7
Sandbank
As the welcome sign blurs by, I mentally subtract my family of three from the population. Then I add back one for my return. How many others have come and gone in the past two years? Births and deaths and…
Oh, forget all that.
Rising up on the speeding bike, I thrust an arm into the whipping wind and let out a squealing “Whoooo-hoo!” at the top of my lungs. A heady mix of relief and thrilling elation powers through me. God, it’s such an indescribable feeling to finally be home.
The sun is so much brighter here, the air fresher, more nourishing. I taste the warmth of life, hear the rolling peace of the land, and the views… Green pastures, red clay, and endless blue sky. The beauty explodes with color and life.
Bypassing Main Street, I hop onto a gravel road and take the most direct route to the ranch. Since I didn’t leave Chicago until after two in the morning, I ended up crashing for a few hours in a seedy motel outside St. Louis.
I also swung by a public library and used a computer to send Jake and Jarret an email. If, by some miracle, they still check those accounts, they’ll know I’m arriving around dinnertime.
A trickle of sweat itches my nape. I’m a filthy fucking mess, but nothing can be done about that.
Despite the pit stops, thirteen hours on a motorcycle has taken its toll.
My back aches from hunching over. The bruises on my abdomen protest every pock in the road.
My legs throb from squeezing the vibrating steel frame, and the helmet feels like a thousand-pound oven on my head.
But holy sweet lord in heaven, I’m home!
By the time I zip beneath the stone archway of Julep Ranch, I’ve lost the ability to breathe.
Multiple cars and trucks sit in the lot between the house and the main stable. Some familiar. Some not. How many new ranch hands work here? Will they know who I am or what happened in the ravine?
Don’t think about that.
Craning my neck, I don’t see Ketchup in the surrounding meadows. She’s probably in the mare barn. Jake will know.
I search the lot for his beat-up old blue pickup, and the instant I spot it, my heart shoots to my throat.
He’s here.
I’m here.
Is this really happening?
I park behind his truck. The helmet comes off, and the sweat… Oh God, I wipe it from my face. Keeping my eyes on the house, I shake out my braids, finger comb my hair, and grab the gift box with his bracelet. Is that all I need? What am I missing? Christ, why I am so nervous?
I run to the front porch, palms slick and insides buzzing with a swarm of bees.
The heavy interior door hangs open, letting in the afternoon air.
“Hello?” I press my face to the screen on the storm door and pound on the metal frame. “Jake? Jarret?”
Inside, the masculine furniture, rustic decor, everything looks the same, except…darker. Colder. Barren. Where is everyone?
I knock again, raising my voice. “Jake!”
I’m shaking so badly I’m lightheaded. Please, don’t pass out.
Why am I just standing here? I’ve never knocked on this door. This is my home, and I’m making myself feel unwelcome for no damn reason.
Hand on the latch, I swing open the screen and walk in like I’ve done my entire life. “Is anyone here? Jake?”
Is that music? I tilt my head, moving through a fog of nervous energy as I follow the sound. Clutching the gift box, I enter the Holsten wing and fuss with my hair. My shirt. My bra. Shit, I can’t stop trembling.
Midway down the hall, the melody grows louder, coming from behind the door to Jake’s room. Is he in there? What song is that?
Then I hear it. Jake’s sexy-as-hell voice singing Beautiful War in perfect pitch with Kings Of Leon. I shiver and press a hand over the banging beat of my heart.
My gait speeds up, my pulse pounding harder, stronger, wild and giddy. I’m running by the time I reach his door, my clammy hand fumbling with the knob. Slipping. Turning. Pushing open. Tripping in.
I freeze.
He’s not alone.
Not alone in his bed.
Not alone and not with me.
Not alone with fingers stroking bare skin. Sheets tangling around joined bodies. Feminine blonde curls fanning his pillow.
He holds her with arms I ache to feel around me. Hips pressing between her thighs. Sara Gilly’s thighs. The girl who pined for him through high school.
The gift box falls from my hand. Two heads turn in my direction. Staring eyes. Parted lips.
I avert my gaze, unseeing, every heartbeat careening toward expiration. I can’t watch or hear or breathe. I don’t want to witness my demise. I don’t want to feel it.
Go.
Run.
Fight.
Do something.
Say something.
Paralysis seizes my limbs. Air evacuates my lungs. Rigor mortis sets in.
This is what death feels like. The shattering, unstoppable separation between life and the bleeding remains of the soul. There’s no countermeasure. No resuscitation. I’ve taken my last breath as Jake Holsten’s girl.
Movement shifts in my periphery. Blonde hair sways as she pulls on clothes. Then whispering. Soft, shared words between lovers. I can’t hear them because that fucking song.
