Chapter 21
JADE
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I RIP OPEN the beef jerky, slow and calculated. I know he’s watching. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
Yeah, I went and fished them out of the grass where he threw them at the gas station. And, yeah, I brought them along for the ride. I paid for them, and I don’t care if he has a truck full of Wilde jerky.
He can jerk off.
Or go jerk himself off.
Which he won’t. Not with the ant bites on his most sensitive parts.
Which only reminds me that my legs are itchy, and even though we took antihistamines and covered our bodies in calamine lotion, I swear I can still feel them crawling on me.
I want to itch.
I want to scratch.
I want to pull over and rub my body against rough tree bark.
Instead, I bite the jerky, pretending it’ll distract me.
“Are you serious?” Each of his words drips with quiet fury.
As serious as him driving in his briefs, covered in lotion, and numbing his crotch with a bag of ice. As serious as the erection he tried hiding when he exited the bathroom. The one that has nothing to do with me.
I hear myself.
I really do.
And why would I want the very personal thing we experienced to be sexual? I don’t. But I also don’t want it thrown in my face that he’s nailed me once, and the mere thought of a sequel makes him look physically painful.
I take a bite of the jerky, chew, and smile at him. “It’s so good.”
His jaw tightens. “I have lots of good jerky.”
“I’m not interested in Wilde meat. If you know what I mean.”
“For the last time—”
“It was your nervous system. You’ve made it clear I don’t turn you on.”
“I never said that.”
“Uh-huh.” I bite into the jerky. “Maybe concentrate more on the road.”
We hit a bump.
His knees come together like a reflex, like pain hits him in a full-body wave.
“Fuck.” He lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.
“Can’t seem to get sex out of your mind, can you?” My tone is dry, sounding almost bored.
Farthest from. Exhausted, yes. But my head hasn’t stopped replaying every moment of today.
“But I know”—I hold up my hand—“just not with me.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth—” The ice pack slips, and he scrambles to catch it, but it hits the floor.
With a deep inhale through his nose, he stares straight ahead like the pain has rebooted his brain. “Maybe silence is best.”
That’s all we’ve been doing for over an hour.
Tense, itchy, silent.
So darn itchy.
I change the radio station. He changes it back.
I turn up the volume. He turns it down.
I turn up the A/C. He turns it off.
I roll down my window. He rolls his up.
It’s like constant whiplash. Hot and cold, opposites at every turn, and I’m so damn exhausted from it.
From us.
We’ve been this way so long, it’s easy to forget we weren’t always.
There was a year, just one, that felt like something else entirely.
Hard to believe he used to follow me to my secret places and sit quietly while I read. Harder to believe I trusted him. Called him a friend and considered him to be more.
I steal a look at him when he checks the side mirror, jaw tight.
He isn’t the smooth-faced kid I once knew. That guy’s gone. In his place sits a man with a beard and sunburned edges, who moves like someone who belongs to the land. And whether I like it or not, he looks good.
Is that why my insides burn when I remember him hauling me over his shoulder?
No. That’s the little girl in me who never got over him. The one who noticed that he put my pain above his own when he carried me away from the fire ants. And that little girl wants to believe maybe it’s because he cares, but the woman I am knows better.
He catches me staring at him. “What?”
“Nothing.” I look out the window.
The wide-open sky doesn’t quiet the ache in my chest. The warm sunlight isn’t enough to soften the cold place where I miss him. The peace of the outdoors only makes me long for the quiet we once shared.
What is wrong with me?
“No snide remark?” His thumb taps on the wheel.
“You know, you started this between us.”
He says nothing.
Exactly. What would he say? Nothing. Because he can’t defend himself—can’t defend bad actions.
I stare out the window for a long time before I wonder where we are.
Not having a phone is more painful than I ever imagined. I carry one on the ranch, so it’s easy for people to get in touch, until I ride to the remote areas where the signal is lost. I love my peaceful horseback rides disconnected from the real world.
But this, being stuck with this asshole in the middle of nowhere, I hate not having my phone to text my almost equally asshole sisters.
I grab the paper map from the dashboard and unfold it.
“What’s the last sign you saw?” I run my finger over the creased, sun-faded paper spread open on my lap.
The beast of a bus rumbles down the cracked two-lane road. Grass pokes up through the pavement. Mesquite trees are sparse, and the sun shimmers over long-forgotten stretches of fence line.
But we haven’t passed another vehicle in over an hour of twisty roads and turns.
