who grew up riding, just like ninety-percent of all the other ladies in Belleflower—and they lock around my shoulders as she arches into my mouth.

But just I feel her start to give, we both hear it?—

The downstairs door unlocks.

“Jade!” her husband calls out. “You here?”

Jade jolts up, her head whipping back and forth like a dog that just scented coyote.

“Upstairs!” she shouts. “Be right down!” Her foot finds my chest, and she kicks me backward, off her bed. She swallows her dark skin under a velvet robe, and I snatch my shirt off the floor, tugging it over my head.

“Back door?” I whisper.

She shakes her head as she knots her robe. “He’ll catch you.”

We can both hear him. Those heavy footsteps climbing the staircase. Jade looks towards the window, then raises her eyebrows at me.

I groan. “C’mon now…”

She goes to the window, flinging open the double panes. “There’s a terrace. You’ll be fine.”

“The hell I will?—”

But she’s pushing me toward the window, using all her might to get me out of there as fast as she can. “He’ll kill you. And me. You get that, don’t you? So. What’s it going to be? Terrace or a bullet?”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

“ Ransom . Move.”

My boots crush her nice satin pillows covering the nook as I shimmy out the window. The panes are tight on my shoulders. I climb out backward and hook the tip of my boot against the wall, finding some kind of purchase on the thin, ivy-covered terrace.

In the twilight, I can make out the shape of the earth two stories down. My horse—Chaucer—lingers near the side of the house, looking bored with my escapades.

Jade starts to close the window, but I tell her, “Hold up.”

She narrows her eyes. I tilt my head towards the hat hanging off her bed post.

She scoops my beige Stetson hat off the post. She leans out the window to fit it on my head.

I risk the uneven grip to tip my hat to her. “Ma’am.”

I’ve earned a small smile, at least. “Get lost, cowboy.”

Then she closes the window in my face.

Now, I’ve got nothing but the night sky and the chirping crickets to witness my sins. I start my descent, and I feel the thin terrace yawning under my weight.

Ah, hell no.

The yellow light from the bedroom flickers, and I can’t help but look back through the bedroom window.

He’s here.

Arris Dagney isn’t a bad man. He isn’t even a bad-looking man—he’s got a salt-and-pepper wash of hair that curls from his head to his chin.

I watch as he greets his wife. He cups her face, and those lips that were moaning for me only seconds ago are now on his.

Suddenly, it ain’t my unspent balls that ache.

It’s my heart.

Sure, being a rake has its perks. Hot women. Hot sex. No strings attached.

But, damn, what I wouldn’t give to have someone to come home to at the end of the day.

No. Not someone .

One gal in particular.

One gal that broke me into a million pieces five years ago .

But I should know better than to linger.

Because I’m a lot of stupid, and the little wicker terrace ain’t used to holding that much idiot.

The wooden ladder snaps under my boot. I struggle to hold my grip, but the wood splinters and cracks under my big hands. Before I know it, I’m free-falling down the side of the building, pulling strings of ivy down with me.

My boots hit the ground, sending a shot of hot pain up my leg. I tumble, and my back meets dirt, knocking all the wind out of my lungs.

For a minute, I lie there, catching my breath. I wait for the sound of Arris to come charging at me, but I don’t hear anything but the nightlife—crickets and toads.

Hooves pad the ground. Chaucer’s hot breath hits my face as he sniffs me, then snorts. He chomps my hat, and I have to swat him away.

“Off. C’mon, then. Let’s get home.”

I lift up to my feet. Everything hurts when I hoist myself up Chaucer’s back.

“I’m getting too old for this,” I inform Chaucer. He huffs in agreement.

Even in the dark, Chaucer knows his way home. We leave the Dagney estate behind us, its Greek-revival-style columns reaching to high heaven, golden light streaming out through the windows. Chaucer follows the beaten trail out the back of the Dagney property, through the short stretch of woods, weaving through thick elms and pine trees.

It’s early September in Kentucky, and fall is already nipping.

It takes about twenty minutes to ride the overgrown trail through the woods and back home. The trees part, and the darkness lifts. The moon is nearly full, and on a cloudless night like this, it shines bright over the Preacher Ranch .

I’ve worked and lived on this ranch for nearly going on a decade now. It looks particularly nice in the dark, though. The stables are all put to sleep, illuminated only with soft lanterns that flicker outside each building. Tall, overgrown hedges surround the Preacher house, blocking anyone out.

The Preacher Ranch is an elite horse breeding farm, one of the best in the state. The grounds are well-kept, from the stables to the horses to the freshly cut grass.

