UNTAMED

8. Holden

Iwalk into the kitchen to search for more bourbon that Pops hopefully has stored away somewhere. Cash, Sterling, Duke, and I have been poring over the books and having a late-night business meeting of sorts with liquor and cigars in the man cave upstairs.

It feels good to be home with my brothers and doing these things in person instead of through Plexiglas in an orange jumpsuit, sober.

Still, I’m barely sleeping. I can feel the exhaustion deep inside my bones. The calm, quiet stillness of the ranch makes my ears ring. No guards are screaming at me to wake up in the morning. No groups of paid assailants are hunting me down, forcing me to defend myself and fight for my life. The nightmares bring me back to hell, night after night.

It’s over. You’re out. You’re not going back. You were pardoned.

Rosie and Dolly have taken over the living room. There are opened packs of Oreos, Sour Patch Kids, and popcorn bags, along with wine corks, littering the kitchen counter.

“Women,” I mutter.

I’m not used to the sounds and sights of feminine presence, but there’s something comforting about it I never noticed before.

I’m reaching up into the cabinet above the fridge when I hear footsteps.

“Ope, didn’t see you there, sir.”

I turn to see Rosie, covering up a smile with two empty wineglasses as she sways on her feet. She tilts her head to study me for a moment, squinting her eyes like she can’t see clearly.

She’s wearing a white tank top, the clear outline of her nipples making it obvious that she’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts are definitely bigger than a double-D, swaying right along with her. My neck feels hot.

It’s been years since I’ve touched the soft skin of a woman. Rosie Dixon has always been conventionally beautiful, but since I’ve been back, she’s turned mouthwateringly sexy and impossible to ignore.

She sets the glasses down on the granite, nearly dropping one on the floor. She moves around the large kitchen island toward the pantry. She’s wearing tiny little pink pajama shorts, exposing her legs and the bottom crease of her ass cheeks. Her long, thick hair is tumbling down past her shoulders toward her lower back.

How the fuck is Duke in the man cave with us and not out here, touching and exploring every inch of her?

She disappears into the pantry, not bothering to turn on the light.

“Hey you, jerkasaurus. Be a dear and fetch me that wine bottle on the top shelf. Pretty, pretty please?” she singsongs from inside the pantry.

I exhale, debating whether or not I should just get in the truck and drive to town in search of some female companionship. If I went down to Old Harry’s, the bar I used to frequent, I’m sure there would be a few women I’d been intimate with in the past who might be interested again. For some reason, the thought of sex with a stranger just doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. Maybe it’s the years I spent behind bars.

Just man the fuck up and get the bourbon.

I walk in behind her, hoping to find the bourbon next to the wine. She’s attempting to climb up the shelves, knocking down a can of beans with her foot.

I watch her in the dim lighting, leaning back against the wall with my arms crossed. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve decided I don’t want or need your help.” She grunts, taking another step up.

I look up to see the shadowed bottles on the top shelf, doubting she’ll make it that high up. At my height of six foot three, I’ll need every inch to reach them.

She grunts one more time before yelping loudly, her grip slipping as she falls back toward the ground. I react instinctively, moving forward to catch her with my hands around her waist. Her body thumps into mine, her back against my chest. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed with her scent of vanilla and something that must be pure Rosie.

My basic male instincts kick in. I squeeze her waist tighter, holding her against me for a few moments as my intrusive thoughts win over. Her soft hair tumbles over my arm. My sex-deprived mind imagines flipping her around, picking her up and inhaling a pure dose of her scent, her back pressed right up against the shelf of canned tomatoes and bags of rice with my hand gripping her hair at the scalp.

Her breath is coming in short little bursts, and she remains motionless in my tight grip. The darkest parts of my imagination conjure a thousand different provocative positions I could have her in before she takes even one more inhale.

Before I lose my fucking mind, I let her go and move back a step. A split second later, and my erection would have been pressing right into her ass cheeks.

Great, I just got a hard-on for my little brother’s girlfriend.

Instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room, I step around her and reach for the bottles. I grab two, hoping they’re what she wants because I need to get away from her and her skin and her smell.

She’s as still as a statue, so I turn around and hand her the bottles, trying not to touch her skin again. I grab two more, praying one of them is something strong.

I stalk out of the pantry and into the kitchen, where I can actually read the labels and breathe. My dick is still protruding into the zipper of my Wranglers, and it hurts.

Fuck this. I have to get fucking laid.

“Um, thanks,” she mumbles.

