Chapter Ten The Dark Stallion
EIGHT YEARS AGO, I wanted to kill Hank Turner but failed.
They dragged me away before I could see the light go out of his eyes and charged me with attempted murder.
They were wrong.
I am a murderer.
I couldn’t kill him, but I did kill that night. And spending eight years behind bars isn’t enough for that. No amount of punishment is enough or is ever going to be enough for breaking the promise I made. But maybe if I avenge that night, I can begin to atone for it.
Although what I’m doing right now isn’t atoning.
Drinking cheap whiskey at a titty bar while getting a lap dance. I’d been to a few titty bars before I got put away, and strippers have never really been my thing. Something about their asses in every drunk asshole’s face seems to put me off.
I don’t like to share.
If my woman’s ass was anywhere near another man, he’d be going home without a face.
But I’m a man, and a man has certain needs. After being locked up for eight years with only my fist for company, those needs have, shall we say, grown. I’ve been trying to avoid them ever since I got out almost a week ago, but I can’t.
Not tonight.
Especially not tonight.
So I had to look up the nearest strip club on the GPS and drive down here.
Even though I don’t think it’s working. The girl on my lap is pretty good.
She knows when to bear down and just when to pull back.
Plus, she smells great. A little cloying for my taste, but overall it looks like she puts effort into keeping things classy.
If anyone could give me what I need tonight, it’d be her.
But so far, it isn’t happening. If anything, my need has grown further, and I’m getting pissed off at no relief.
“Just so you know, I can do a lot more than this, cowboy,” the woman in my lap whispers into my ear.
“How do you know I’m a cowboy?”
Still twisting over my lap, she takes me in. My cap first, followed by my face and then the rest of me. I know when a girl likes what she sees, and this one likes it a whole lot. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never taken advantage of looks thrown my way.
I have.
Before everything. Before my life changed.
“Big and strong body that can only come from backbreaking work,” she begins, “rough and scraped-up hands because you use them from sunup to sundown probably mucking the stalls or mending fences; sprawled thighs as if you’re sitting on a horse, not a chair.
And I know it’s dark and I can’t really tell, but I bet you’ve got a killer tan from working outside all day.
” She runs her eyes over me again and concludes, “A cowboy through and through.”
She’s right.
About some things.
My body is big and strong, and I do have a killer tan.
It’s just that it’s from working out in the prison exercise yard and sometimes using inmates as my personal punching bags when my anger at things got bad, not from working the fields.
And I do use my hands, but to stab motherfuckers who touch things that belong to me.
And no, I haven’t ridden a horse in eight years, but I remember how to because it’s a thing you never forget.
But all I say is, “So you meet a lot of cowboys, then?”
“It’s Montana. Every schmuck who comes through this door’s a cowboy.” Then, shrugging, she adds, “Or wants to be one.”
At this, a low chuckle escapes me because she’s right. For some reason, everyone wants to be a cowboy. But my father used to say there’s a difference between playing a cowboy and actually being one.
I don’t remember a lot about him because he died when I was twelve, but I do remember him saying this to my older brother: There are men who want to wear a Stetson and play at being wild, and then there are men who don’t need no hat to be wild.
They’re born with a wild heart and a wilder soul.
So they got no choice but to be on the back of a horse, riding into the wind and the sunset.
I always knew he was telling the truth, but I never knew how much until I got put away.
Trapped inside a cinder block with no wind or sunset.
I deserved it, though.
“But tell you what,” she goes, pulling me away from my thoughts and inching closer.
“What?”
“Only real cowboys know how to ride.”
Another chuckle. “Is that so?”
“And it’s your lucky day because I’m a cowgirl myself,” she says, smirking and writhing her hips with a renewed enthusiasm, probably to show off her skills. “So what do you say, cowboy, want a ride?”
I take her in again.
Dark hair piled on top of her head with tendrils falling all over her made-up face; lithe and toned body; tanned skin; skimpy lingerie. She’s a walking, talking wet dream, but unfortunately for me, not my dream.
Not only because most of my dreams have turned into nightmares filled with blood and fire and explosions. But also because, for the past six months, the few dreams that haven’t turned into nightmares are filled with letters in white envelopes and books and sociology and Heathcliff and Catherine.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my fingers fisted around the whiskey tumbler.
