Chapter 7
Juliet
The first conscious breath tasted like fresh cotton and freedom.
Not the perfumed jasmine of my usual morning haze back in New York, but oil-stained desert blooming plants and dry prairie air seeping through the barely opened window.
My fingers curled into cotton sheets still holding the chill of desert nights as the dream residue slipped away—something about running through sagebrush, earth crunching deliciously beneath…
I jerked upright, palm pressed to my racing heart.
The movement sent my hair tumbling down from the loose hair tie that had held the messy bun I’d slept in last night.
A recent conversation with Pearl looped behind my eyelids when I blinked, her sweet voice slicing through the bar’s whiskey haze.
“Black doesn’t suit an angel like you, darlin’. ”
The mirror above the apartment’s sink showed the damage.
Midnight dye job bleeding violet at the roots, bangs hacked just short enough to graze my lashes.
A thrift store disguise stitched together with drugstore recklessness.
My reflection wavered like a heat mirage over pavement, part runaway debutante, part scavenged roadkill.
Coffee grounds hissed as I dumped them into the filter, the sound syncopating with gravel popping under tires out on County Road 14.
A few weeks since I’d traded marble foyers for this cute little one-bedroom filled with hopes, fear, and ambition.
My pinky finger tapped the arrhythmic Morse code against the butcher block countertop—not going back, not going back, not—
A wolf’s howl split the predawn stillness.
Or maybe just the wind through the canyon.
I gripped my mug tighter, lukewarm liquid sloshing onto my skin.
The memory arrived unbidden. Last night’s moon hanging low and heavy as a bullet hole in the sky, that chorus of animal cries reverberated in my marrow.
Something had answered deep in my gut, a primal string plucked hard enough to make my molars ache.
I made my way to my sweet little bathroom to wash my face and get my teeth brushed.
Bronc’s knuckles rapped twice on the metal door. “You decent?”
I spat toothpaste froth into the sink and rinsed then headed to the door. “Define decent.”
"Put some pants on; we’re heading to breakfast before work."
A small smile split my face as I yelled through the door, “Down in a minute!”
The smell of burnt coffee grounds and sourdough toast followed me into Dairyville’s only twenty-four-hour diner.
I stopped off in the restroom to fix my hair that had fallen out of my hair tie.
God, what a mess. Bronc already occupied the corner booth; two mugs already sat steaming between placemats stained with decades of pancake syrup when I returned.
His leather cut lay draped over the vinyl seatback like a second skin shed for my benefit.
“They’re out of oat milk.” He didn’t look up from dismantling a sugar packet, calloused fingers precise as a bomb technician’s. “Got you the cinnamon swirl French toast special.”
I slid into the booth, knees brushing denim under the table. “How’d you know?”
“Noticed you doctoring your coffee with enough sugar to put a diabetic in a coma.” His boot tapped mine—accidental? Deliberate? The laminated menu trembled in my grip. “Figured French toast fell in the same category.”
Three truckers at the counter swiveled on their stools when my laugh came out unbidden. Bronc’s gaze tracked their reflection in the dust-specked mirror behind me. Something feral glinted beneath his civility, there and gone like the flick of a switch.
“Those wolves were at it again last night.” I stirred creamer into my coffee, watching the liquid spiral into caramel depths. “Closer this time.”
His teaspoon stilled mid-stir. Silver glinted at his temples where the diner’s fluorescents caught threads of gray. “Probably coyotes. Sound carries funny over the plains at—”
“I know what I heard.” The words emerged steadier than I felt. My left palm itched, strange sensations suddenly flaring. “Five distinct voices. One deeper than the others. Lower register, almost…”
Almost human. The unspoken words vibrated between us. Bronc’s knuckles whitened around his mug. Across the diner, the waitress’s voice carried through the service window as she berated a line cook about over-easy yolks.
He leaned back; the booth creaking under his weight. Sunlight through greasy windows caught the amber flecks in his eyes. “You always this obsessed with local wildlife?”
“Only the ones that sound like they’re harmonizing.” My smile felt stretched too tight. “Funny thing—whenever they start up, my… Never mind.”
Bronc’s eyebrow quirked. Heat flooded my cheeks as last night’s dream resurged—hot and vivid as the Texas sun.
**Four hours earlier**
Calloused palms skimmed my ribs. The scent of motor oil and sagebrush.
Warmth pooled low in my belly as teeth grazed the juncture of throat and shoulder.