I don’t respond, lifting the bottles to the light and realizing that one of them, thankfully, is bourbon. I set the other down on the counter before turning and leaving the room with the liquor in my grip. My skin feels tight, and my jeans are caging in my hard length.

Shit, I should tell Duke about this.

I’ve been planning to talk to him about whether he thinks Rosie is truly here for him and her friendship with Dolly or if her motive could be something more sinister, like spying on our family to help her father. It’s no secret he’s been getting into the betting rings at The Riders events and that he hates everyone with any Redford blood in their veins. His involvement in one of our main sources of income doesn’t sit right with me.

Now that this little incident has occurred, anything I say about Rosie could be misinterpreted. I also don’t know if she plans on telling anyone about how I held her waist a few beats too long because that could really fuck up all my plans for the ranch. I can’t afford to cause a rift with my siblings or the Dixons right now. I’m trying to keep the peace and work on the business, keeping things low-key.

Technically, nothing happened. I’ve been deprived of a woman’s presence for years, and her scent, her scantily clad body, and her nearness all overwhelmed me. It was instinct, not true desire.

I didn’t do anything. I pushed her away.

“Fuck me,” I grumble under my breath.

“Where’s Duke?”I ask Sterling as he hops up into the back seat of the Ford F-150 King Ranch pickup.

Cash is driving, and I’m in the passenger seat. It’s seven thirty at night, and we’re all dressed in our nice Wranglers and long-sleeved button-ups with cowboy hats and snakeskin boots.

We stayed up late drinking, smoking, and bonding as brothers last night. I figured there was no need to talk to Duke while he was shit-faced and accidentally start a fistfight. I planned to track him down once his hangover cleared up today, but I haven’t seen him around. I don’t know how I’m going to tell him that his girlfriend got me hard and that I think he should dump her because she could be spying on us, but I’m sure I’ll find the words.

Sterling adjusts the steel at his waistband as the tires kick up dust. “Ah, I think he went hunting this morning with some buddies out at Sam’s place.”

“Sam Seymour?”

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t need to be there. Not yet,” Cash says.

Duke is old enough to be involved in the business, but I keep my mouth shut.

Cash is also carrying a concealed handgun. If I hadn’t been pardoned when I got out, I would’ve been on parole. Thank fuck I can actually carry a gun again because after the hell I experienced in prison, I’ll never walk this earth without the ability to protect myself and my family with a firearm.

“These men, you’re sure about them?” Sterling asks.

I look out the window at the passing dry terrain. “As sure as I can be about doing business with ex-cons.”

“You’re an ex-prisoner, brother,” Cash reminds me.

I flex my jaw, wondering why it feels like I somehow don’t belong out here with the regular civilians after doing time. The shit I saw, the bonds I had to form for survival, none of that shit could ever make sense on the other side of the bars.

“You trust these guys, Holden?” Sterling isn’t one to enjoy bending the law. Of the four of us, he’s the straight shooter.

Cash answers for me. “The Riders is an unofficial organization, and with how much they’ve grown, they’re worried it could draw attention from government authorities. Anytime someone is making big money they can’t tax, the government sniffs around, looking for a cut.”

I add to Cash’s explanation. “I heard from several sources on the inside that if they don’t start getting a voluntary cut, they’ll either shut it down or force it on us. If they force it on us, it means rules and regulations. That’s pointless, considering businesses like that already exist with the Pbr and so many others. The Riders would most likely merge or crumble. That means the only remaining option is paying off the bulldogs sniffing around. We might not trust them, but we’re backed into a corner unless we’re prepared to lose half our income.”

Sterling grimaces, facing out the window. “I fucking hate the government.”

The Redford family has always had a very firm belief in small government. It’s partially due to our mother’s heritage and the fact that Tigua land was basically stolen from the original settlers of America. Our father agreed and raised us all to believe that the more power and control the government has, the less freedom we the people have. He was a founding member of The Riders, essentially passing it on to us boys as an extremely vital part of maintaining the Redford Ranch’s income.

With each tax bracket that we’ve climbed, the risks have grown. After only a few months behind bars, I learned that my name garnered respect from men I’d never known because my father was so anti big government. On the one hand, I’m very much for laws and lawmakers enforcing them, especially for people who don’t have the power or means to take matters into their own hands when it comes to protecting their family.

On the other hand, when it came down to protecting mine, I didn’t hesitate for even a moment before blowing the head off the man who tried to rape my sister.

I’m a bad guy, a lawbreaker, a rebel. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have fucking standards. I don’t think murder is okay in most circumstances. But I sure as hell think there are exceptions.