21. Tee
Tee
W hen I wake up, my face is buried in Cody’s throat.
He smells so fucking good. There’s a musk that wasn’t there before, and I know it’s from what we did.
Just as I’m certain I need to pinch myself, he’s stirring.
He stretches.
Then stills.
And I can feel the moment he realizes where he is and what he’s doing and who I am.
My heart lodges beside my epiglottis—half certain he’ll want to escape, renege, that he’ll?—
No, he wasn’t drunk.
Neither was I.
One beer doesn’t make a man of Cody’s size over the limit, and he’s a cop! He’d know.
No beer goggles were in play and?—
Wait, it was nonalcoholic beer he was drinking?—
“I know you’re awake.”
My gaze darts over the sky that’s streaked with oranges and reds and purples as day breaks. It’s beautiful. Glorious. But it’s stained, tainted with my fear.
So, of course, I fall back on my usual crotchety self. “If my pussy has mosquito bites on it—” He jolts in surprise at my words. “—then I expect you to make it up to me.”
I can feel how my cooch is totally exposed to the elements, and it’d be just my luck that lesbian mosquitos would want a taste of me.
He relaxes. “Want me to apply calamine lotion?”
Okay. He’s not running.
“Eww, no. That doesn’t help. That’s for poison oak. You can apply aloe vera though,” I offer, like a princess gifting a starving commoner a loaf of bread. “You’re fully dressed. I bet they never bit you.”
“I guess we’ll see later, won’t we?”
We?
Hell, yeah.
“I’m ready for inspection, soldier,” I offer, well aware my voice is a purr.
He snorts. Then, he hesitates.
As a chant of, No, no, no, sweeps through my mind, his lips are opening and they’re forming the worst words in the world:
“We need to talk.”
“About how an orgasm feels?”
“No, Tee?—”
“About how I finally came after a lifetime of mediocre lays?”
“I—”
“About how your filthy mouth is so fucking hot?—”
“Tee,” he barks. “I have to tell you something.”
“No, you don’t. Unless it’s, ‘Let’s go back to my room so I can dick you down.’ If it is, then I’m all ears.”
He releases an exasperated sigh. “You’d try the patience of a saint.”
“Can confirm—they broke in an hour.”
“I bet.” His hand smoothes over my chin. There’s a severity in his expression, a solemnity that makes my heart pound. “I’m not who you think I am.”
Whatever the fuck he was going to say, I didn’t expect that.
“Are you an alien?” I whisper.
“No.”
A girl can hope.
“Are you in a skin suit like Edgar from Men in Black ?”
“No, I?—”
“You—”
“Tee, I’m Butch Cassidy.”
I stare at him.
A million thoughts flutter into being, but the solemnity in his expression hitches and his brow furrows, triggering a wealth of emotions that flash over his expression.
Regret.
Shame.
Fear.
I’m not sure which one keys me into what he’s actually saying.
“We’ve been writing?—”
I stare at him.
Really stare.
Regret .
Shame .
Fear.
A rush of sound echoes in my ears—a piercing F-minor note that warbles from my oboe, merging with a clash of cymbals as the truth ruptures everything .
“I know who you are, dammit,” I snarl, shoving away from him and leaping off the back of the pickup.
Pushing down my skirt, I pace.
The whip of the fabric against my thighs, my heartbeat rushing in my ears, the stomp of my feet, the whisper of the dust as it surges and falls with every step I take has the pitiful adagio mesto slowly morphing into another Wagner-esque crescendo. The vibrations and the bass make the riotous noise from the bikes last night sound like murmurs.
Vindictive words bubble on the tip of my tongue. The urge to plant used panties in the coffee beans he prefers flutters to the forefront of my mind. Hell, I’m two minutes away from booking a flight to Savannah and hunting down a gris-gris. No manbo could ever disagree with my right to torment him.
But I don’t have a voodoo priestess in my contacts.
Nor do I have a set of coffee beans with me.
“You’re lucky I don’t have a crystal close at hand.”
