Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
DELLA
BEFORE
I’m sitting at Leland’s right, staring at the plate in front of me. There’s a charger plate under it. I had no idea what that was until I married Leland. Now I spend all my time trying to figure things like this out. I’m getting good at it too, the way he wants me to be.
Leland is talking. The room is smoky, filled to the brim with men who do business with the Caudills, the boys in tweed from Lexington, the rich pieces of shit from out of state who come around only for the races.
None of the men do his dirty work—this kind of dinner isn’t for that. This is the room where deals get made.
I take a sip of wine and set it down. The man to my right, in a golf shirt that probably costs thousands, glances me over.
I’m perfect, a statue, a centerpiece for the new generation of Caudills.
Skin tanned and lasered. Body lean from the mornings I get to escape to the gym and hide for a few hours.
Flawless makeup. My body showcased in a rose gold dress that cups my breasts, cinches around my waist, and pools over my thighs to my ankles.
Elegant, beautiful, like the silver swans he has in the fountain out front.
Nobody would ever guess I grew up in a Harlan County trailer with sheets tacked over the windows.
Leland’s palm touches my thigh. I flick my eyes over to my husband, but he’s not looking at me.
A conversation is happening, an important one, with a man from Chapel Hill.
I paid attention enough up front to know his name is Richard St. Hilaire.
His grandfather had money, and his father had even more. Richard has enough to buy my soul.
He owns horses. My husband knows how to get those horses to the finish line. They’re a match made in heaven—or hell.
“She is,” says Leland.
I flick my eyes between them. Are they talking about me? Richard St. Hilaire leans back in his seat, bourbon in one hand. He’s looking at me, and I don’t like it.
“Now I got somebody for you,” Leland drawls.
“You’re showing off, bringing your wife out looking like that,” Richard says. “Letting us just look.”
Leland must want this deal bad, because he leans forward, threading his fingers. Gold watches glint. The sun is setting, casting a deep yellow beam of sunlight across the table. It makes the red velvet curtains glitter.
“You can’t fuck her, but if you put pen to paper, I’ll let you watch,” he says.
They both laugh.
The polite smile slides off my face. My mouth is dry, my cheeks on fire. Leland is possessive, but he likes me to be desired by other men too. It helps him with the business.
“Hell, show me where to sign,” says the man to my right.
Everybody in earshot laughs, the sound shaking the table. I can’t move. The laughter echoes as they banter back and forth. Apparently, that’s funny, the thought of Leland letting them see me like that. This is a huge joke to all of them.
It’s not a joke to me.
The laughter goes distant. I’m alone at the table, trying not to let my tears fall.
Crack.
My porcelain teacup heart breaks.
Hands steady, I take another sip of wine to bring me back. At this rate, I’m going to be one of those wealthy wives who stays just drunk enough to get through the day.
Leland’s hand grips my thigh hard. The conversation shifts away from me to something else. I stay put until the dishes are cleared away and everybody gets up to go have drinks in the den.
I go last. Leland went first, but he comes back, cornering me in the hall.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just tired from the wine.”
“You’re a liar,” he says. “You didn’t like what I said.”
I look away, then correct myself. He hates that. He tells me to look him in the eyes when we speak. He puts his hand on my waist, and my breath hitches.
“How do you think I pay for all this?” he says.
All this?
“What?” I whisper.
He runs his hand from my waist to my shoulder, unhooking the straps of my dress. The cowl neck falls, exposing the lace lining of my bra.
“You never look at price tags,” he says, voice low. “You get to walk around with your head empty because of me. So you be a good girl and say yes sir when I tell you to behave.”
I nod.
“Good girl,” he says, cupping my breasts. He bends in and kisses me, and I feel something, a tiny spark in the darkness—not love, not lust, but hope that his feelings are enough to protect me from himself.
Leland loves me, I think. He just doesn’t know how to love very well.
He pulls back. “You go upstairs to bed. I’ll be up later. Stay awake and don’t change, Del. You look too good in that dress not to fuck.”
I nod, because nothing he says surprises me anymore.
His wife is a beautiful, fuckable doll to him.
He brushes my lower lip with his thumb, and then he’s gone, striding down the dark hall.
