Chapter 14 Brick
brICK
Dinner smells like takeout and pride.
Reno’s the one who suggested it—said he’d cook, then downgraded to “host,” which means ordering Italian from the place two blocks from the hotel and arranging it on paper plates like a presentation could pass for change.
I said yes anyway, because a man saying, “Come to my place,” instead of, “Leave me alone,” is worth driving for.
We crowd into the little suite. It’s a decent place, a small mimic of Blaze’s room, but this one has a kitchenette.
Blaze kicks her boots off at the door like she owns the room, Cash brings a six-pack of cream soda, and Levi unfolds himself into the desk chair with the practiced patience of a man who wants to believe this won’t end sideways.
Reno’s in rare form tonight. He’s sober, sharp, proud of it.
He’s wearing a pressed shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open, and his hair is brushed.
He’s talking fast, the way you do when you want to fill the air before someone else can.
“Got the good stuff,” he says, setting a foil pan of baked ziti in the middle of the table.
Blaze whistles low. “Fancy.”
“Don’t mock,” Reno says, but he’s smiling. “I even got salad. With real tomatoes.”
“Congratulations on discovering produce,” Levi deadpans.
Cash elbows him. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“Yeah, well.” Reno waves a hand and grabs the tongs. “Dig in before it gets cold. They gave me breadsticks big enough to build a fence.”
We sit, eat, talk. The soft clatter of forks on paper plates makes the room sound like it’s trying too hard to be normal.
Reno does impressions of Ford arguing with a sponsor, Blaze heckles him mid-sentence, and Cash, as always, plays the peacemaker, handing out napkins and chiding her with a glance.
I watch more than I talk. Habit, maybe. Or guilt. Or that quiet awe that sneaks up when your kids are laughing under the same roof and you can almost forget how hard it is to get them here.
Reno seems like his old self tonight. The words flow smooth instead of slurred. His hands stay steady when he reaches for his glass of soda. No twitch toward the bottle that isn’t here. I catch Blaze noticing too—her shoulders drop an inch, her jaw unclenches.
“See?” Reno says halfway through the meal, gesturing with his fork. “Told you. I can handle dinner myself.”
“No one said you couldn’t,” I offer.
He grins, cocky but soft. “You didn’t have to. You all look at me like I’m a time bomb every time I walk in the room.”
Blaze makes a face. “That’s because you usually are.”
“Used to be,” he says quickly. “Past tense.”
Cash lifts his cream soda in a toast. “To used to.”
Reno clinks the neck of his can against Cash’s. “To used to,” he echoes.
It should be funny. It almost is. But the echo hangs around longer than it should. None of us is saying the quiet part. The part where we’ve seen these performances before, and they never last.
Levi changes the subject with a question about the next rodeo in Kansas City, and we drift there easily.
Blaze’s new project, Cash’s travel schedule, and Ford’s latest scheme to get them booked in different time zones so the Wyatt name never sleeps.
Reno nods along, eats another bite, keeps up in the conversation.
I love and hate nights like this. Nights when I get glimpses of my son, only for him to vanish again in the morning when something goes wrong and he reaches for the bottle again.
It’s as if it’d be easier if we never got these nights.
It would sting less when he’s drunk again.
Like giving a starving man a bite of bread instead of feeding him regularly.
He’s relieved to have a bite of food, but it makes the incoming starvation even worse.
It’s just cruel.
When Blaze pulls out her phone to show a picture of Mac’s new video setup, Reno takes it, squinting at the screen, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You friends with her or something?”
“Mostly,” Blaze says, which is her way of saying yes, and we don’t talk about the rest.
He hums. “You like her.”
“I like complicated,” Blaze says. “Some of us like a challenge.”
He snorts. “Yeah, you and Dad both.”
The table ripples with laughter. Even I can’t help it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he says, smirking. “You just—complicated women, it’s a pattern.” He’s right, though he doesn’t know how right.
I keep my face relaxed and steal another breadstick. “Complicated keeps life interesting.”
“That what you’re calling it?” Levi says.
“Yes, smart-ass,” I say, and they all grin because that’s the rhythm we know. “Now, move on.”
The rest of the meal is easy. Too easy. I can see Reno relaxing in the glow of it, proud that he pulled off a night that looks normal. No drinks. No fights. No awkward silences. Just family.