“I’d deserve it if you threw it at me.”
My hands tunnel into fists. “Oh, no, I’d make you choke on it.”
His throat bobs, but the worst part? I can tell he’s relieved. That confession is a weight off his shoulders. Now, he’s shoved that burden onto me.
I stare at him, full of outrage. But it’s a balloon. One prick of a needle and that’s it—the explosion is imminent. My biggest fear is that I won’t scream at him, but start sobbing.
“I want to talk to Zee.”
He winces but nods.
Wisely, he keeps his trap shut as he jumps out of the box. Dust motes dance around his boots as he trudges over to the passenger door. Ever the goddamn gentleman until where it really counts.
Maybe it’s how unrattled he is aside from his eyes… Maybe it’s the fact that he’s chivalrous after he broke something tenuous between us… It triggers a roar, one worthy of the roll of kettledrums as a backdrop while I hunch my shoulders low and channel Kow Bukowski as I tackle him.
But I don’t bring him down.
Oh, no.
I don’t stop my forward momentum.
“What the hell?” he sputters, but he underestimates me because he doesn’t stop me. He twists in my hold and calls out, “Tee! What are you?—”
But his words are useless.
He’s going down.
Right now.
His boots skid against the dust, kicking it up and making me want to cough, but it doesn’t stop my roar as I shove him onward.
I brake only when his body collides with the water. He staggers back, arms windmilling until he plunks into the lake.
As his hair whips back in an arc, he scowls at me from the shallows.
Again, he shows some intelligence by refraining from scolding me. If anything, he doesn’t utter a word.
He stares at me, and I stare at him.
Then, voice croaky because who knew roaring that much would hurt, I grind out, “You can get your own ride home.”
Then, I scurry to his truck, hop, skip, and high-jump into the cab because it’s so fucking tall, and somehow, I manage to take off before he can get out of the lake.
A wild, wicked laugh soars from me as I put the pedal to the metal and hightail it out of there on terrain that shouldn’t be tackled at one hundred and forty clicks per hour, but there’s no one around and we’re in the middle of nowhere and?—
Five minutes in, the guilt hits.
The radio egged me on with Miley Cyrus’s “Flowers,” my unexpected anthem, as I fled the scene. But one too many tumbleweeds pass me by as the song fades onto another one on the radio—Sting’s “Every Breath You Take.” I immediately silence the tune. Those lyrics won’t amp up my mad, only reduce it.
But the damage is done.
“It’s really isolated out here.”
Impossibly, the farther out I drive, the more isolated it seems.
In the dark, it looks like a ghost town. In the light, you can’t help but notice how we’re out in the middle of nowhere.
“What if those bikers come back?” I tug on my bottom lip. “We didn’t hear them make their return journey to the city yet.”
Eventually, I have to brake and idle as I war with myself.
He hurt me.
He lied.
He betrayed me.
He dumped me.
He Dear Johned me!
He said he knew Butch and confirmed he was an asshole.
He got me off.
He made me feel a pleasure like I’ve never experienced before.
He made me smile.
He made me feel good about myself.
He fed me.
He...
I release an annoyed growl because, clearly, I wasn’t made to be Thelma or Louise.
Only, as I turn around, that straight line I figured I was traveling in... not so straight.
“You listened to Miley Cyrus, then you had your first guilt trip. Then you hummed for—” I blink. “Two minutes? You reached the kettledrum trill on the first movement. That’s, what? Five minutes?”
With a rough estimation that I drove like a madwoman for ten minutes at least, I pull into a sharp curve and hurtle back to the lake.
Except, it isn’t there.
THE LAKE ISN’T THERE.
“How did it move?” I wail, hearing the internal glockenspiel and the tambourines clattering with the impending disaster.
I stop the truck and perch on the footboard so that I can overlook the terrain.
“Water, water, everywhere but not a drop to drink!”
The shriek has some birds fluttering and soaring into the sky. Jolting in surprise, I almost fall off the truck so, quickly, I resettle myself in the driver’s seat.