“Somewhere back, maybe twenty miles ago. It was a rusty sign.” He names it, and I follow the map road.
“That was two counties ago.” I rub my forehead. “The highway must’ve rerouted. This thing”—I wave the map—“this thing doesn’t even show the bypass. Unless—” My eyes snap to him. “Are you even listening to my instructions?”
“It’s hard to ignore them.”
I gasp. “Did you get us off track again? I don’t want to prolong this ride with you.”
“That makes two of us, sweetheart.” He shifts on the seat, and I want to feel bad about the welts on his testicles, I do, but he makes it so damn hard. “Don’t blame me. You brought the paper map. You’re directing us. I’m just following orders.”
“Bullshit.” I trace the map, looking for landmarks to identify our location. “Why are you even on this trip?”
He dangles one hand over the wheel and the other on the armrest. “I want to ensure everything stays on track.”
“You’re doing a stellar job so far.”
“Listen, I’m the driver.”
The road narrows fast.
He slows the bus at what appears to be a dead-end cattle path with pavement breaking apart into gravel and then into hard-packed dirt.
In front of us, a rusty metal gate sags between two leaning fence posts. Brittle grass stretches out over a dusty expanse of nothing, broken only by a gnarled oak tree and one very confused-looking longhorn.
He squints through the windshield. “This can’t be right.”
“No kidding.” I inhale until my nose stings. “Welcome to the edge of the map.”
The bus engine idles, and he throws it into park, letting his hands fall from the wheel. “Let me see that thing? I don’t think you’re reading it right.” He reaches for the map.
I jerk it away. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying—” He reaches again.
“No, no, no, no. You’ve been ignoring this thing for hours, and now you want to play navigator?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying maybe you’re not right.”
“Oh, that’s rich.” I throw up a hand. “This is clearly not the way I told you to go.”
“I haven’t questioned your instructions once.”
I scoff. “You’ve literally questioned every single instruction I’ve given you.”
“I suppose with good reason, because look where your directions got us.” He grips the oversized steering wheel tighter. “Your map’s about a hundred years old and—.”
“I am telling you,” I cut in. “We’re not supposed to be anywhere near this stretch. You missed the turn miles ago.”
He doesn’t answer and squints ahead, where bluebonnets and fiery red wildflowers sway in the breeze.
I point the folded map at him. “You need to back out.”
He holds out his hand. “You need to give me the map.”
I twist in my seat and pull the map closer to my chest. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to wrestle it away.
“Give me the damn map—” He lunges.
“Get your hands off—” I twist.
We’re both reaching, shoving, getting in each other’s way. I lunge too fast. He moves too slowly. My elbow clocks him in the chin.
He winces, leaning back with a hand to his jaw, fingers testing the spot where my elbow landed.
“You deserve it,” I snap, twisting in the grip of his other hand, still trying to wrench free.
He pulls his hand from his jaw and snatches the corner before I can move.
“No.” I slap his hand. “Let go.”
But he doesn’t. He pulls.
I pull back.
The paper tears loudly and violently, ripping straight down the middle.
We freeze.
His breathing’s shallow. Mine’s worse.
Two halves flutter in our hands.
Slowly, he looks at me, but I’m past my breaking point. I feel it bubbling inside me. It’s too much. This whole ride has been too much.
“Way to go.” My eyes run along the torn, jagged edge.
“Likewise.” His so-Hart comeback digs so deep inside me, I know we need a timeout from each other.
Without another word, I throw open the door and step out into the heat. My boots hit the uneven ground.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me. “You can’t just walk away in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m taking a break from your testosterone-fueled detour.” I slam the door, and I stalk away.
The late afternoon sun hits me square in the back, heavy and relentless. I feel the crumpled map in my hand, my fingers itching to squeeze into a fist. But I force myself to loosen my grip, even though all I want to do is throw it on the ground and stomp until nothing is left.
And I want to scream while I do it.
I turn my face to the sun, letting it warm me to feel something other than this rage building up inside.
He follows me out a second later, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Dick.
“I come in peace.” His voice is low.
I don’t look at him.
“I’m also extending a truce.” He holds out his half of the torn paper.
My eyes flicker to it, then to him. “Is this your idea of an apology?”
He says nothing, dammit, he’s good at saying nothing.
“Of course not. Because you don’t apologize. Hart Wilde would never admit to being wrong or acknowledging that your actions hurt people.”