When we’re done, he insists on clearing the plates. “Host duties,” he says, stacking them neatly in the trash. “See? Responsible. You can all relax now.”
“Never doubted you,” Blaze says.
“Liar,” he shoots back, grinning.
“I mean, I doubted you earlier today, but now you’ve earned a temporary pass,” she says, bumping his shoulder when he walks by.
He grins at her, and for a moment, he looks like the kid who used to chase her around the yard with a frog in his hand just to hear her scream. For a moment, I think maybe he’s fine.
But the moment passes like a shadow. His shoulders sink a fraction when he sits again. The smile wobbles, just a little. “You all waiting for me to slip up,” he says quietly. “You won’t say it, but I know.”
“Reno,” I start.
He cuts me off with a small shake of his head. “It’s fine. I get it. I’d probably watch me like a hawk too.”
“Look,” Cash says, “we’re not waiting for you to mess up. We’re just…watching you not mess up. It’s different.”
“Yeah?” Reno says, half laughing. “Feels the same from here.”
Levi sets his soda down, voice even. “You’re doing good tonight. That’s what matters. But we’re not putting pressure on you to be perfect from here on, you know? You’re human. If things slide one way or the other, we’re glad to have tonight.”
Reno stares at the table, then nods once. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches. The TV murmurs from the other side of the wall. Somewhere in the hall, an elevator dings. Too much truth in what Levi said, and now the room stinks with it.
I pick up my plate, just to move. “Dinner was great, son.”
He looks up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I mean it. “Thanks for having us. Think I’m gonna be in a pasta coma soon.”
He exhales, some of the tension bleeding out. “You’re welcome. It was nice.”
Blaze stands, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “Next time, my place.”
“Next time,” he says, smiling faintly, and for a heartbeat I believe there will be one.
We gather boots and keys, a familiar clatter of family leaving without wanting to admit it’s over. Cash claps Reno on the shoulder on his way out. Blaze kisses his cheek. Levi says something low that makes him laugh again.
When it’s my turn, I linger. “You did good, Ren.”
He nods. “You too, old man.”
It’s the closest we’ve been in months. I let it stand.
In the hallway, Blaze hooks her arm through mine. “He really is trying.”
“I know.”
“You think he’ll make it stick?”
“I have to,” I say, and she doesn’t argue, because she does too.
The elevator doors close, sealing in the faint smell of garlic and redemption.
Something sits heavy in my chest, and it’s not the carb-on-carb violence of the meal.
I hate that tonight felt like Reno putting on a show.
He used to thrive in the ring doing that, but tonight felt like a show just for us.
I don’t want his showmanship. I want my son back.
I walk Blaze to her truck and pat the windowsill before she’s about to pull off. But she puts her hand on mine. “Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“We can’t push him too hard on this.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because he seems to think you hate him for it.”
I blow out a hard breath. “I’ve never hated him, B. Not once. Never could. I don’t hate him. I hate what drinking does to him. But he’s so tied up in the bottle that he thinks it’s a part of him, so he thinks I hate him. And I don’t know how to make him understand the difference.”
She sighs and gives a little nod. “We’ll get him back, Dad. We just have to be here when he’s ready.”
“As long as he lets me, I will be.”
With that, she pulls out to head for parts unknown. It’s only then that I realize her hotel room is upstairs. Where the hell is she going?
Doesn’t matter. My youngest is twenty-two, and she can handle herself just fine. Probably heading out to a bar to blow off some steam or something.
For a moment, I consider the same for myself. But there’s only one place I want to go right now, and only one person I want to see. It takes some doing to find her address, but the moment I’ve got it, I’m in drive, peeling down the dusty Sandy roads.
She lives in a quaint apartment building, nothing flashy like I would have expected of a doctor. Brick and mortar, half-maintained hedges out front. I charge up her stairs, two at a time. When I get to her door, though, my hand hangs in the air before I can knock.
What if she has someone in there? We haven’t spoken about any kind of exclusivity, and she’s a pretty woman. She has every right to entertain whomever she wants. And if I barge in, all balls and no brains, I could ruin things for them.
Good. No, not good, but near enough.
