Chapter 3 Rhett #2
Colt is standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, that infuriating smirk still in place. The firelight catches in his dark hair, throwing shadows across his face.
“Just getting a drink,” I say flatly.
“Right.” He steps closer, and I can smell him—tobacco and whiskey. “You look good, Thornwood.”
“Look, I don’t know what you think, but I’m straight. So, whatever game you’re playing—”
“Relax.” Colt cuts me off with a laugh, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Jesus Christ, Thornwood. I said you look good, not that I want to fuck you. Calm the fuck down.”
Heat floods my face—anger, embarrassment, something else I don’t want to name. “I’m just saying—”
“You’re just saying you’re straight. Got it. Loud and clear.” His smile sharpens into something mocking. “Don’t worry, Golden Boy. You’re not my type anyway.”
The dismissal stings, but allows me to unclench my jaw a tad.
“See you at the ranch.” He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and hands shaking.
What the fuck was that?
I down the beer in three long pulls and head back to the fire, to Molly.
When she sees me, her whole face lights up. “There you are! I was starting to miss you.”
“Sorry,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist. She leans into me, and I force myself not to stiffen.
The bonfire burns higher as the night wears on.
Someone’s brought out a guitar, and people are singing off-key, drunk and happy.
Mrs. Patterson is taking photos for the community page, the Martin girl is laughing at something Dawson said, her hand on his arm, and Cash is in a heated debate about football with some guys from his graduating class.
Molly’s in my lap now, her arms around my neck, and she’s laughing at something someone said.
Her fingers play with the hair at the nape of my neck.
Across the fire, I catch Colt watching me.
He’s leaned back against a truck, beer in hand, seemingly engaged in conversation with someone I don’t recognize, but his eyes are on me, tracking every movement.
“Kiss me,” Molly says suddenly, her voice soft and sweet, pulling me back to the present.
My stomach drops. Everyone’s watching … or at least, it feels like everyone’s watching. Mom definitely has her phone out again.
This is the moment. The picture-perfect moment that will end up on social media with a dozen heart emojis and comments about how cute we are. About what a great couple we make. About how lucky we both are.
So, I kiss her.
I press my lips to hers, tasting the strawberry chapstick she always wears, feeling her sigh against my mouth.
When I pull back, I catch Colt’s eye across the flames. He’s staring at me with something dark and unreadable in his expression, his jaw tight, knuckles white around his beer bottle. Then he lifts it in a slow salute before turning away and disappearing into the crowd.
The party winds down slowly. Families with young kids leave first, then the older folks. By eleven, it’s mostly people my age.
Cash has his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into some story about a fishing trip gone wrong, and Dawson’s laughing so hard he’s crying.
“Remember when Rhett hooked his own hat?” Dawson wheezes. “Had to cut the line and everything.”
“It was my favorite hat,” I protest, but I’m smiling, despite myself.
“Dad laughed so hard he almost fell out of the boat,” Cash says.
These are the moments I cling to, when I’m just one of the Thornwood brothers, sharing stories and beer under a summer sky.
“Your girl’s looking tired.” Cash observes, nodding toward where Molly’s sitting with a group of girls. She does look tired, or maybe just disappointed. I’ve gotten good at seeing the difference.
“Yeah, I should probably get her home.”
“You gonna actually do something about it this time?” Cash asks. “Dude, it’s been three months. I know you’re not a virgin, so what’s the holdup?”
It’s the question everyone wants to ask, but only Cash is drunk enough to voice.
“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s closer to the truth than any lie I could come up with. “It’s just … I don’t know.”
Cash studies me for a moment, his expression softening. “She’s a good girl, Rhett. If you’re not feeling it, that’s fine. But don’t string her along just because you think you’re supposed to be with her. That’s not fair to either of you.”
The advice is more thoughtful than I expected from my drunk little brother.
I collect Molly, make the rounds, saying goodbye, and head to my truck. As I’m opening the door for her, I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
Colt, leaning against a tree at the edge of the property, cigarette glowing in the dark.
Watching like a goddamn creep.
