Chapter 20
20
He went out to drown his sorrows.
He never expected her to do the same thing.
True to his word, Hunter doesn't take me home.
At least, he doesn't take me to my home.
I know the route to Serenity Ranch like the back of my hand. I’ve driven the dusty road bisecting the vast landscape too many times to keep track of. I’m not sure all the alcohol in the world could erase it from my mind.
I should’ve known he would take me here. Where else would he bring me? Short of tracking down Aldo, Lux is his only choice. My only choice. A sobering thought—although, not too sobering, thankfully. Not sobering enough for the full scale of the situation to slap me in the face.
In the passenger seat of Hunter’s truck, I slump against the doorframe, staring out across the scenery illuminated only by headlights and the clear midnight sky. Wind rushes in through the open window, whipping my hair around my face and carrying the scent of a warm, dry night in the middle of nowhere.
I breathe it in greedily, wanting more. Needing more; the broody silence filling the truck’s interior is too stifling, too all-consuming, too disappointed . Like Hunter is biting back a reprimand or another cutting barb, or maybe he’s going to let Lux do the scolding. Whatever the reason for it, I don’t like the loaded quiet.
I dare to break it, the fear of being ignored outweighed by the choking silence. “Who were those guys at Bishop’s?”
The arm propped on the open driver’s side window tenses, the bulging muscles almost as distracting as the scrape of a large hand down a bearded jaw. I kind of expect Hunter not to answer—I’m almost positive he won’t.
He proves me wrong. “They work at Alder Grove.”
“Oh.” The ranch next door to Serenity? I wonder how they met; the people who work there rarely come into Haven Ridge since they’re closer to the next town over. They probably bumped into each other while repairing the fence marking the ranches' borders and bonded over the manly act of hammering wooden stakes into the ground. “Who?”
Hunter rattles off a handful of names. Only one stands out.
“Everett?” I repeat, a light bulb going off in my head. “Everett James ? No way.”
Hunter slides me an inquisitive look. “You know him?”
“Not personally.” Like I would ever run in the same circle as the crown freaking jewel of Haven Ridge. “But everyone knows him.”
Another curious glance silently asks me to elaborate.
“Really?” I can’t help but laugh. “Y’all didn’t have a single conversation? Just grunted at each other?” Another giggle escapes as I imagine what a sight that must’ve been; a huddle of grown men communicating through grumbles and huffs. I almost wish I’d been sober and aware enough to witness it. “He’s a bull rider. A good one. He won…” My face scrunches as I think. “Whatever that big competition is. Twice, I think.”
Thick fingers tap against the steering wheel. “Huh.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know I was right next to Everett James all night.” I sigh as I slump even further in my seat. My head flops towards Hunter, and I wonder if I’m imagining the hard lines of his face suddenly becoming even harder. “I wonder why he’s back.”
Unsurprisingly, Hunter doesn’t know. Just as predictably, he doesn’t make an effort to keep the conversation going, and that freaking silence settles again, making me nauseous with its intensity.
I break it again when I undo my seatbelt. The soft click of it disengaging elicits a grunted command to put it back on, which I ignore. I ignore Hunter some more as I clumsily scramble onto my knees, the bruises I’ve yet to see, but sure can feel, protesting as they meet worn leather. Whatever he says as I stick my head out the window, I don’t hear, what with the rushing wind muffling his voice, but even if I did, I’d ignore it too.
The hand that bands high on my thigh, though, I have a harder time ignoring. It holds me tightly, an unmoving palm scorching hot against my inner thigh.
Not holds — secures . Makes sure I don’t fall out the window and onto the grassy ground that seems to rush by a little slower now.
I wonder how Hunter would react if he knew it wouldn’t be my first fall of the day.
Not well, if I had to guess; as soon as we come to a stop, he storms around the truck’s hood. “What the fuck are you doing, Caroline?”
