Chapter 19
TILLY
“I’m going to shower,” I announce.
The burger wrappers are back in the brown bag everything came in.
My stomach is full, although I’m still a bit iffy on whether or not it’ll stay that way.
The meat wasn’t pink, but I stand by what I said.
The restaurant’s website looked like either the owners are ancient and don’t know anything about design, or it’s a front for something that doesn’t involve burgers at all.
Either way, it tasted good going down.
Rowe grunts his acknowledgment from his place on the armchair. I cringe as I stare at him, suspecting that it hasn’t been washed since the place opened. He doesn’t seem to care about that. As long as it meant he could sit away from me, I’m sure he’d sit on a pile of manure.
I rifle through my bag and grab the giant shirt I brought to sleep in, along with my soap. When I packed for this sudden trip, I wasn’t exactly planning on sharing a room with Rowe, so he can suck it up. It’s not like I brought lingerie.
That would have been fun, though . . .
“Don’t have too much fun without me,” I drawl, taking my things into the bathroom.
There’s no point in locking the door, so I don’t bother. The last place my brother’s best friend wants to be is in this tiny bathroom with me.
I turn the shower on, watching as the water spurts out for a minute before finally cascading properly.
I’m quick, not lingering or daring to let my hair down to wash it.
The tiles in the corner are black, and that’s enough to have my legs turning to stone.
Once I can no longer smell the Wickett stable on my skin, I step out and use a scratchy towel to dry myself.
The reflection I see in the vanity mirror doesn’t startle me anymore.
Ash might have been concerned about the weight I’d lost in Nova Scotia, but it’s already started to come back.
Even living off microwave meals and the stew Tanner sneaks me whenever they make extra at the bunkhouse, I’m doing better than I was months ago.
I think the new medication I started on before leaving Nova Scotia is finally starting to work. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. The changes in me are absolutely not because I actually like being at Painted Sky. Or fine, maybe a little bit. I’m sure it hasn’t done any harm.
With a shake of my head, I slip my sleep shirt on. Now that I’m looking, it actually isn’t as long as I remember it being. Oops.
I spend another five minutes getting ready for bed before opening the door. The lack of reaction from Rowe grates on me, even if I don’t know whether I wanted one to begin with. Now that he hasn’t given me one, that’s all I want.
“Are you going to sleep in that chair tonight? You know it’s probably for watching people fuck, right?”
A pair of deepening grey eyes snap up from where they were staring at a phone screen. They cling to me, hot and sticky. There’s a flutter in my stomach, starting low and crawling higher. It’s foreign, almost an intruder.
“Why, would you prefer the sex chair?” he asks, a roughness to his voice that only intensifies that flutter.
Fuck, I feel like a teenager again.
The motel room is too small all of a sudden. With the two of us here, it feels like he’s hogging all of the air, leaving me no choice but to inhale the scraps already saturated in him. His confidence, arrogance, and unfair good looks. Even the scent of his cologne is too strong.
I could make a run for it before I do or say something incredibly stupid, but in my current outfit, that would be a terrible idea. He’d chase after me, and I don’t trust myself not to blurt out something like please take me up against this dirty motel wall.
Forcing the blooming pulse between my legs to the back of my mind, I clear my throat and cross my arms. “No.”
“So, don’t complain about me taking it, then.”
“You can’t honestly be sleeping in that chair.”
He locks his phone and leans over his spread knees, keeping his gaze on me. “I’m not laying on the floor.”
“There’s a bed.”
“Not happening.”
I roll my eyes, finally padding across the room. The air conditioning is cranked, but it’s still hot in here. Sweltering, truly. I can’t tell if that’s real or if it’s only in my head.
“What’s your plan for the night, then? There’s no TV in here. Do you have Farmville on your phone, cowboy? Have you collected your daily prize?”
My first glance at the tip of his pink tongue as it glides across his bottom lip has my toes curling into the carpet. It wasn’t a sexual move. He’s annoyed with me, and instead of backing off like I should, I keep pushing.
“Or are you going to sit and watch me sleep? I can’t promise you a show worth watching. All my toys are in my trailer.”
There’s a crack in his bravado. It’s slight, nothing more than a flash of his eyes and a flattening of his already straight lips. My heart rate picks up, beating in time with my hurried steps. My thigh hits the mattress, and I grow still, hesitating to climb onto it.
He palms his chin, squeezing it before dropping his hand into his lap. “If you want me to sleep in the bed with you, hellcat . . . then ask.”
“Your answer wouldn’t be no?”
“Should it be?”
“Stop answering my questions with another question.”
He straightens and presses his back into the chair before rising.
His jeans are worn in the thigh, and he’s still wearing his boots.
The chair legs creak beneath the shifting of his weight before it’s gone entirely.
I swallow as discreetly as possible and lower a hand to the blanket. Slowly, I peel it back.
“Ash would have my hide if I got in that bed with you,” he mutters, staring at where my hand’s pinching the cheap comforter.
“Are you planning on telling him? I’m not.”
“You never told him about the letters.” It’s not a question.
