17. Stetson
SEVENTEEN
STETSON
April 12th, 2024
Throwing up my middle fingers at the retreating cloud of dust that is Nathan’s pickup does little to tamper the sour taste in my mouth. I hate that guy—he’s the least fun person to spend time with, and I refuse to spend another second around him that I don’t have to—barrier be damned. I will find another way; I’d rather be shot in the head and survive than spend another second breathing the same air as someone as self-centered as that prick.
It didn’t work, anyway—all night, miles from Gus, and I still felt like his eyes burned into my skin. I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him lurking in the shadows, watching me.
Which is actually fucking delusional.
Gus wouldn’t be caught dead at the movies—sitting still around so many people would be his own personal hell, I’m sure of it. No, the truth is, no matter how far from him I might go, he will still be burning beneath my skin. And that is something I’ve got to figure out how to cure. Gus is too dangerous, too toxic, and too fucking off-limits.
But fuck, I want him.
I hear a low chuckle behind me, and I whirl around. Gus sits spread out in the rickety swing, his arms lazily draped over the back. The same swing that has sat on the deck since I broke it all those weeks ago. The same swing my mom sat with me on all those years ago.
My heart hammers at the sight of him, my resolve to get him out from under my skin quickly forgotten. His skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat in the waning evening light, his dark hair matted along the edges of his face, and his white shirt plastered over the valleys of his muscles. Black eyes glitter with irritation, pairing well with the dark stubble covering his jaw and over his lips, unshaven and unkept for several days. He looks like a shadow, a dark illusion—there, but not. He shifts his hips, his jeans hugging tightly against his muscular thighs, and grunts.
Why, in the actual hell, was that hot?
“How was your date?” It’s a growl, and instead of scaring me, it sends a spear of heat through my belly.
“You fixed the porch swing.” I hate that I sound so breathy, but fuck . He quite literally takes my breath away; not in a cute, romantic way, but in a terrifying, suffocating way.
Trust me, I would know.
“It was just a couple of hooks and a board.”
If only he knew it wasn’t just ‘a couple hooks and a board’ . It’s a handful of precious memories with a woman I have few fond memories of at all. It’s the place we sat and watched the Texas sunset fade into night, where we watched her poppy flowers blossom, where we shared secrets about where I wanted to go and who I wanted to be when I turned eighteen.
When it broke, left rotting on the porch, it felt like the physical depiction of my relationship with my mother, my relationship with myself —rejected, unworthy, forgettable. I could not face fixing it, because what if it was not fixable? Wouldn’t it be better to scrap the whole thing and start over with a shiny, new swing, new chain, new hooks and boards? It was trash—left over from a life I wish nothing more than to forget.
But if I got rid of the swing, then I was getting rid of the only good things that I had with my mother. Hate her or love her, I couldn’t get rid of those. I couldn’t face the baggage, the crippling sorrow and anger that I carry with me because they’re so intertwined with the joy and peace.
But now, with Gus’s arms slung across the back of the old wood, it feels like something different.
Like I can regroup the memories of my mother, holding only the happy ones close to the jagged remains of my heart, and get rid of the rotten ones. Cling to the good things she gave me and burn the rest.
It feels like maybe the sad, broken, rejected pieces of me might be able to be fixed. Or at least rearranged into something that is worth appreciating once more—not new or shiny, but strong and whole and sturdy.
It feels like hope. Like Gus could see the decrepit parts of me, and instead of throwing them out, make them something whole again.
“It’s not.” The words are barely above a whisper. “It’s where my mom and I sat, it’s—” I don’t have the right words to tell him. But based on the look on his face, I don’t need to. He knows. He knows, and he’s not afraid.
It’s terrifying. And intoxicating. Both emotions send a bolt of desire so hot through me, I feel like I may momentarily combust into flames.
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and I have to keep from drooling. Truly. The saliva pools in my mouth, and I bite my lip to keep it from spilling out. I swallow and he, of course, notices, his eyes tracing my throat.