Instinctively, an apology brews, but I choke it down. I stay quiet as I try to duck back inside without whacking my head, neither my attempt nor my silence lasts long. I squeal loudly when I’m suddenly lifted into the air, smoothly extracted from the truck with far more grace than I’d be capable of achieving on my own. As a hand on either side of my ribcage holds me airborne, my own scramble for purchase across broad shoulders.
“You could’ve hurt yourself.”
Well. What’s a quick tumble from a moving vehicle in the grand scheme of all that’s happened tonight?
I wriggle in Hunter’s grip. “Put me down.”
He takes his time obliging. The slow drag of my body against his hitches my dress dangerously high, cotton catching against denim the same way my breath does in my throat. I must be drunker than I thought—or maybe I’m exactly as drunk as I thought—because in my drunken state, I imagine his throat bobbing with a deep swallow. I imagine something hot sparking in irises the color of late autumn leaves. I imagine something possessive in the way he fists the hem of my dress and yanks it down before I flash him.
As Hunter clears his throat, he clears his face of any expression too. He nods towards the house we’re parked outside of, a silent command to follow as he starts towards it. Head swirling as I try to concoct an excuse Lux won’t see right through, I slowly—
Wait. “Where are we?”
A pointless question; I know exactly where we are. I recognize the modest, wooden structure— structures , I notice now, as I squint into the dark at the half a dozen other cabins scattered a good distance apart from each other. The red shuttered windows, the wrap-around porches, the swinging benches hanging from the roof overhang by thick rope, the beds of sunflowers on either side of the porch steps, I recognize them all—I planted those freaking flowers.
Yet still, when Hunter replies, “My house,” I freeze.
“I thought you were taking me to Lux’s.”
Back muscles ripple as Hunter rolls his shoulders back in a shrug. “Didn’t think you’d want that.”
Confused, vaguely amused and a little incensed, I scrunch my nose. “But you thought I’d wanna come here ?”
Hunter flinches, and I do too— mean doesn’t feel all that good. It’s exhausting, actually. Or that’s the alcohol catching up with me, making my mind and limbs feel like they’re made of lead as I’m corralled towards the front door.
As it swings it open and Hunter strides inside, I try so very hard to extinguish my growing curiosity. Fingers curled around the doorframe, I hesitantly peer inside the cabin that seems far too small for a man of Hunter’s stature.
It’s so plain . So blank. Exactly like the other guest lodges on the ranch; tastefully but sparsely decorated. Not a single thing is adapted to make this place his, except for the dirty boots kicked off and left beside the door. Not even a freaking plant. It looks like a hotel, not a home, and it makes me sad, imagining someone living here permanently.
What a damn shame.
I don’t go inside. The porch creaks beneath my feet as I make myself to the bench swing, and that creaks too as I sit on it, cross-legged. Tipping my head back until it hits the log wall, I close my eyes, and before I can stop myself, I start imagining what it would be like if I lived here.
There would be plants everywhere, that’s for damn sure. Flowers on the dining table, on the kitchen counter, in the bedroom, freshened every week. It would be quiet, living out here. Peaceful. Nothing but the rustle of the wind, the jingle of the wind chime hanging from the rafters, the chirp of cicadas. And, as of right now, the sound of cabinets being opened and closed, and the deep rumble of a man talking to himself as he does who knows what in his kitchen.
I feel Hunter’s return as much as I hear it. When the swing protests under his weight, I open my eyes before I can think better of it. He takes up most of the seat, but it’s not the thigh sliding beneath my knee that catches my attention; it’s the plate that balances on top of it.
He made me food. Two slices of buttered toast and a peeled orange, and a grumbled, “It’s all I have.”
I eye the offerings, but I don’t take it. Food is sobering, right? I don’t want to be sober, not yet. If I’m sober, I’ll feel . The mortification, the dread, the pure and utter hopelessness will come rushing back again, and the last couple of hours will’ve been wasted. I want to be numb a little longer.
With a shake of my head, I avert my gaze towards the dark landscape again, focusing on the serene sounds of nature instead of Hunter’s loud exhale.