Warning bells ring. I ignore them. “He wouldn’t have understood. And I didn’t want him to be an ass when you got out of prison. He’s always been easy to rile up when it comes to your friendship.”
“You didn’t do it for me, Tilly. I’m not playing this game with you tonight.”
Yet, despite those words, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Long, thick fingers move down his chest, plucking the buttons free.
I tuck my tongue behind my teeth, remembering the feel of his touch when he gripped my shoulders back at the ranch.
It was an unexpected show of support that I’ve read too far into.
He’s inked the backs of his hands with more trees and branches. Evergreens grow between each knuckle, some black, some deep green. I want to tell him to sit beside me so I can count how many branches hang from each one, just so I have an excuse to touch him.
By the time he reaches the last three buttons, I’m pressing my leg harder against the bed for balance. Inch by inch, more of his chest is exposed, until finally, the shirt hangs open, offering an unrestricted view. My swallow is louder now.
Endless muscle, dark hair. I bring my legs together as discreetly as possible.
He pins me beneath his eyes, hearing the noise I made and watching every shift of my body. It would be easier to fall to my knees in front of him than try to explain what I’m thinking and feeling. I doubt he’d want to hear it anyway. We’d both prefer option one.
“Get in bed, Tilly.”
“You first,” I counter weakly, far too breathless.
With a pull of his shoulders, his shirt glides down his arms. He catches the back of it in his fist and drapes it over the back of the chair.
I’m unable to move. The mass amounts of designs on his torso are .
. . hard to comprehend. It’s like staring at a painting on a wall at an art gallery.
Or more like a handful of them all twisted into one.
Different themes, vibes, colour schemes.
There’s no rhyme or reason to the images and words inked onto his skin.
His fingers fiddle with his belt buckle. It clacks as he grips it and tugs, but with his eyes still on me, it doesn’t move the way he wants it to. His fingers flex, and I whip my gaze up once I see the tremble in them.
With his pupils expanding far beyond the size they were a moment ago, he grinds his jaw and glares at me. Like it’s my fault he can’t unbuckle his belt for the first time in his entire goddamn life.
Wordlessly, I abandon the bed and push myself to go to him. The tension in his face multiplies as I close the distance between us, but he doesn’t retreat. Even when I have to tip my head back slightly to avoid breaking our stare-off, he remains in place.
“This is a first,” I murmur, the words softer than I intended.
“What is?”
“Rowe Carrigan is struggling to unbuckle his belt. What would they say about you at the rodeo?”
He opens his mouth to respond before clasping his lips together. My fingers grab his buckle, feeling the cool silver beneath my hot touch. I’m too close to him now. The heat from his chest is worse than standing in the sun on a forty-degree day.
If I leaned forward an inch, my lips would touch the black and green designs beneath his throat.
Each breath I inhale is thin, yet I don’t back away.
Lowering my eyes, I stare down the trail of dark hair and thick, ridged skin to where his buckle is.
Slowly, I lift two of my fingers to touch the grooved skin above his jeans.
He sucks in a breath, and his abs tighten. My forehead falls forward to his chest, welcoming the sear. I take a long, wavering inhale and find the prong behind his buckle. When I push it, the belt falls open, and I let it go. Neither of us makes a move.
The silence is loud enough to scare me.
“Get in bed,” he rasps.
I tilt my head down, my nose touching him. For a second, I let my eyes close. He doesn’t touch me or tell me to back off. Not even when I busy my empty hands with the ends of his belt and squeeze, pulling just enough for his hips to shift forward.
“I sent you another letter.”
The air trapped in my lungs expels as I stiffen but don’t pull away. “When?”
“Two months after the one you mentioned earlier.”
“I didn’t get it.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he warns, his voice barbed.
I pull back far enough to look up at him, trying to make him see the truth in what I’m saying. “I’m not. I didn’t get another letter. If you really did send another one, I don’t know what it said.”
“It’s not an if, Tilly. I did fucking send it. Don’t try to make excuses for the choices you made.”
“What? I’m not making excuses for shit. I don’t have anything to make excuses for in the first place.”
He retreats before I finish. The walls come back down, and suddenly, he’s guarded to the tits, shutting me out. Frustration wells inside of me so high I choke on it.
“You fucked off out of my life without a word and then went and got married. It wouldn’t have killed you to let me know that you were at least in a relationship before your family was boarding a plane to attend your wedding,” he attacks, his slightly bumped nose curling.
“Isn’t that something best friends tell one another?
Or was one letter enough to make you completely write me off? ”
I flinch, feeling every well-aimed word pop the bubble wrap I’ve rolled my heart in. “Stop. You know that isn’t fair. We weren’t best friends anymore! You made that decision for us. This mysterious letter you’re talking about doesn’t take away the hurt you caused me.”
Moving quickly, he grabs his shirt from the chair and works his arms back into it. I fist my hands and let him, even as I debate ripping it off again. He only does up the middle two buttons before heading for the door. I feel every clink of his belt like a slap across my face.
“Where are you going?” I ask, following.
He opens the door and steps outside without answering. I freeze in the threshold, looking down at my bare legs. And once I lift my eyes again, he’s gone.
Fuck my life.