It’s all in pristine condition except for my digs. The only eyesore in the place.

I’ve got a trailer parked up on the very edge of the property, tucked away in the woods. Out of sight, out of mind. Mr. Preacher wouldn’t have allowed it, except he knows what he pays me, which is a penny short of nothing.

I lift the latch on the wooden gate that separates the Preachers’ land from Dagneys’. I’m about to tuck Chaucer in for the night when a shot rings out through the silence.

Then another.

The sounds echo through the empty land. It’s coming from the Preacher estate.

Shit .

I kick my heels into Chaucer’s sides and click my tongue. He starts forward, picking up the pace and galloping toward the estate. The grass gives way to gravel and red cobblestones as I halt Chaucer, dismount, and step around the hedges to enter Mr. Preacher’s private property.

I slowly round the large water fountain with the bronze sculpture of a horse reared up in the center.

Mr. Preacher stands on his porch. He’s got a fuzzy, moth-bitten robe hanging over his hairy chest and round belly. He’s wearing his boxers this time, at least.

In his hand, he’s wielding a double-barrel shotgun .

“Whoa, there.” I put up my palms. “Let’s take it easy now…”

He rounds on me, swinging the shotgun my way. I freeze.

Those gray eyes are empty and wild.

“It’s just me, Mr. Preacher,” I continue. “Riley Ransom. You remember me?”

When a horse gets spooked, it’s important to keep your voice low and calm. Don’t make any sudden movements. If you can, try to meet them with your eyes first.

That’s how I approach Mr. Preacher—hands up, body half-bowed, eyes on his.

There’s a flicker of knowing in those lost, gray eyes.

Slowly, he starts to settle down. He lowers the shotgun, and I can breathe again.

“That’s good,” I tell him. “That’s pretty heavy, huh?”

He huffs. His mustache quivers.

“How about you let me carry that for you, sir?”

He holds out the shotgun. I take it.

It’s loaded. How in the hell? Seems like every time I confiscate a firearm from him, he just digs a new one up. I unload it and pop out the shells, shoving them away in my pocket.

Without his shotgun, he’s just an old, sad, tired man. His shoulders sag, and he mumbles, “They’re coming to kill me.”

“Who is?”

“ Them .”

He narrows his eyes at the darkness.

The darkness hoots back at him with the voice of a barn owl.

I pat his back. “Alright, Mr. Preacher. Let’s go on back inside. ”

The Preacher Estate was once a grand mansion with a full wait and kitchen staff filing in and out of the halls.

Now, there ain’t no one here to haunt the halls except Mr. Preacher himself.

The once-dubbed “Tyrant of Belleflower” took a steep decline over the past couple of years. He got paranoid, forgetful, started claiming that everyone under the sun was out to get him. Fired his kitchen staff when he said they were poisoning him. The help went next. Soon, there was no one left but me.

As the on-call farm manager, I’ve been a firsthand witness to his state of mind going from weird, eccentric old man to downright batshit, liable to shoot someone if they step around his side of the hedges.

Even entering the estate is a feat of life and death. He’s rigged doors and windows with hair-trigger traps, convinced that someone’s trying to break in. As I help him inside, we’ve got to step over the thin, near-invisible fishing line that runs across the hallway. It’s attached to a hammer, which is attached to the hanging chandelier, and it’ll swing down and knock the daylights out of anyone who triggers the fishing line.

I walk him down the maroon runner and up the winding staircase that empties out on the second floor. From here, I get him down the hallway, past his old office, and into his bedroom.

He’s gone from lion-with-a-thorn-in-his-paw to docile lamb. He tucks his robe tighter around himself and ambles on into bed, tucking himself in.

The man’s only in his sixties, but you wouldn’t know it. When he closes his eyes, his expression tight and worried, he looks in need of a sarcophagus.

I survey the room. It’s got that thick, dusty smell. He’s got glasses cramped up on his bedside table. Some with whiskey. Some with days-old water. A bottle of pills that looks suspiciously full. “Y’need anything?”

He opens his eyes and peers over at me. Mr. Preacher’s most striking feature is his eyebrows. Always has been. He’s got these mean, wicked whiskers that curl upward at the tips like wisps of smoke.

“You’re the only man I trust,” he tells me. “You wanna know why?”

My heart does a surprised little leap. He’s never said a kind word to me his entire life, so I indulge. “What’s that, Mr. Preacher?”

He squints. “You’re too fucking stupid to kill me. You’d muck it up and blow your own brains out.”