“Caroline,” he starts to say, but he barely finishes the first syllable. He cuts himself off when he sets a heavy hand on my knee, and I flinch for the umpteenth time tonight—except this time, someone notices.
I yank my legs away, but the damage is done. He’s already seen the mottled purple skin, growing darker by the second. His interest, his suspicion , is peaked, and his eyes narrow as they scan every inch of me, searching. I duck my chin, but it’s too late for that now too. My evasive attempts and the dimly lit porch do nothing to hide the evidence of a too-rough touch from someone who seems to know exactly what he’s looking for.
A hand cups either side of my jaw, gently but unrelenting as they tilt my head to the side. “Are those fingerprints ?”
I escape his grip quickly, but it’s only because Hunter lets me go. He recoils like my skin is burning him, hands fisting at his sides as he stands, pacing the length of the porch once before coming to a stop at the stairs. Descending them, he starts back towards his truck, calm but purposeful strides.
“What’re you doing?”
It’s his turn to ignore me as he opens the driver’s side door, half inside before I catch up. “Where are you going?”
“Stay here,” he says, like I have the ability to go anywhere else. “I’ll take care of it, okay?”
“Take care of what?”
I get no answer other than the door shutting.
“ Hunter .” I curl my fingers around the open window frame, relatively sure he won’t drive off with me clinging to the truck, and repeat, “Where are you going?”
His clenched jaw ticks. “Bishop’s.”
Bishop’s? Why the hell is he going back to—
It takes me a second longer than it should to put things together, long enough for the engine to rumble to life. “Oh my God.” Rising on my tiptoes, I reach inside the window and yank the keys from the ignition. “ Stop . Tommy didn’t touch me.”
Hunter’s huff confirms he believes otherwise. “Who did?”
“No one,” I lie, and I’m not sure why. I could tell him it was my dad. I should tell him. But I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t. I don’t know how I still have any loyalty towards a man who does nothing but hurt me, but I do.
He’s sick , sympathy, or maybe guilt, whispers in my ear. He can’t help it. It’s not his fault.
“I fell.” At least that’s mostly the truth. “I swear to God, I fell. I didn’t realize how much I’d drank and I got up too fast and I—”
“Fell,” he finishes for me, kissing his teeth. Relenting half of his tight grip on the steering wheel, he brushes his knuckles beneath my chin, gentle as anything. “That’s the story you’re going with?”
I swallow hard, the burgeoning lie tasting almost as bad as tequila. “That’s what happened.”
He doesn't believe me. Or at least he doesn’t completely believe me. He stares really hard at my chin, and I’m a little desperate for him to stop, if only because my silly drunk brain is starting to see more than male chivalry behind his actions, to concoct some elaborate fairytale where his outrage is specific, where he’s mad because I’m hurt, not because he thinks some guy he doesn’t like laid hands on a girl he quietly tolerates.
Keeping his keys clutched in my fist, I open the door and wrap my fingers around his wrist, tugging gently. “I’ll come inside, okay? I’ll eat the freaking orange.”
Every inch of me he can see, Hunter scans, from the tips of my white-knuckled fingers to my hairline. He stares, and he sighs, and his jaw unclenches. “Tommy didn’t touch you?”
I shake my head, grateful to be honest about that, at least.
“At all?”
I frown. “No, Hunter.”
At all? What does that even mean?
Slowly but surely, the rest of that big body starts to relax. Hunter shakes off my grip only to resituate it, linking our fingers together as he gets out of his truck. “Okay.”
Of all the ways this night could’ve ended, not once did I picture myself sitting on Hunter's bed, hair damp from the shower I took in his bathroom, the stench of alcohol replaced with the woodsy scent of his body wash, one of his t-shirts swamping my body.
Yeah, not even the most imaginative depths of my mind could've conjured up this unlikely scenario.
Tracing the patchwork pattern of his brown comforter, I stare at a random spot on the wall, desperately trying to keep the steadily growing panic at bay. That shower was a mistake; the warm water was like a reality check, washing away the lingering oblivion and making room for pesky things like emotions and thoughts and memories.