Panic lodges at the back of my throat.
“It’s not like I can call Colt to ask where I am. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where he is. You idiot, Tee! What the fuck were you thinking?”
In my agitation, I accidentally slam my foot on the accelerator and the truck jerks forward a few feet. The sudden action has my purse tumbling over. I stare at the mess on the passenger footwell and see my notepad.
Last night, everything had been so simple.
“Why didn’t I flirt with Millie? Sure, she could have been a serial killer but—” My shriek breaks off. “Serial killers. Oh my god. What if there’s one here? He’s not a blonde chick, but men die in horror movies too.” My fingers choke the steering wheel. “They have coyotes out here. What if a coyote eats him? I’m too pretty to go to prison,” I squeal.
My ridiculousness shuts me up, and I rake together every iota of information I have on the apex predators.
“Coyotes are nocturnal hunters.” Reassuring. “They hunt in pairs.” Less so.
Overactive imagination kickstarted again, I rage, “It’s a goddamn lake, Christy MacFarlane! Not exactly easy to fucking miss. What the hell is wrong with you? It was a STRAIGHT line!”
That’s when I see them.
If we were in a desert, I’d think they were a mirage.
But they’re not.
The Three Stooges.
The three hellhounds.
THE MCALLISTER TRIPLETS.
“Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God. I promise I’ll go to church this Sunday... Okay, maybe not this Sunday, but next Sunday. Yes. Next Sunday. I... well, I can’t promise because you wouldn’t want me to lie to you, but how about between this year and next year, I’ll go to church.” A vengeful gleam lights up my eyes. “And I’ll bring that rat bastard with me.” That decided, I lower the window and holler, “Demon spawn, I need your help!”
The triplets’ heads whip around in tandem. Honestly, they should have been dancers with how in sync they are together.
Maybe cheerleaders?
It’s weird to think my BFF’s brothers are cute, right?
Yup.
Moving on.
(Apparently, I have a thing for Zee’s siblings.)
(Do I have a thing for Zee too? Oops.)
“Tee?” I think it’s Calder who hollers back at me.
“Yes!! I need you.”
For some reason, that has them all nudging their horses into moving and making their approach to my idling truck in a line.
Calder—yeah, it’s definitely him. I recognize that chin—swoops his hat off and bows over it. “How can we help, my lady?”
“You been watching A Knight’s Tale again?” I demand, his foolishness calming me.
They’re smart—they know this land better than I do.
Cody won’t die from being coyote kibble.
I won’t go to prison for manslaughter.
And maybe I can nix my deal with God about church?—
No, no, no.
(I totally shouldn’t have made that deal.)
Carson grunts. “It’s hot that she knows we love that movie.”
“I heard that,” I retort. “Anyway, I know everything about you. Was there when you were born and everything.”
Calder’s nose wrinkles. “Can we forget that?”
“What? Your jaundiced coneheads and tiny penises?”
“They’re not tiny anymore,” Colby blusters.
“That’s between you and the ruler you measure with. Now, I really need your help,” I plead. “Where’s the nearest lake?”
“You mean our lakes or Lake Ontario?”
“Why the fuck would I mean Lake Ontario?”
“God, she’s hot,” Carson groans.
Okay, I preen.
(Look, I’ve had a troubling few days. And nights. Can’t forget the nights.)
“The lakes, you know, the three ones. Your ones.”
“Ohh,” Calder muses, scratching his chin—when did he grow a beard? “Why?”
“Because I may have abandoned a billionaire there.”
His brows lift. “Is this a kidnapping? What did Colt do?” A militant glitter appears in his eyes, and at that moment, though he shares nothing in common with Walker appearance-wise, he’s the spitting image of my long-term crush.
“His dipshit brother,” I correct with a croak.
“Callan? Ooh, can we get in on it?” Colby chimes in. “He’s so fucking annoying.”
