Chapter 1 #2
"I'm sorry. I brought the money," I announce.
Danny glances at the bag in Jagger's hand. "Put it on the desk. I'm counting it before I leave."
"You think my sister would rip you off?" Jagger accuses, his voice laced with an unspoken warning, his eyes narrowing with fire.
I put my hand on his arm. "It's okay."
"No, it's not. Especially when he's ripping you off."
"Go look at my bar and tell me the value of the damage you think they did," Danny argues.
"Doubt it's sixty big ones," Jagger counters.
"Maybe I should make it eighty," Danny threatens.
"Now, now. There's no point making things more heated on Christmas. Sixty thousand was the price, and Willow's brought it, haven't you, sweetheart?" Sheriff Lorall says.
Revulsion coils in my gut, tightening into knots. I hate it when the sheriff or any man talks to me like I'm a helpless woman. Plus, he's my father's age. I'm not his sweetheart and never will be.
I fight through the disgust and force a smile. "Yes, sir. Can you release my riders, please?"
"I want to count it," Danny insists.
"You know where I live. It's Christmas, and I promised I'd read my nieces and nephews a story before bedtime. I assure you the money is all there, but if you find a discrepancy for any reason, you know where to find me," I state.
"You go get them. I'll stay here while Danny counts it just to make sure he doesn't try to rip you off," Jagger offers.
Danny fumes, "You're lucky I didn't press charges against you."
"Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Move on from the past, old man," my brother taunts.
"Jagger!" I scold.
The sheriff interjects again, ordering, "Danny, go count the money with Officer Tenpenny. Jagger, you sit in that chair and keep your comments to yourself." He points to a seat several desks away.
Both men follow orders.
The sheriff puts his hand on my back.
I do everything I can not to squirm away from him, knowing he'll eliminate even more space between us if I do.
That's the thing about a small town. Everyone tends to know everyone, and the sheriff is as dirty of an old man as any other. And it's not the first time I've had to deal with his unwelcome touches.
The moment to escape his grasp comes, and I rush through the door into the holding area, questioning, "What number?"
"Fifteen."
Catcalls erupt from the men locked up. They echo louder as I pass more cells.
"Shut up," the sheriff barks, but there's nothing he can do.
The noise increases. I get to fifteen, already thinking about what I'm going to say to my clients, and freeze, the air disappearing from my lungs.
It's not him.
A devil in cowboy boots lounges on a bench against the wall, owning the cell and reeking of sin.
Denim covers his long legs, and a ripped, bloody white T-shirt stretches over his torso, half tucked into a belt buckle with a W on it.
His wounded knuckles, full of ink and crossed peacefully on his taut abs, rise and fall with his breathing.
A worn, brown leather cowboy hat tilts over his face, covering the bad-boy smirk I'm sure plays on his lips.
The dim light of the holding cell makes the inked sleeve on his forearm appear dangerous and majestic. Black lines etched into sun-warmed skin hint about stories you'd never unravel unless he let you close enough to trace them with your tongue.
He's the kind of man who'd wreck your plans, your bed, and your sense of right and wrong, without ever raising his voice.
And that's exactly what Wyatt Houston did to me.
Somehow, I forget to breathe. I reach for the bars, wrapping my fingers around one, trying to stop the adrenaline rush and chaos attacking me from every angle.
"Willow. Sorry to fuck up your Christmas," Jericho blurts out.
Wyatt's hands stop rising. His jaw clenches, and I don't miss the glint of his eye peeking out from the side of his hat. As if in slow motion, he raises a finger, pushes the brim of his hat up, and pins his dark eyes on me.
Flames flicker in the pit of my stomach, dark and reckless. The catcalls only intensify old feelings, giving life to something scarier.
It's been too many years since he's touched me.
Don't go there, I scold myself.
Wyatt's intoxicated, but the same challenging gaze that wrecked me all those years ago takes me in, undressing me with every passing second.
I don't move, scared of what I might do, even though there's a locked door and several men between us.
Ironically, Sheriff Lorall saves me, stepping beside me and unlocking the cage. He scolds, "You're lucky Willow is saving your asses. Call it your Christmas miracle. But you will lose your careers the next time this happens. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Colt replies.
"Thank you," Jericho adds.
They shoot me guilty looks, quickly brushing past me.
"Well? I don't have all night, and this isn't a motel. Get up and out of here," the sheriff spits out, motioning toward Wyatt.
"You bailed him out?" Jericho whines.
"What? No. He's not my client," I assert, assuring the sheriff I'm not paying for Wyatt.
He shakes his head. "I can't keep him if Danny isn't pressing charges. Even if he did the most damage."
I gape at him and open my mouth to argue.
Lorall adds, "Plus, his agent fired him. So no one's coming to help him but you."
My head snaps toward Wyatt, and I hate myself.
His low, dangerous voice curls around my chest, suffocating me with promises I vowed I'd never allow into my life again. "Appreciate the help, sugar." He lifts his cowboy hat higher, his gaze dark with arrogance and pupils blown wide with want.
I'm torn between falling into his seductive trap and strangling him with my bare hands.
He makes it worse when he sits up.
My heart pounds harder. I stare at his quads, straining against dirty denim. After several seconds too long, my gaze drifts below his belt buckle, and whispers of the past dance between my thighs.
He shifts off the bench. His cowboy boots slam the floor with authority, causing me to jump.
I redirect my attention to the sheriff. "I'm not responsible for him."
"No one said that, but he's as free as your riders," he reiterates.
"What's wrong, sugar? Afraid I'll get you in trouble?" Wyatt drawls, his question laced with the same teasing dare I fell for when I was too naive and inexperienced to understand what a man like him could do to a girl like me.
I need air.
I turn away from him, blinking hard. Then I march past my riders and burst into the office, directing an order at Jagger. "Let's go."
"Danny's not done counting. He's slow as molasses," he jabs.
"I don't care. Let's go," I reiterate louder, stomping out into the raging chill that refuses to choke out the inferno blazing inside me. I get into the truck, reach for the keys my brother left in the ignition, and take the deepest breaths I can.
Stop letting him affect you, I tell myself repeatedly, but it's asking for the impossible.
Memories of my first everything flood me, and Wyatt's involved in every one of them.
Jericho and Colt appear at my window.
Jericho knocks on it with his knuckles.
I roll down the glass. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."
Their expressions are filled with guilt.
Colt offers, "I hope we didn't ruin your Christmas."
I glare daggers at them.
An Uber pulls up to the curb.
They wait.
"Just go. We're not discussing this tonight," I repeat and then shut the window.
They nod and almost disappear in the snow before getting into the SUV.
More time passes, then Jagger appears. Relief hits me, then dissipates into thin air.
Wyatt follows him and opens my door. "Scoot over."
I curse. I should have known my brother wouldn't leave Wyatt behind. They may not see each other often, but they've been best friends since their first day of preschool.
He pats the side of my thigh, close to my hip. "Come on, darlin'. It's cold out here."
I glare at him, snarling, "Don't touch me."
The driver's door opens. Jagger slides in and orders, "Willow, move over."
I turn toward him, locking my gaze on his.
"Why aren't you moving?" he questions.
What am I doing?
Wyatt Houston's my secret wound, and it's full of stitches. One pull of a thread and the entire scab will come off, creating a bloody mess I'll never be able to clean up.
Unable to do anything else, I slide closer to my brother, trying to breathe and not engage with Wyatt.
But I feel his lewd gaze, and one glance is all I need to know what he's thinking.
He's trying to decide if he's going to break me or make me beg him to do it first.