Not pain—promise. Bronc’s voice rougher than denim wash, whispered things that made my toes curl in cotton sheets.
“Knew you’d taste like trouble…” Then his face was between my legs, lapping at me like a dog drinking after being on a long run.
All the way up from center to my clit. God, it was so real.
I’d awoken gasping, thighs clenched around nothing, every nerve ending shrieking. The AC unit’s hum had done nothing to cool the furnace under my skin. Through my apartment’s thin walls, the distant howl of wolves had threaded through my panting breaths. Aching. Beckoning.
Now, across this small table, Bronc cleared his throat. “You okay? You’re doing that starey thing.”
“Hmm?” I nearly dropped my fork. “Just… thinking about something. Sorry.”
His smirk said he knew exactly where my mind had wandered. Bastard.
The motorcycle shop’s bell jangled like a drunk’s laugh when I pushed through the glass door two hours later.
It seemed like everything lately came down to scent.
Bronc’s office smelled of WD-40 and questions—the lingering ghosts of cigarettes smoked by previous accountants.
I traced a finger along the ledger’s cracked spine, the numbers inside whispering secrets in binary code.
I had quickly found four thousand dollars unaccounted for in spare parts orders. Invoices for Harley-Davidson tires dated six months after the company switched suppliers. A separate bank account with transactions timed to club runs. My finger split the calculator tape clean down the middle.
“Problem?” Maddie leaned against the doorframe, polishing a chrome fender with her grease-stained apron. I’d met Bronc’s sister a week ago and instantly fell in love. Her resemblance to Bronc tightened my throat—same stubborn jaw, same predator’s grace.
“Just cross-checking inventory.” I flipped the ledger closed. The lie tasted like pennies. “Your brother keeps messy books.”
She choked out a laugh. “Sounds about right. Or at least his past bookkeepers did. I’m bettin’ you don’t though.” She gave me a Hollywood smile before she walked back into the shop.
The ancient wall clock ticked off three minutes after she left. I reopened the ledger, red flags blooming across spreadsheets like bloodstains. Three vendors listed under PO boxes near Amarillo. Two with phone numbers disconnected. One registered to a defunct LLC dissolved in 2019.
My pen hovered over the damning figures.
Bronc’s laughter rumbled through the shop walls as he haggled with a customer over exhaust pipe modifications.
He put a premium on trust. And it looked like someone he should have been able to put his faith in was ripping him off.
Trust warred with self-preservation—a familiar tango.
What did $4,000 buy in Dairyville? Silence?
Complicity? A shallow grave out by the canyon? I was new to the whole equation.
I promised Bronc I’d find out who was doing what. And I would. But I’d wait until I’d mapped it all out..
I tucked the evidence between innocent columns of numbers, a razor blade hidden in cotton candy. Bronc’s shadow fell across the desk as evening painted the shop in oil-slick rainbows.
“Ready for your ride home, Miss Daisy?”
His thumb brushed mine, reaching for the ledger. Electricity arced between us—the same charge as in my dream. His nostrils flared like he could smell the memory on me.
“Everything balanced?” He asked for the benefit of anyone who could hear.
“Like a house of cards.” I smiled sweetly, shutting the ledger with finality. “You should really consider QuickBooks.”
His laughter followed me to the door, warm and dangerous. Outside, the first stars pricked through bruised purple skies. Somewhere beyond the town limits, wolves began to sing.
Receipts, purchase orders, and work orders going back months and into the previous year started to reveal a pattern. An overcharge here, a back order not received but paid there. It added up. I needed to tell Bronc. And I would, once I knew what was really happening.
The shop’s overhead bell jangled like prison keys. I didn’t look up from the ledger until cherry-red stilettos clicked into my peripheral vision.
“Christ on a bender. You weren’t kidding about the Morticia vibe.”
Maddie stood there, arms crossed beneath a leather corset that looked weaponized. Her dark hair slicked back into a high ponytail. “We’re stripping that box dye tonight, yeah? Got Tina mixing the bleach cocktail over at Shear Ecstasy.”
My fingers crept to the brittle ends of my hair. “Oh, yeah?”
“My big bro’s never asked me to play fairy godmother before. But he arranged this little intervention.” Her love and admiration for Bronc shone on her face. “Figured you must be really special.” My heart might have skipped a beat.
The drive to the salon was short and revealing. Maddy slapped the steering wheel along to mewithoutyou. “So. You screwing my brother yet?”
I choked on the seatbelt.