“No. The other one. And it isn’t a kidnapping. It’s more of an abandoning in a huff and then realizing it might take ten days to walk back to the ranch and it’s hot right now and there could be coyotes who’ll eat him. Can you drink lake water? Sure. Yes. Of course you can. There’s no agricultural runoff around here.” Panicked, I tug at my ears. “None of this was planned.”
“Sounds like it. Should be more organized if it’s a kidnapping.”
I scowl at Calder. “It isn’t a kidnapping!”
“You sure? What’s the ransom demand? Is Zee in on this?”
“No. We argued and I may have pushed him into the lake and stolen his truck.”
Carson whistles. “Grand theft auto. Neat.”
“This isn’t grand theft auto,” I counter.
“I mean, technically, it is,” Calder agrees, leaning over to stroke his mount’s ears when they flick off a fly. “You know how much these trucks cost?”
“I dunno. Ten thousand?”
Carson barks out a laugh. “This model?”
Colby chuckles. “So there is some shit you don’t know.”
“More like a hundred and thirty K,” Calder informs me.
“ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS?” I squeak. “Who the fuck spends that on a pickup?”
“Billionaires,” the triplets say of one voice.
“Fuck. My. Life. This is grand theft auto. If I ever thought I was capable of that, I figured I’d steal a Ferrari, you know?” I bite my lip. “Who goes to prison for stealing a pickup when you could hotwire a sports car? Talk about the lamest?—”
“She’s crazy,” Carson whispers.
“You thought about stealing a Ferrari?” Colby inquires, his brows surging.
“Sure. Who hasn’t?”
They clear their throats.
In unison.
Goddammit, that’s annoying.
“Not really. I don’t think about prison in a ‘it’s at the top of my bucket list of places to visit’ kind of way.” Calder tips his hat low. “Despite my brushes with the law lately.”
“ Brushes .” Carson snorts. “You were a tagger, Calder. Not Scarface.”
I purse my lips. “Okay, less reminiscing, more directing. Where’s the bastard? I’d prefer minimum to maximum security because I accidentally left a man to die in the wilderness.”
Colby’s brows lift. “Bastard?”
“Yes. He’s lucky I only tossed him in the lake.”
“I’ve seen him. Bro’s massive. How the fuck did you do that anyways? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Carson demands, sitting straighter on his saddle.
“Only my fucking soul.”
They all appear taken aback, but Calder concedes, “We’ll guide you if you want. Good blackmail material for when one of us busts our truck.”
“You mean you,” Carson grouses.
“I mean us ,” Calder snipes.
“Won’t the truck’s engine frighten the horses?”
“Nah. They’re used to it. Aren’t you, Buttercup?” he croons at his mount.
I smile as they tap their horses’ sides with their heels, but I can’t hear their chatter over the engine, which leaves me worrying about stealing a marshal’s truck.
“A hundred and thirty k?” I screech as I side-eye the fancy dash. More agitated than ever, I shout, “Can we go a bit faster, boys?”
“Sure thing, Tee,” Calder shouts back as they nudge their rides into a canter.
Though I accelerate, I hold off from revving the engine too much so that I don’t frighten the horses, and then, with jitters making my knees jump, I follow, wondering how the fuck I got so lost while traveling in a straight line.
Eventually, I see the lake and take a wide berth past the horses as I speed up toward the shore, hollering, “Thank you, hellions! I owe you one. You can go now.”
In the rearview mirror, I see Calder salute me before they turn the horses around. That comes as a surprise, but I take it as a win since this next part will happen without witnesses.
When I see Cody sitting on the shore, relief hits me.
A part of me feared he might have started walking off, maybe gotten lost amid the wilderness (though admittedly, it’s not a jungle) and that something might have eaten him.
But he’s there.
Safe.
That’s that damn elite pilot training coming in handy. (Damn that training!) My taxes—my mom and dad’s—helped keep the jerkface alive!
He’s resting his arms on his knees, appearing the epitome of relaxed with nary a coyote in sight.
