Chapter 6
Gunner
By ten o’clock, I’d showered the cattle stench off my skin, trimmed my beard with the precision of a surgeon, and was down to nothing but a threadbare towel, drying off in the dark of my bedroom.
My phone was charging on the window ledge, blinking with a blue notification.
I figured it was a calendar reminder about the livestock auction at the stockyards, but when I checked, it was an incoming call, not a text.
Brie.
My thumb hovered over the answer button, suspicious.
Was she calling to try to lure me back to her house for some phantom repair, hoping for a part two of what happened earlier?
I waited out the first ring, debating, but the stubborn part of me wanted to hear what kind of shitstorm she was about to unleash.
I answered on the third ring, said nothing, and held the phone to my ear.
At first, I heard only the slosh of water and the faint click of a playlist—something soft and sad, Ray LaMontagne or someone similar.
The music was soft drowned out by the steady pulse of water.
She must have dialed me by accident. I waited just to be sure, and that’s when I caught the little gasp.
It wasn’t a pain noise. I’d heard enough of those in my line of work to know the difference. This was more like the sound a woman makes when she’s alone, the world kept at bay by a locked door and several inches of bathwater.
I froze, towel halfway to my thigh. The right thing to do would have been to hang up, pretend I never heard a thing.
But the second moan hit, soft and real, and the right thing went straight out the window.
My body reacted before my brain caught up.
My cock, barely calmed from the shower, surged to life, straining under the terrycloth.
I set the phone by the bed and clicked speaker, the hiss of water and the low drone of her breathing filling the room.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, legs spread, towel tenting in the middle.
I could picture her, knees drawn up, brunette and blue hair curling at her neck, body pale and half-lost in a mountain of bubbles.
She must have shifted in the tub, because there was a slosh and a high, shaky intake of breath. Then she muttered, almost too low for the mic: “Damn you, Gunner. Why are you so fucking sexy?”
That’s when I lost whatever moral ground I’d had. I slipped the towel off, let it hit the floor, and lay back, wrapping my hand around the base of my cock, squeezing just enough to ease the ache. I stroked slow, matching her rhythm. The slick sound of water on skin was clear through the speaker.
She whimpered, a broken little plea, and my balls drew tight. I’d have mocked myself if it weren’t so goddamn perfect.
I closed my eyes and let her voice carry me: “Finn. Oh, god. I want you—” She cut herself off with another gasp. “Please, yes, just—”
I picked up the phone, brought it close, just to hear every little sound. I wanted to say her name, let her know I was listening, but something told me she needed this, needed to believe she was still alone. That she was safe.
Her moans built, climbing from soft whimpers to something sharper, rough with need. She didn’t bother hiding it. Each time she cried out, the urge to answer her, to tell her what she did to me, got harder to fight.
I smeared some lotion I kept on the nightstand on my hand to ease the friction of my hand.
“Fuck,” she breathed, voice raw. “I want you. I want your mouth, your hands—oh, oh, God—”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I pumped faster, fist slick with the small amount of lubricant the lotion gave. My hips jerked up, chasing release.
Then she said it, her voice breaking on the words: “I promise I’ll try to be better for you. So you’ll want me.”
That nearly undid me. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to change, that I wanted her exactly as she was—bratty, reckless, broken. But the only answer I could manage was a guttural groan.
Her breathing quickened, stuttering. “I know I belong to you, Finn. I want you so much. Yes, please…”
We came at the same time. Her cry, muffled and sharp, told me she’d bitten her lip to keep from alerting her mother. I growled her name, low and rough, away from the phone so she wouldn’t hear me.
The line went quiet, save for her ragged breaths and the drip of water from the tap. I listened, spent and shaky, as she sank back in the tub, the water lapping gently at her sides. I imagined her skin pink and splotched, her hair floating around her face, her heart racing as fast as mine.
I waited until her breathing evened out, then ended the call before she realized. I knew she’d see the 40-minute call eventually, but that was a problem for future Finn.
Right now, I let myself lie back on the bed, arm flung over my eyes, and just smiled.
I hadn’t felt this light in months, maybe years.
I hoped I’d see her in the morning before I left for the cattle auction.
Maybe I’d pull her aside and tell her, flat out, that she didn’t need to try for me. That I was already hers.
Sleep came easy, then. When I drifted off, the last thing I saw behind my eyelids was the streak of blue in her hair, bright as a Texas wildflower.
Auction day never started late, and the only men more punctual than cowboys with a deadline were Marines on parade.
The morning air was sharp as broken glass, still carrying a little bite from the night.
The sky was a washed-out navy, horizon just going pale.
I’d barely had time for a granola bar and a thermos of Pearl’s percolator mud before Arsenal showed up, full camo and all, double-checking the load lists and the paperwork.
We had eight head to move—three Black Angus Steers, two calves, three heifers, all fat as state fair champions and twice as ornery.
I was scheduled to drive the lead truck; Arsenal would run tail.
Each truck had a wrangler riding shotgun in case of trouble, and three ranch hands had already shown up to help funnel the cows down the chute and into the trailers.
I took a moment on the loading dock, watching the sky catch fire to the east. My hands smelled like saddle soap and coffee. The barn cats stalked mice through the hay bales, their little shapes black against the brightening yard.