“If I had known that was all it would take to impress you, I would have done this before I fixed your corral and started on the pasture fences.” He’s teasing me—offering a reprieve from the overwhelming memories and emotions swirling in me, and I have never been more grateful for him.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just didn’t know you were nice, is all.” I mean it as a tease, but even to my ears it sounds like a challenge. A challenge that has Gus smirking.
“I am very nice.”
I look around, anywhere but at his dark figure. He’s too hot for his own good, and I can’t think straight when I’m around him—especially when he’s being nice .
I’m tracing an arc in the sand with my toe, my eyes following my foot when I open my big, fat, stupid mouth. “Nice-looking maybe.” My foot freezes, eyes blowing wide—did I just say that? I don’t look up at his face as heat crawls furiously up my neck and over my chest. He laughs, the sound both bitter and surprised, and I wonder if he doesn’t realize what his looks do to the people around him.
“You think I’m nice-looking?”
I bite my lip— well, fuck. I walked into this shit, and I refuse to be a meek little girl, even if I’m embarrassed and making an ass out of myself. My eyes find his, and I try to focus on the dark pools instead of the panty-melting smile claiming his lips.
“A little.” Who the fuck am I kidding? “But not really nice.” I air quote as I say the word nice. “Scary, dangerous, hot.” I shrug off my confession.
His eyes widen a fraction, his smile spreading further to one side, a flash of teeth sparkling in the growing darkness.
It’s the hottest he has ever looked. And even if it kills me, I vow to make him do it again—I don’t fucking care how.
“I guess the boss clocked out for the night?” he teases, and I tense. Fuck, I’m not being professional in the slightest. I inwardly groan; I’m so tired of being professional around him.
“Just being friendly.”
We have too many labels swimming between us. Boss, employee, dirty cowboy, little filly, friend. It’s all getting so confusing. And frustrating . Because we both know none of the labels are sticking—not really. We are in limbo, somewhere between, and yet farther than any of those labels depict.
And way too fucking afraid to say it or do anything about it.
“And what is Nathan exactly?” He’s still smiling, but the friendliness has slipped. It borders on manic, and I shiver. It’s like he can’t control himself, like he feels compelled to know, to control—and I crave the dominance, the raw hunger, the uncontrollable anger. Even if that makes me as fucked up as he is.
So, what do I do? I push back, just to see how crazy he really is. To see how deep the shadows go. “Jealous?” His eyes darken at the single word, and I realize how utterly stupid I’m being. How will we come back from this? How will I come back from this?
Stupid, horny bitch. I can’t control myself around him, and my traitorous body knows it. Weak—I am so fucking weak.
He cocks his head, dark curls sweeping across his face. It’s nearly black out now, the night fully swallowing any streaks of daylight—and with it, any remaining safety I might find in the light. I need to get inside. I need to get away from this situation. Because if he makes a move toward me, I know I won’t stop him.
I’ll fall to my knees and beg him.
I bolt into action, racing up the stairs, and brush past his dark frame with nonchalance I don’t feel. I freeze, trapped in a sweetly sick cloud of perfume that makes my stomach roll, and I fight the urge to gag.
“What is that smell?” I don’t look at him as I hiss, too afraid to see his face this close. He chuckles, standing up behind me. He’s so close now, the heat from his body radiating in waves around mine. Goosebumps pebble over my skin, and I suck in a sharp breath.
He apparently doesn’t want to wait around for me. I should be glad, it means my barrier worked. But instead, I feel murderous, betrayed, violent.
“Jealous?” His lips brush against my ear, the word blowing softly against my heated flesh. I want to slap him, claw at his beautiful face, spit on him. But I remain glued in place, my hands fisting into the thin fabric of my dress, my body trembling with the sudden bolt of anger coursing through me.
Gus steps back, his body heat retreating, and he turns toward the dim lights of the barn without a backward glance. His body ripples like the caged beast I know lurks beneath his skin, and I have the sudden urge to follow him—demand from him the name of the bitch he saw tonight.
But I don’t. Because I am jealous. But I’m also a coward.