Memories .
I squeeze my eyes shut. If not for the physical evidence left behind, I could almost convince myself earlier didn’t happen. That my dad’s anger, his rage, was a terrible dream, the worst kind of nightmare. But the lingering sting of him yanking my hair, the fingerprint bruises that are barely noticeable yet burn like a brand, the throbbing ache in my joints as lurking fear holds me taut are all so very real. So very tangible.
So very wrong .
Tears prick my eyes, doubling in force as frustration brews because is this all I’m capable of? Crying? Is that my way of problem solving? I bury my face in my palms, digging the heel of them into my eyes as I swallow over the painful lump in my throat.
It’s not fair. I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m a good person—I do crappy, silly things sometimes, but I’m a good person. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t get why he hates me so much.
Lost in spiraling thoughts, I don’t realize I’m not alone until, gently but insistently, my hands are pulled away. Blinking rapidly, I try to smile at the serious face looming only inches from mine, try to shake Hunter off, but a firm, pissed order makes me freeze. “Stop smilin’, Caroline.”
I jolt at the harsh words. My shaky hands fall to my lap as Hunter releases me. He crouches in front of me, smoothing his palms along the thick thighs straining against his jeans. “You don’t have to be so fuckin’ happy all the time.”
The attempted smile wiped clean off my face, I frown at my lap. “Just because you like to be miserable doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. I hurry to take them back, but it’s too late.
“You think I’m miserable?”
I think he pretends to be. I think he likes to be. I think it’s easier to be the aloof, unapproachable version of himself. I can’t imagine how much easier my life would be if I was capable of that. If I didn’t care what people thought of me. If I didn’t care about being liked—about being loved.
That’s what I think, but I know I used up all of my bravery, my liquid courage, so I remain silent.
Maybe Hunter wants an answer as little as I want to give him one, because he doesn’t press. He just sighs, forearms tense where they rest against his thighs, hands dangling off the ends of his bent knees, fingers just barely brushing my shins. “Why were you at Bishop's?”
I shrug.
A furrow appears between his brows, deep and unrelenting. “Caroline, what happened?”
“Nothing.”
His face calls bullshit as clearly his lips do. He sighs again as he stands, the hem of his shirt creeping upwards a couple of inches as he runs his hands through his hair, flashing me a glimpse of lower stomach, a tarnished gold belt buckle, the dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans before I hastily avert my gaze elsewhere. Somewhere safer. Like the blunt nails on the large hands that settle on broad hips.
“I’m tired, Caroline. Got work in a few hours.”
Flushing, I scramble to my feet, an apology on the tip of my tongue as I start towards the sofa in the main room—my bed, I’ve decided, since God knows Hunter won’t fit on the thing.
Fingers encircling my bicep stall me. “I don’t wanna spend all night begging you to talk to me. But I will.” Turning me to face him, Hunter stoops slightly, so damn serious as he repeats, “Why were you at Bishop’s?”
I don’t miss how his eyes flick to my chin, to the bruises I can’t believe he even noticed when I had to squint to see them in the mirror. A voice in the back of my head screams at me to be careful. To think before I speak. Cautions me that if I mention my dad, Hunter might put two and two together. Hell, he already jumped to his own conclusions without my help, ready to do God knows what to Tommy without a word leaving my lips.
Tomorrow, when I’m clear-headed and sober and have the spare mental capacity, I’m sure I’ll think about that. Foolishly obsess over it. Romanticize the whole thing as I play it on repeat in my head.
Now, though, I focus on maintaining a carefully blank expression as I offer all I’m willing to admit, “I was upset.”
It’s not meant as an accusation, but I think he takes it that way. If I wasn’t so close, I’d never catch the split second his face falls before he fixes it, sliding that perfect mask of indifference into place. I’d never see the flash of regret that preceded it. I’d take the absence of an apology, the lack of any acknowledgement at all, really, to heart.
But I do see it. And so, the silence that follows me out of his bedroom and rings in my ears as I curl up on the couch is a little less cutting.