“Elektra.”
“Elektra,” I repeat.
“Yeah”—she keeps smiling as she takes her hand off the back of my chair and brings it to my face—“so how about—”
I grab her wrist just as she’s about to make contact.
And I will admit I do it tightly. So much so that she stops moving and frowns in confusion.
Not her fault; despite the gathering anger in my gut, I’ve been a perfect gentleman so far.
I haven’t groped her. I haven’t leered at her.
I haven’t crossed lines or boundaries. So I get why she’s confused.
But the thing is that I’m pissed.
I have no intention of taking it out on her; I’m an asshole but not one of those assholes. I just don’t like to be touched the way she was going to. I also don’t like to be lied to. Ironic, I know, but I did mention I was an asshole.
“Tell you what,” I begin, putting my whiskey down and flexing my fingers around her wrist, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you tell me your real name.”
“What?”
“Because it isn’t your real name, is it?”
“That’s—”
“Unless your mama actually wanted you to grow up and give lap dances for a living.”
She grinds her teeth for a few seconds before saying, “Here I thought you were different.”
“You got that by just grindin’ in my lap for ten minutes?”
“You’re just like the rest of ’em,” she spits out.
I hum. “I’m an asshole, yes; but I’m a different kind of asshole.”
She twists her hand in my grip. “I don’t think so.”
Still keeping a hold on her wrist, I shift in my seat and reach for my back pocket to get out my wallet.
As soon as she sees it, her struggles halt.
“Look around, look at all the guys in here; I don’t think they’ve got as much cash in their pocket as me.
That’s difference number one.” Letting go of her wrist, I take out the money.
“Difference number two: Even though you’ve just about bored me to death, I’ll still give it to you.
Because I can respect hard work. And finally, unlike all the wannabes who come here every day, I’m a real cowboy. ”
She eyes the cash in my hand, which is much more than a thousand dollars, before snatching it away and tucking it into her cleavage. Then, “You still wanna know my real name?”
“No,” I reply.
It’s not her real name I want to know anyway.
She hops off my lap and I’m out the door, walking to my car, when my phone rings in my pocket. It’s Radisson, my cousin and the one person who knows everything about me.
Before I got put away, we used to be partners in crime, working together on the ranch, riding together, starting shit together.
Well, I’d start shit and he’d cover for me, but yeah.
Growing up, we even had little nicknames for each other: I called him the Quiet Mustang because of his limited speech capabilities, and he called me the Dark Stallion because I was reckless and hence, dangerous.
There was a time I couldn’t imagine living my life without him in it.
Didn’t think I’d have to. But then what happened, happened, and here we are, eight years later.
I pick up the call, but before I can say anything, I hear, “Where the fuck are you?”
That doesn’t sound like Rad, and it wasn’t the voice I was hoping to hear on the other end.
But I guess it makes sense.
I wasn’t picking up his calls. Save for the one phone call I made the day I got out to let him know that I was out and safe, I haven’t really kept him in the loop.
So he got creative; my older brother doesn’t like to be ignored.
And well, Rad has always been a good boy; he can’t say no, especially to Marsden, the head of the family.
“I’m assuming,” I begin as I come to a halt beside my car, “you were polite when you asked Rad for his phone so you could call me.”
Mars breathes out sharply. “Believe it or not, he wouldn’t give it to me. Had to steal it off his saddle when he was makin’ rounds in the bunkhouse during dinner.”
Along with being our cousin, Rad also happens to be the foreman at the ranch.
Meaning, he’s in charge of everything from the upkeep and operations to the ranch hands.
He’s the second-most-important man at Rawhide, the first being Mars since he’s the one signing everyone’s paychecks.
If anyone deserves that role, it’s Rad. He’s dedicated his entire life to Rawhide.
While I’ve done the same, my goal was never to stay.
I wanted to get out of there one day, build my own life, my own ranch.
I shift on my feet. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Mars bites out, his tone laced with disbelief.
“You called me for a reason, didn’t you? What is it?”
I hear a sharp breath coming from the other side. “I called you because you’re not home yet. Because you keep avoidin’ my calls. Because you were released a week ago but I know fuck all about what you’re doin’.” Another breath, this one just as sharp as the last. “Well, up until today.”