Nah. No good came from being petty. Maybe I should text first and take her temperature. Something digs into my sternum at the thought. I need to see her. I can’t explain it, but I know seeing her face will make the night better. I’ll just text her first, and—
The door swings open.
Annie blinks up at me. Then a grin slashes across her face as she grabs my collar and yanks me inside, slamming the door behind me. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Is that a good thing? You sound like it’s a good—”
Her lips are on me before I finish, and suddenly all is right with the world. She tastes so damn sweet that I’m glad I didn’t have dessert. When she pulls back, her eyes are sex drunk. “I was just heading to the fairgrounds to bother you at your trailer.”
“Great minds…”
“Yeah. Something like that.” She wraps her slender arms around my neck and kisses me like it’ll solve all the world’s problems at once. We don’t come up for air before I realize she’s pulling me into her bedroom.
I don’t even get the tour before she’s naked and pawing at my clothes. The only thing I really notice in her bedroom is the smooth white sheets, and then she’s working my belt buckle. This woman is trying to kill me, and I will beg her for the honor.
Her body is curved in all the right ways, from the flare of her hips and the nip of her waist to the swells of her breasts. Those little pink nipples demand attention, and I give it. My mouth, my lips, my tongue, my fingers, all of it sets her on edge. Which is just where I like her.
She’s mewling for me, her body gyrating beneath me. A thing of beauty, she is. I stroke the soft hair between her thighs, and she purrs. Fucking purrs. When I scoot between her legs, she’s impatient, aiming herself at my face before I even get there.
The fact that I’ve turned her from “You don’t have to” into “Here I am, yes, please, go for it” is a boost of pride I didn’t know I needed.
Once I’m there, though, I have something else in mind. I reach beneath her and flip, rolling onto my back and her onto my face in the process.
“Oh my god, what are you doing?”
“Have a seat, baby. I need dessert.”
“You want me to sit on your face?”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Oh. Um, okay.” It takes her a second, but I help her get arranged until she’s secure, then I wrap my arms around her. She’s not going anywhere unless I let her.
And then, I begin. The angle lets me feel exactly how aroused she is, because she’s leaking all over my face and down my neck.
When she’s close, she tastes a little lighter, sweeter.
I lock my arms tight to make sure she’s secure, and then I go to town, letting my stubble do some of the work for me.
I can’t hear her words—I got thigh earmuffs right now—but the tone speaks volumes. So does her volume.
I might drown, and I can’t think of a better way to go.
When she finally stops screaming, she taps my head, and I let her slide away. But not too far. I’m not done yet.
I pull her to me, spooning her on our sides. From there, I slowly slide in from behind, fingers on her clit again. She’s shuddering in my arms, still coming on some level. I feel it inside, that delicate pulse that milks my cock. Now, I take my time with her.
“I feel it, you know,” I begin. “Not just the way you come on my cock. But that little rough patch inside of you. That magic spot that makes you purr when I do this.” I arch myself against her just right, and sure enough, she purrs.
I hold there, then rock back and forth just an inch at a time to keep her revving.
“Your body is quickly becoming my favorite playground, baby.”
“Keep playing,” she says, voice tight.
That tone says she’s close, but her body’s been screaming it the past ten seconds. “You’re almost there. Right near the edge. I like keeping you there. Like feeling you want something from me.”
“Please,” she hisses. Her hips angle back, trying to take what I’m not ready to give.
“Doing that’ll only make me slow down.”
She whimpers and holds still.
“Next time, I’m bringing the rope to tie you down.”
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“I’ll keep you tied up, and make you come on my tongue…on my fingers…on my cock…on whatever electric boyfriends you have in here. I’ll keep at you for hours and hours until you forget your name.”
“Please, yes, god, don’t stop!”
“Come on my cock, baby. Make me feel it—”
Her sounds are guttural things, not at all ladylike, and I memorize each one while I pound her from behind and circle her clit with my fingers. There’s no telling how many times she comes. But I know she’s finished when she fidgets and gasps, “Fuck, sensitive!”
I take my fingers from her equation, roll her onto her back, and slide into her extremely wet pussy.
Her body arches up to me, meeting me thrust for thrust, until her green eyes roll back as she comes again and pulls me over the edge with her.
Our mouths meet, more a promise than a kiss, and I drink her sounds like they will cure my ills.