I’m both mollified and annoyed.
He doesn’t look back when I brake behind him.
I wasn’t going to run him over or anything, but he could have at least shrieked.
“Note to self, don’t leave the keys in the ignition whenever I’m around you.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I bite out, “You’re lucky you’re a cop.”
“Why? You already stole my truck and left me in the middle of nowhere,” he says softly as I stomp over to him, trying to hide from that something something in his expression which has me squirming.
No, that isn’t wonder, is it?
It’s relief.
Yeah. Relief.
But still, his calm tells me he knew I’d come back.
Damn him.
“I’d kick you if you were a regular Joe,” I snipe.
His tongue prods his cheek. “I’d deserve it.”
“Yes, you would. YOU ASSHOLE. How could you do this to me? How could you cut and run?” I yell. “Then, how could you have kept it a secret that we knew one another?! We had a connection. I know we did. I wasn’t making that up. I was waiting for you. I knew you’d come home, and I was so sure that we’d hit it off in real life, and we fucking did and you never said anything! You bastard!”
“Technically, I did.”
“After you got me off.”
He digs his thumb and finger into his eyes. “I didn’t mean to take advantage of you.”
“Well, you did, and fuck if I didn’t like it.” I stomp ten feet away from him and plunk myself down. Because my eyes prick with tears, I close them as I fall backward onto the lakeshore. “You are the worst.”
“I know.”
“You suck.”
“I do.”
“You...” My bottom lip quivers. “You broke my fucking heart.”
“I...” He releases a breath. “I’m sorry.”
The words settle between us but...
I want to say it’s enough, yet it isn’t.
That letter... Those words are imprinted on the backs of my eyelids.
I knew I was waiting for him, while I also knew it was dumb. But it was only when he cut me loose that I realized how much I’d pinned my hopes on him. That kind of connection was unique—I’ve been on enough dates to recognize the difference.
Hurting, raw, wounded, the low, mournful cry of an English horn slips through my mind. Choking on it, I ask, “Are you going to arrest me?”
“What for? You brought the truck back and didn’t strip it for parts, did you?”
His serene tone fucks with me.
Why isn’t he shouting? Why aren’t we arguing?
God, he’s annoying. And unexpected. Which is part of the reason why I liked him.
Why I was falling for him.
Why I fell for him.
My hands plant on the shore and I tug on the little sprout of grass that’s spurted through the sand.
The urge to yank it out, then toss it at him is real, but I know my throwing skills aren’t that good, plus it’s not the grass’s fault he’s a douchebag par excellence.
“Is it really worth over a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Special edition.”
“There are special edition trucks?”
“There are.”
I huff.
Though the sun’s risen, the sky’s still moody enough that I don’t need shades. Doesn’t stop me from covering my eyes with my forearm.
“Fuck, are you crying?”
“No,” I weep. “I’m goddamn not.”
Apparently, tears are his weakness. Because the next thing I know, he’s beside me and, in short order, I’m being dragged onto his lap and he’s holding me. His arms are so strong and his lap is so solid, and the hug is exactly what I knew it would be— everything .
He holds me like he never wants to let me go, but he did.
He fucking did.
I fight his hold on me, dragging myself off his lap, almost tumbling into the water in my haste to get away from him.
Landing on my knees, I jump up, swipe my now-sandy and dusty cheeks. “I want to go back to the homestead.”
He releases a sigh but brings his hands up to his face and scrubs them over it. Dirt streaks his cheeks too, but the fact that we’re similarly disheveled brings me no comfort.
Neither does the sorrow in his expression.
I can read it as well as I can sheet music.
He doesn’t say anything though. Doesn’t try to convince me to stay or to argue that he’s sorry or anything. No. He stays silent. Doesn’t make excuses. Doesn’t agree that we had a connection. Doesn’t apologize again. Just gets to his feet and squelches over to the truck.
We ride in silence back to the ranch, and somehow, withthis man I’ve always written long letters to, always had so much to say to, I’m out of words.