Pulling my dress back up, I circle the back way to the south staircase.
Only once I’m in our room do I release the breath I’m holding and sink down at my vanity.
I want to rip everything off, but I can’t. Instead, I pull a mini bottle of vodka from the drawer and take a sip, telling myself it’s alright. That I’m not coping. That sip turns into the whole bottle, until I’m slumped in the chair with my head back, staring at the ceiling.
The worst part isn’t that he’s making me a drunk. It’s that by the time he comes upstairs to lay me down, I’ll be sober again.
NOW
I’m startled out of my sleep by Jensen shooting upright. He inhales, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His head dips, cross tattoo on his ribs exposed. My brain is fuzzy. It feels like Leland was there while I slept.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He glances over his shoulder. “What’s the clock say over there, baby?”
He’s so calm, despite having sweat dripping down his face. I glance at the digital clock on the bedside table.
“About six in the evening,” I say.
He gets up, wiping his hand over his face, using the sweat to hold his hair back. “You still want to go out to the stockyards?”
My forehead creases. “You feel good enough to go?”
He shrugs, reaching for the pants on the chair. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
Maybe because he’s sweating bullets. I shrug. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. After a minute, he comes out, and he’s in his pants, boots, and a t-shirt that fits him very well. My dress and panties from the other night are in his hand. He tosses them onto the bed.
“I don’t have anything else,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say, getting up.
My bra and boots sit on the corner chair. His eyes follow me as I pull them on and wriggle into the fringed dress. My purse hangs on the door. He must have gathered everything up at some point. I grab it, taking my emergency makeup out, and slip past him into the bathroom.
He leans in the door, still watching me.
“What?” I ask, bending in to apply my mascara.
His eyes narrow. Then, he shakes his head. “You’re just real fucking pretty,” he says. “And I think you know it.”
He turns to go, but not before smacking me across the ass and grabbing the underside for a quick squeeze. His temporary bad mood is gone. I smile, and butterflies erupt in my stomach as he disappears downstairs.
My hand goes still, mascara hovering.
No, I can’t actually fall for him.
And yet, I tripped on his big dick cowboy attitude and rolled all the way down the hill to a place I don’t know how to climb out of. I’m not sure I want to get out.
Maybe this doesn’t have to end the way I planned. Maybe he would help me, and there could be a future here when we’re done. That thought has me smiling and blushing like a teenager as I apply my lip gloss.
I just need to figure out what he’s thinking.
Then, maybe, I can tell him the truth.
He’s waiting in the hall when I come downstairs.
I go to him and turn my face up, even though it makes me nervous.
I’m not used to interacting with men like I have free will.
With Leland, I cowered and hoped to God he didn’t notice me.
Jensen smirks, putting a finger under my chin and bending down to kiss my mouth.
He’s got something in his mouth. Dip? I wrinkle my nose. He flicks it with his tongue, and a hint of mint hits me.
“You didn’t offer me any gum?” I tease.
He reaches behind himself to the brown cowboy hat on the coat rack. He takes it off in one hand, leaning over like he’s going to kiss me. I part my lips, and he spits the gum into my mouth and puts the hat on my head.
“Let’s hit the road, baby,” he says.
Oh my God.
He takes my hand, leading me down the hall and out the front door. I stand while he locks it, trying to get control of myself. His hat smells like him, and the gum between my back teeth tastes like mint and Jensen.
Normally, a man spitting his gum into my mouth would make me gag, but I like him too damn much to care. I liked being underneath him in bed, his sweat dripping on my chest. I like the natural way he smells, the way he tastes, all the imperfections on his body.
He makes me want new things for myself.
We get into his truck. He lifts me in, making sure to give my ass another squeeze as I climb into my seat.
I roll my eyes, but Lord, do I love it. He gets in, spinning the wheel to turn the truck around.
Then, he rests his hand across my bare thighs as we head down the road.
Everything is dusky golden. It’s not dark yet, but it will be soon.
“So how much should I bet on you tonight?” I say.
“Bet everything you’ve got,” he says.
“Oh, pretty confident you’ll win?”
He squeezes my leg. Then, his fingers start circling where I have a freckle above my knee. Warmth blossoms. I watch his finger, distracted.