I drive Molly home, her hand on my thigh the whole way, her voice soft as she talks about the week ahead. About summer plans now that school’s out and she won’t be teaching. About how much she’s looking forward to spending more time together.
“I’m thinking we could go to that farmer’s market next Saturday,” she’s saying. “The one in Millbrook? They have those handmade soaps I like, and there’s supposed to be live music …”
I nod in the right places—make appropriate sounds. But I’m not really listening.
I’m thinking about Colt. About what it means that he’s going to be at the ranch all summer—every single day—working side by side with me. About how I’m going to survive three months with that asshole.
When I pull up to Molly’s house, she turns to me with that hopeful look in her eyes. The one I’ve been seeing more and more lately.
“Do you want to come in? My parents are asleep.”
The invitation is crystal clear. She’s been hinting at it for weeks—that she’s ready. That she wants to take things to the next level. That she’s waiting for me to make a move.
I should want this. Any normal twenty-three-year-old guy would jump at this opportunity.
But the thought of going inside, of touching her like that, of having to pretend I’m into it when all I feel is indifference … I can’t. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, with her.
“I can’t tonight,” I hear myself say, and the relief that floods through me is damning. “Early morning tomorrow. Dad wants to check the fence line in the east pasture at dawn.”
It’s not even a lie. Dad did mention it, but that’s not why I’m saying no.
Disappointment flashes across her face before she hides it behind a smile. She’s getting good at hiding it—at pretending she doesn’t notice how I pull away. How I make excuses. How I can’t seem to give her what she needs.
“Okay. Rain check?”
“Yeah. Rain check.”
She kisses me again, lingering, trying to pull some kind of response from me. Her hand comes up to cup my face, and I force myself to lean into it, to not flinch away. To be what she needs for just a few more seconds.
When she finally pulls back, there’s something sad in her eyes. Something that makes my chest ache with guilt and shame and a helplessness I don’t know how to fix.
“Rhett,” she says quietly—carefully, like she’s stepping around landmines. “Are we okay?”
The question I’ve been dreading.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I don’t know. You just seem…distant lately. Like you’re somewhere else. Like you’re not really here with me.”
She’s not wrong.
“I’m here,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I’m just tired. Work’s been busy, and with summer starting, Dad’s got a million projects lined up.”
She nods, wanting to believe me—needing to believe me. “Okay. Text me tomorrow?”
“I will.”
I watch her walk to her door, then watch her turn and wave before disappearing inside. I sit in my truck in her driveway, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, expecting a text from Molly—something sweet about tonight. About how much she enjoyed seeing me. About looking forward to tomorrow.
It’s not.
Unknown Number:
That was painful to watch. Does your dick even work or are you just that much of a pussy?
My blood runs cold, then hot. I stare at the screen, my pulse hammering in my ears.
What the fuck?
Who is this? Who was watching us?
Before I can process it, another text comes through.
Unknown Number:
Three months and you still can’t close the deal. That’s gotta be some kind of record. Or maybe you’re just that fucking pathetic.
Then another.
Unknown Number:
She’s practically begging for it and you’re out here acting like someone’s forcing you to eat pussy. What’s the matter, Thornwood? Can’t get it up?
And another.
Unknown Number:
Or maybe you just don’t want to disappoint her with thirty seconds of wonder.
My thumb hovers over the number. I should delete these. Block the number. Pretend this never happened.
Instead, I hit Call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then, voicemail—a generic automated voice.
Fuck you.
I hang up and stare at the phone, my heart pounding.
Another text comes through immediately.
Unknown Number:
Don’t bother calling. I’m not gonna hold your hand through this. But I will hold your dick if you’d like
I stare at the screen. White-hot fury floods through me, causing me to throw my phone. It hits the passenger door before bouncing off and landing on the floorboard. My chest heaves. Some fucking coward is just sitting behind a phone screen instead of saying that shit to my face.
I slam the truck into drive and peel out of Molly’s driveway, tires squealing on the pavement. The drive back to the ranch is a blur, as my mind keeps circling back to those texts.
The party is still going on, but I don’t give a fuck. I cut the engine, grab my phone from the floor and shove it into my pocket, and head inside the house and into my room.
Fuck this summer already.