Arsenal was already in the back pen, clipboard in one hand and a short coil of rope in the other, barking orders at two farmhands and a college kid I’d known his whole life. Arsenal ran the operation like a prison break, and it took about ten minutes for everyone to get in line.
I did a final check on the trailer locks, the thick bars and the safety chains.
Last time we’d done this, one of the cows kicked a latch open and took off down State Route 60.
Bronc nearly had a stroke. I’d have been more worried if I didn’t secretly like the chaos.
He wouldn’t make the run with us today with Juliet being pregnant and all.
He barely left her side these days. It was damn cute the way he acted like he wanted to carry her everywhere.
We had both rigs loaded by the time the sun topped the tree line. That’s when I saw a familiar Lexus creeping up the drive, dust pluming behind it. Harper was coming to tell Arsenal goodbye, Brie in tow.
The boys lined up on the rail to watch, predictable as sunrise. I could practically hear them wagering on what would come out of the car this time.
Harper climbed out first. She wore skinny jeans, a white tee with a print of a ballet dancer, and a dusty pair of Ariats.
Arsenal’s posture went from combat-ready to parade rest, and his eyes went soft, just for her.
She waved, looking more at home than I’d ever seen her, even in a barnyard full of wolves.
Then Brie got out.
The effect was instant. The air changed.
I’d say she glowed, but that was too easy.
It was more like she soaked up every eye in the county and didn’t mind one bit.
She wore cutoff shorts, a faded Def Leppard shirt that tied at her waist, and a pair of Old Gringos that almost hit her knees.
Her hair was all wild waves that framed her face, blue streaks peaking through the brunette strands.
She looked like she’d been styled for a Texas fashion shoot, except I knew damn well she’d just rolled out of bed and thrown on what she liked.
Five of the hands, grown men, two of them twice my age, literally climbed the fence to get a better view.
Brie didn’t even look at them. She kept her eyes on the gravel, chin down, a little blush high on her cheeks. But I saw her glance up once, quick, in my direction, and her wolf peeked out through the lashes.
Territorial, possessive, primal: my own wolf bristled up. I dropped my wrench and stalked over to the fence.
“You boys want a picture, or you wanna keep your jobs?” My voice left no doubt about whose territory they were gawking at.
The youngest, a kid from Tulia with a neck tattoo, tried to look contrite. “Uh, sorry, Gunner.” He scrambled down like the rail was electrified. The rest slithered off, back to the chutes and the hay bales.
Harper sauntered over, beaming. “Mornin’ boys.” You'd think she was queen of the operation.
Brie hung back, arms wrapped around her middle, doing her best not to meet my eyes. I wasn’t about to let her off that easy.
“Maverick!” I looked Brie's direction. “You’re up early.”
She looked at me then, the same way a cat does—curious, wary, daring you to reach for her. I grinned, knowing she’d see it for what it was: I heard you last night.
The flush on her face deepened, but she held her ground.
“Wanted to tell you bye, and to be safe.” Her voice was soft, careful, her cheeks pink.
She didn’t dare look below my chin. I had no doubt she’d noticed that she’d accidentally made that call last night, and I’d listened to her touch herself while thinking of me.
Arsenal strolled up behind, smiling with all the warmth of a gun barrel. “We’ll be back tomorrow, barring an ambush or a tornado.” He was only half joking.
“Good luck at the sale.” Harper hugged Arsenal so tight I thought she'd crack a rib. He bent down and whispered something in her ear, and she actually giggled. I’d have called him whipped, but he wore the look too well. Couldn’t say I didn’t envy him.
I turned back to Brie, who was shuffling her feet in the gravel, tracing circles with her toe. She finally looked up, her eyes bright, blue streaks catching the sun.
“Thanks for coming out.” I told her. “Means a lot.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a softness to it. “I know you’ll be back tomorrow, and it’s not like you’re going off to war or anything. But…”
“Feels like it sometimes. Never know when a stray cow or a drunk teamster is gonna end you.”
She flashed me a smile. “Well, don’t die. I’d be pissed if I had to do the next load myself.”
Fuck, she was so beautiful. The urge to touch her was strong. I wanted to reach out, push the hair from her face, kiss the sarcasm right off her mouth. But I settled for stepping in close, until her scent hit me; lemon and honeysuckle, clean and sharp.
“You can text me, if you want.” Her voice suddenly small. “Let me know you made it there safe.”
I leaned down, speaking just to her. “I plan on it. You sleep good last night?”
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and scandalized. Then she smirked, too smart to let me have the upper hand. “Sure did, cowboy.”
She started to walk away, hips swaying just a little. I caught her wrist, gentle. “Brie.”
She turned back, hair in her eyes.
I said, “I’ll see you soon,” and let her go.
As I climbed up into the cab of the dually, Arsenal was already starting the engine in the chase truck. The ranch hands scattered, the day’s work just beginning.
In the side mirror, I saw Brie standing at the fence, arms folded, watching me with a look I hadn’t seen before—soft, almost hopeful, with her sharp edges I didn’t want her to lose still evident.
I grinned at her, tipped my hat, and threw the truck in gear.
Right before I pulled away, I rolled down the window and yelled, “Hey, Maverick!”
She looked up, startled. I hollered, “Try not to drop your phone when you’re in the bath next time.”
Her jaw dropped. Then she laughed, loud and wild, head thrown back.
I hit the road, feeling like I’d finally won something worth winning.