Chapter Three
To: Bo Porter
From: Peyton Turner
Dear Bo,
You’re right.
You’re so not good at making apologies because that was a shitty one. And normally, I’d tell you to go away, but you already know I’m desperate and stuck so I’ll accept it.
By the way, you also don’t know that you should probably say please when you want people to do something for you.
As it is, notice how I granted you your wish and addressed you by your first name up top.
And since you’re so unfamiliar with the proper etiquette, allow me to also tell you your response to this should be thank you.
As for my best friend, yes, she’s smart and she’s also none of your business.
Also, if—hypothetically—you did keep your fellow inmates from writing to me because you thought you were keeping me safe, let me tell you that you don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.
Anyway, please be advised that I’ll be sending you a list of questions for the assignment with my next letter.
Until next time,
Peyton
PS: Look how I granted you another one of your wishes down here too.
To: Peyton Turner
From: Bo Porter
Peyton,
Thank you.
For granting me my wishes. And for that lesson in etiquette.
I especially liked the one where you taught me to say please.
Must’ve skipped school the day they taught us that.
But then again, you already know I don’t like school.
Or reading for that matter. I know you thought that was something we had in common but sorry to disappoint you.
Reading’s not something I did in my previous life.
I could blame growing up on a ranch for that, but it was all me.
I’d take mucking the stalls or mending fences over sitting still any day.
Not a good thing when you’re trapped behind bars with a bunch of guys who have more testosterone running through their veins than blood and have a history of a short fuse.
Reading keeps you busy and from creating havoc.
So it’s more of a necessity than a hobby.
Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. I will be sitting on the edge of my seat for all your questions.
Bo
PS: So how’d I do? Am I polite enough for you?
To: Bo Porter
From: Peyton Turner
Dear Bo,
So you’re a cowboy.
You never mentioned that on your profile but I should’ve known.
All signs were there. You guys tend to be a little abrasive.
I guess all that mucking and mending is injurious to good manners.
I grew up with cowboys. Well, until we moved away to the city when I was eleven, but I know cowboys.
In fact, if I had known that you were a cowboy, I probably never would’ve sent you a letter.
But we already know I’m stuck with you so it’s neither here nor there.
So tell me about your ranch.
Do you miss it? What’s the thing you miss the most?
I miss where I grew up too. Even though a ranch means cowboys and they aren’t my cup of tea, I still miss the land.
All that space, the rolling plains and the woods.
The fact that I could get lost when and if I wanted to.
I could walk and walk for miles and never see another soul.
I could sit in my favorite spot and read for hours and no one would come bother me.
I miss reading in my favorite spot. I guess that’s the thing I miss the most.
I’d go back if I could.
But it’s okay. I’m happy here too. I have my school, my books, my job.
My life is good and safe, careful. Like I always wanted it to be.
A little unadventurous but at least there are no cowboys.
Or rather, the only cowboy that I have to deal with comes on a folded piece of paper, tucked inside a white envelope.
Without further ado, please find the list of questions on the next page.
I’m trying to write about the prison education system and I’m going to be honest, I absolutely hate sociology.
And so even though I don’t like you very much and don’t care if you find my questions annoying, I’m sorry for such a long list. I almost fell asleep writing it so I totally do not envy you for having to answer them.
Until next time,
Peyton
PS: Surprisingly, you’re getting there. For an asshole cowboy, you’re a fast learner.
To: Peyton Turner
From: Bo Porter
Peyton,
Who is he?
I’m guessing he’s a cowboy. The one who made you live a careful life. Isn’t that what you called it? A careful, unadventurous life. So who is it? An ex-boyfriend, your daddy?
Did he hurt you? What’d he do?
Because in my experience when a girl plays it safe, it always has to do with a man in her life. Is that why you can’t go back to your ranch? Because of that asshole?
As for mine, I miss it, yeah, but not a favorite spot—although if I could call something my favorite spot it would be the creek running on the north end of the property—or something similar.
I miss the real things, the everyday things.
The dirt that gets on your boots, your clothes, under your nails; the smell of hay and leather; the splinters that get into your hands when you’re mending fences no matter how good you glove up.
The wind in my hair when Rebel, my thoroughbred, gallops through the fields, his shifting sleek muscles between my legs.
But it doesn’t matter. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, behind bars and away from everything I’d ever known.
Anyway, I answered all your questions. They were annoying but you’ll be happy to know I managed to stay awake through them. At the risk of sounding full of myself, I do think you’ll scrape a passing grade this time around.
Bo
PS: Maybe all I needed was someone to teach me. And for a little college girl, you’re a good teacher.
That was it.
That was the moment. When he asked me about my careful life. About who hurt me.
That was when something shifted inside of me.
Of course, I didn’t know it back then, but I know it now.
That was the very first night when his words wouldn’t let me sleep.
I tossed and turned until I gave up and sat down at my desk to write him a response.
To tell him things about me that I don’t usually tell anyone.
Let alone a stranger I didn’t like.
But he so casually asked me about it when most people don’t care. I don’t want them to, either, because I don’t want to talk about it, but the fact that he could gauge things, read between the lines from miles and miles away, made me feel like he deserved an answer.
Not to mention, it was a good thing he was a stranger because the stakes were low and I was safe.
He made me feel safe.
So crazy but no less true.
And I realized today at the café that he had always done that before, made me feel safe, because at the time, he was doing the exact opposite. He was scaring me.
Which is why I’m doing this, I think.
Roaming the streets in the middle of the night when I should be in bed like the good girl I always claim myself to be.
My roommate and best friend is passed out on our couch, but instead of going to bed myself, I’m just outside the café where we met, and I’m turning the corner to go to a motel two blocks down.