“You didn’t think I could make you come,” he says. “But look at you go.”
I bite my lip and look away because I’m crushing on him so damn hard.
I don’t want him to see me smiling like that.
He’s already got an ego for days. He keeps stroking my thigh all the way into town.
I try to pretend it’s a casual gesture, but the longer he does it, the wetter my panties get.
By the time he lifts me out of the truck at the stockyards, they’re soaked and sticking to my pussy.
“All good?” he says.
I lean in, pulse pattering. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s working.”
“How do you mean?”
Glancing at the packed building, I shift until his body buffers mine. Then, I lift the hem of my skirt in invitation. He slides his hand between my thighs, and his pupils dilate in the dim light.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
I lean in, his mouth grazing mine. “Win for me tonight, cowboy, and I’ll let you fuck it.”
He shakes his head once, the corner of his mouth turning up.
“I like thinking about you watching me with your pussy wet,” he says. “Take your panties off and give them to me.”
Obediently, I slip them off, and he holds out his palm.
I never realized it before now, but he has a blurred letter tattooed on his thumb, right below the knuckle.
Another piece of the puzzle that is Jensen Childress.
I see it in a flash, then my crumpled panties cover it as he fists his hand. He pushes them into his back pocket.
“Little good luck token,” he says.
He takes my hand and leads me down the hill to the barn. It’s just as packed as the other night, maybe more so. In the middle, I can see there are a handful of men in the circle, just milling around, talking and taping their hands up.
“Let’s get you a drink,” he says, ushering me to the bar.
I find I like when he moves me around like this. It’s not the same thing Leland did, but I don’t know how it’s different. Maybe because I always felt like I was being held hostage by Leland. But I want to be here with Jensen, so I bite down on his gum and follow.
He leans on the bar. Right away, like he erupted out of nowhere, a handsome man with jet black hair appears behind the bar.
He swings his eyes on me and stares, lips parted.
There’s an animal-like quality to him, like he sees more than the average person.
He also looks a little familiar; I think I saw him here yesterday night.
“Jesus Christ,” says Jensen, startling.
“Almost,” he says. He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it, confused. “Jack Russell.”
“Like the dog?” I blurt out.
His jaw muscle flickers. Beside me, Jensen laughs, and Jack gives him a cool stare.
“How about you shut the fuck up, Childress,” he drawls. “You all want anything to drink?”
I glance past him at the rows of bottles set up on the plywood board. The beer I had the other night was alright. I’m not a big beer drinker, but it also feels pretty silly to ask for wine at a stockyard fight. My eyes settle on a bottle of flavored rum.
“Can I have a shot of that?” I say, pointing.
Jack turns and fills a small glass instead of a shot and slides it over.
“Why are you bartending here again?” Jensen asks.
“Got bored and Lisbeth is on duty tonight,” Jack says. He passes Jensen a beer, but he doesn’t touch it. “You fighting?”
Jensen nods. “Thought I might.”
“Go on then. They’re taking names,” Jack says.
“You hold my shit,” Jensen says, taking a swig of beer before handing it back. He steps back and pulls his shirt off. There’s a pleasant jerk in my lower belly, like I went over a bump in the road. He’s so pretty, in a way Leland never could hold a candle to. Just raw and real.
My eyes trace the pattern of his tattoos again.
Ribcage cross.
Chest bullseye.
Ruger beneath his zipper.
Somewhere in that father-son-and-holy-ghost of ink lies the secret to Jensen Childress.
I can feel it even if it doesn’t make sense right now. He passes his shirt over the counter. Jack hands him a couple strips of black cloth. My face is hot as I bolt the rum, trying to calm my fluttering heart.
God, he’s got me tied up in knots.
Spellbound, I watch as he wraps his hands.
Then, he leans in and gives me a kiss that pulls the breath from my lungs.
I follow him as he moves through the crowd to the pit.
Then, I stand with my jaw slack, watching closely as he talks with the referee.
His name goes up in chalk. First fight of the night.
He looks at me through the crowd. Pale blue eyes washed out by firelight. Tanned skin glittering gold.
My heart won’t stop trying to jump right out of my ribcage.
I want to fight for this chance. Some people get everything they want.
Why can’t I?