It’s not a beautiful war.
It’s disgusting and cruel.
Make it stop.
I spin toward the sound and smack the phone off the dresser. It hits the hardwoods, killing the music. But my hands keep going, swinging and slapping and grabbing until everything crashes to the floor. Belts, cologne, books, hats. The last to go is a shoe box.
It lands at my feet, and the lid falls off, spilling its contents.
Letters.
Hundreds of letters written in metallic brown ink with gold flecks.
I remember the day I bought that shimmery marker in Chicago. It was a terrible, lonely day, and that marker was everything. Because it matched the color of his eyes.
Stillness suffuses the room. Blood roars in my ears, pulses in my neck, and throbs painfully in my abdomen.
Sara yanks up a zipper, breaking the trance.
My lungs convulse into sudden, agonizing wheezes, billowing my chest and shortening my breaths. My limbs shake heavily, uncontrollably, and spasms contract the muscles and arteries around my heart, squeezing out the light.
I fight the surge of tears, because dammit, I refuse to breakdown in front of him. “You knew I was coming.”
It takes great effort to meet his eyes, and when I do, it’s like staring at a stranger.
He perches on the edge of the bed and holds the sheet around his waist, looking back at me with the hard eyes of a grown man.
He won’t be nineteen until next month, but he appears older, the stubble on his face thicker and darker, his jaw more chiseled, like a square block of stone.
But it’s the expression on his gorgeous face that makes him unrecognizable.
It’s empty, cold, dead… Everything I feel.
“Conor.” Sara approaches, fully dressed. “I didn’t know.”
Didn’t know I was coming? Does it matter?
I won’t look at her face. I don’t want to see the pity there. There’s enough of it in her voice to curl my stomach.
“I’m gonna go.” She slips around me and starts to close the door behind her.
I catch the edge and push it open. I won’t be far behind her.
Give him a chance to explain.
“Why did—?” My voice strangles. Start with something easy. “Why did all the phones get disconnected?”
“That was Dad. I don’t know why.” Low and deep, smooth and languid, his voice rolls through me like a drug.
“You had my number.” I quiver with the despair of an addict and toe the letters with my boot. “Why didn’t you call me? Or write back? Or…or…I don’t know, maybe pretend I still existed?”
“I had to let you go.”
“Let me go,” I echo hollowly. “Why?”
“It was easier.”
“Easier than what? Shooting me a message and telling me to fuck off?”
“Yeah.”
I burn beneath waves of abject pain, my tongue wrapped in slimy, poisonous truths. “You got my email and knew I was coming today. You wanted me to find you with her.”
Muscles ripple along his locked jaw, and his gorgeous brown eyes pin me with frosty silence.
A crack runs through the childhood bridge that connects us. Suspension cables snap. Beams twist and tear away. Piers crumble. The link between us collapses, leaving a yawning void as deep and vast and dark as an ocean.
I feel myself falling in. Breaking beneath the heavy, jagged shards. Gulping for air at the bottom of oblivion.
“Is it because I’m ruined?” I battle the instinct to hug myself, to protect the vulnerability.
“What?” His eyes narrow dangerously.
“The night in the ravine… I’m used. Dirty. Worthless.”
“No. Jesus, Conor.” He stands, clutching the sheet to his groin and scans the floor. “That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it?” I grab his jeans and toss them into the hall. “Was Sara a virgin? Now that she’s not, will you be done with her, too?”
“Dammit, Conor. No! I mean, yes. No, that’s not… Fuck!” Holding the sheet around his waist, he yanks at the far corner where it stubbornly clings to the mattress. “You don’t get it.”
“I get that you threw me away. Because it was easier.” Easier than loving a used-up girl.
He uncurls his hand and stares at the scar on his palm, his expression stark. I press my thumb against my own scar. Levi Tibbs has served two years of his seven-year sentence. The blood oath hasn’t changed. We both know it.
I drop my arm. “I’ll see you in five years.”
He goes still, lips flat, eyes hard. That’s how I leave him.
With every step toward the front door, the dam inside me bows and splinters beneath the rattling, guttural groan of pressure. Head down, arms locked around a chest full of pain, I walk faster, harder, holding it in.
When I reach the foyer, Jarret’s waiting, hands in his front pockets, blocking the front door.
A quick once-over is all I offer. He looks the same, as devastatingly handsome as his brother. Good for him.
“I take it you got my emails and letters, too.” I don’t miss the guilty fall of his face as I push past.
He follows me out. I pick up my pace, focused on the motorcycle and getting the fuck away from the cheaters and the hurters.