Because that’s where he is.
Or at least that’s where I saw him go earlier today.
I never told Peyton this because I knew she would’ve hunted him down and given him a piece of her mind, but when he demanded that I leave, I did, but I didn’t go too far.
I barely made it outside before I had to find my balance and catch my breath.
Everything happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that my whole body was shaking.
So there I was, leaning against the brick wall just outside the café, trying to find my bearings and willing this deep ache to stop, when I saw him leave.
Something possessed me to follow him, and I did.
To this very motel I saw him disappear into.
To this very motel I’m walking into now. Because I’m angry, okay?
I’m angry at him for behaving the way he did.
For taking away my sense of safety. No man, not one single man, in my life has ever made me feel the way he did, all safe and cozy.
Like I could tell him anything and he’d listen.
And then he took it away like it didn’t matter.
Like none of the things we shared mattered. And maybe they didn’t, not to him.
Maybe he just wanted someone to kill time with while he was stuck on the inside. Maybe it was all fun and games until he saw me and cast me aside because I didn’t meet his expectations. But he isn’t getting off that easy. Not until I tell him exactly what I think about him.
Stupid asshole criminal cowboy.
The guy at the reception desk greets me with a smile that I’m not sure I return with equal enthusiasm. “Hi, I’m here to see Bo Porter. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”
“Sure, give me a second.” I watch him type things into his computer before he shakes his head. “Uh, Bo Porter, you said?” I nod and he shares, “We don’t have any Bo Porter currently booked in.”
“Are you sure?”
He keeps looking at the computer screen. “Yes. No Bo Porter. Are you sure you got the name right?”
I don’t know why, but his seemingly friendly and normal question makes something move in my belly. Something uncomfortable and heavy.
“Uh, I think so,” I say, swallowing. “I met him at the café just two blocks down this morning, and…” I stalked him and saw him enter this building, my brain finishes for me. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yup,” he says, watching me.
Again, there is nothing in his gaze that should scare me or make me feel not at ease. But I am scared, and I’m not at ease. I shift on my feet, my hands getting clammy. “So no tall guy wearing a trucker’s cap with a fancy R on it?”
I see recognition go through his features as soon as I say it, but he responds, “No, I don’t think so.”
“You’re lying,” I say, surprising him.
Surprising myself.
I’m not confrontational. At all.
But this, I need to know.
“I don’t…” He takes a breath. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Tell me his name.”
It seemed like the most important question to ask. For obvious reasons and for reasons I don’t understand yet.
His eyes widen a little bit, but he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do know,” I insist. “You’re lying.”
“I’m—”
“Look”—I lean over the desk a little and his eyes go even wider—“I understand you may not be allowed to give out this information. Believe me, I do. I understand. But I need you to do this for me, okay? I need you to tell me. I need you to…” I swallow thickly, my emotions sitting right in the center of my throat.
“You don’t know me but I’m very smart. I am.
And I’m telling this to you so you know how stupid I’ve been.
So, see, I’ve been writing letters to this man, right?
For the past six months and I knew it was a bad idea.
I knew it was crazy and insane and… And then he told me he wanted to meet me and so I went, right? But then he…”
I take a deep breath here, clutching the edge of the desk, trying to get myself under control. I wasn’t planning on dumping the entire story on him, and in a way that makes so little sense. I was just… I wanted him to understand that I need to know.
It’s imperative that I know.
I open my mouth to apologize, but the guy, looking really spooked and confused, blurts out, “Grayson.”
“What?”
He glances over to the computer for a second before coming back to me. “Arsenal Grayson.” I watch him going for the phone by the computer. “I could just give him a call and tell him you’re here and…”
He says something else, but I miss it.
I miss it because I rush out of there. Even if I had stayed back there, I know I couldn’t have heard him over the loud, loud pounding of my heart. The loud fucking rush of blood in my veins.
Grayson. Did he say Grayson?
He said Grayson, didn’t he?
I need to get away from this place. I so fucking need to get away from here. I need to run.
So that’s what I do. I start running as soon as I hit the pavement, my footsteps even louder than my heart now. My breaths exploding out of my chest, my skin sweaty and prickly and tight. So tight that it feels like I will burst out of my own body.
But it’s fine.
It’s fine because if I keep running, if I get as far away as I can from the motel, from where he is, I’ll be okay. I’ll be alive.
Oh God.
Oh God, I can’t believe…
I can’t believe this is happening. This is…
But he’s Bo. He’s my Bo.
He can’t be a Grayson. He can’t be… There has to be a mistake. He’s not a Grayson. And he is absolutely not the same Grayson as the Graysons of the Rawhide ranch in Black Rock.
Because that would mean…
I don’t know what that would mean. All I know is that if I don’t get away, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill me because I’m from Wildfire ranch. It doesn’t even matter that I’m not a Turner. He’ll kill me simply because of my association, because the Graysons have vowed to kill every single one of us.
But again, I don’t get it. I don’t…
Then, in the next breath, all my thoughts explode and I burst out of my skin anyway because I hear him. I hear his footsteps. They’re loud and thudding. Pounding. So much so that the ground shakes beneath them and I lose my balance.
And then I can’t run anymore because he’s on me.
His arm is locked around my waist like a shackle, and my back is pressed against his chest. The chest that I dreamed about a million times over the last six months and the one that I saw at the café today.
The burly and broad and oh my God, so fucking hard chest that is leaving bruises on my body right now.
I open my mouth to scream, but something else entirely comes out. A ragged whisper, a plea: “Please, don’t hurt me.”
And then his big and rough hand closes over my mouth, and all hope for me is lost.