My smile drops. He starts laughing at that—this rattling, wheezy thing.

Ah. Now, there’s the Mr. Preacher I know.

I snap my fingers between three of the empty glasses to carry them off. “Ain’t you a ray of sunshine. Get some rest, sir.”

He’s still hacking out his laugh when I exit his room, shutting the door behind me. I carry the whiskey glasses and the shotgun downstairs with me. I set the shotgun down on the dining room table as I pass through toward the kitchen.

This room is a tough one for me. There’s a fireplace in here, and above the mantle sits a large oil painting of Mr. Preacher and his daughter, Claire.

She’s young in the painting. A teenager. About how old she was when I first met her. Wispy blonde hair. A small button nose. Pink lips she kept closed for all photos as soon as her schoolmates started teasing her about the small gap in her front teeth, but I always thought it was cute as hell. Just a kid but so serious already. It’ll break your heart.

I head into the kitchen. I set the crystal glasses in the sink and take a look through his fridge.

Without the kitchen staff, it’s just me and Arris Dagney who take care of him.

Yeah— that Arris. Arris Dagney is my boss. The co-caretaker of Mr. Preacher. And the guy whose wife I’m licking on the side.

Am I a bastard for it? Probably.

But a man’s got needs. Needs that make devils of us all.

I ain’t talking about the need under my belt either.

It’s the need to forget that I’ve been chasing for half a decade.

The need to forget the fact that I let the only woman I ever loved walk out of my world, and I’ll spend the rest of my life paying the price for that.

Arris and I take turns stocking up Mr. Preacher’s fridge. It’s looking pretty meager now. There’s a container of red beans and rice in the freezer, so I set it in the fridge to thaw. I hand-wash dust and smudges from the crystal whiskey glasses and set those out to dry. Finally, I go back into the dining room, get his shotgun, and go back into the hallway. Around the staircase, there’s a door. I keep it locked, but the lock’s been smashed. Dammit, Preacher . I make a mental note to get a sturdier, heavier lock and pull a chain. A bulb flickers on, illuminating the stairs that lead to the cellar.

The temperature drops once I get downstairs. That’s mostly because it’s a wine cellar, host to bottles of wine that are more money than I’ll ever see in my lifetime. Take a turn through the shelves of wine, and there’s a gun safe, which—again—should be locked but is wide open.

Mr. Preacher wasn’t much of a hunter, even when he had all his marbles, but that didn’t stop him from pretending. He’s got a pretty assortment of hunting rifles and shotguns here. I replace the shotgun on the empty hooks and tuck the ammo away in a thin drawer underneath.

I punch in the code to lock the safe. 0-6-1-4-9-5. The mechanism locks into place and beeps, accepting the code.

Just then, I hear footsteps move swiftly across the floorboards over my head.

Sounds like someone’s run out the door.

The hell?

I race upstairs to catch Mr. Preacher, but?—

When I get upstairs, the front door is wide open.

Worse: the string-trap has been triggered.

The hammer swings back and forth on its rope, making the chandelier cast a swaying shadow on the walls. I touch the bottom of the hammer to stop the momentum. There’s a spot of blood on the end.

I step out onto the porch, but there’s no one in sight. Nothing but nighttime and night birds.

A bad feeling climbs up the back of my neck.

Something ain’t right .

Those footsteps…they sounded too light and too fast to be Mr. Preacher’s.

Quick as I can, I run upstairs.

“Mr. Preacher?”

His door’s ajar.

Now, my heart is really banging in my chest.

I knock my knuckles against the door. “Mr. Preacher?”

Dead silence.

I press my fingers against the door and push it open.

The sight is so unnerving it takes my eyes a minute to register what I’m seeing.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the moonlight creeping in through the blinds. Mr. Preacher is unmoving in his bed, the sheets tucked up to his chest, his purple robe cozy around his throat.

The only problem is that what’s above his throat looks like a damn sunrise.

His head has been splattered apart. Red and pink bits of Mr. Preacher cover the pillows. The wall. They seep through the mattress and drip onto his nice white rug.

That’s gonna leave a stain.

Mr. Preacher hates stains.

The ground underneath me tilts, lurches, and spins like a carnival ride with a loose screw.

I stumble down the hall. Down the stairs. Through the foyer. Out the door. I barely make it over the porch before I’m on my hands and knees, puking in the manicured grass.

Chaucer nuzzles the top of my head. He lets out a soft huff, as though to comfort me, and then the idiot gently starts to graze on my hair.