71. A Predatory Octopus
A PREDATORY OCTOPUS
ELIAS
“Was that the good news or the bad news?” Kimp’s face is serious.
The two of us sit at his dining room table, coffee mugs empty to the dregs. I just laid out what’s happening with the Veramendi Conservancy and the work I’ve been doing since I learned about it.
“Well,” I hedge. “That depends on how you feel about the next thing I say.”
His face is already hard, but it takes a harsher glint.
“This week I’ve learned my son got a girl pregnant.
Then I met Colt.” His hands imitate scales dipping in contrast to each other.
“I’ve become a Pop-Pop, and now someone wants to take him from me.
My land and livelihood and that of my son and, apparently my grandson, are threatened.
Need something to tip the balance in my favor, Elias. ”
“I’m dating Brighton. And I want your blessing.” I toss out the words like a grenade and steel myself for the blast, at least inwardly. I respect this man. I always have.
His eyes hold mine for several moments.
I hold my ground, not looking away from his gaze.
I said it plainly—we’re together. I’m not asking permission. But I sure would like his support.
The sharpness of his expression melts with his smile.
“Took you long enough, son. I’ve been waiting for this for years.
The way you look at her. The way she studies you.
It was inevitable.” His gaze flicks to the barn before coming back into the room.
“I love my daughter. She’s the best of her mother—brilliant, funny, sharp-witted.
She’s strong and demanding. But she’s a ball buster with walls thick enough for a war-time bunker.
Few guys are man enough for Brighton Ranger.
And no one is better suited for her than you. ”
Kimp stands and extends a hand. When I take it, he pulls me in for a hug. “Love her well, Eli.”
He begins to wander off, before turning back to me.
“Not telling you not to tell Brax about either thing. But on the conservancy challenge, I’m respectfully asking you to dig a little deeper and have a plan prior to bringing it up.
The timing is shit. Drought is upon us. Braxton isn’t sleeping, and he’s in way over his head with Colt.
One more thing right now could be one too many.
And since we can’t control it and we’ll need that plan to fight it, it’s worth sparing him that one more thing if we can.
I wouldn’t feel that way if I were running the ranch, but I’m looking out for my boy…
“That’s an ask, not an order, Eli. The other—” He shakes his head and smiles to himself. “Well, that’s on you.” He wanders off, I’m left in the kitchen, hands on hips, wondering what my next steps look like.
Grabbing my phone, I shoot a quick text to Brighton.
Me: Your place or mine tonight?
Brighton: Mine.
Me: What would you like for dinner?
Brighton: Leftover Giovanni’s.
Me: Finishing up work and I’ll be there.
Brighton: It’s Saturday.
Me: You’re one to talk.
Brighton: Touché. See you in a bit.
I head to the ranch office. Braxton is wrapped in what looks like a giant ace bandage with Colt tucked under the folds. If I weren’t just a little jealous, I’d laugh at his get-up.
I laugh anyway. I can’t not.
Braxton may be my client, but he’s also my oldest friend. Of course, I’m in his corner and on his team. None of that is disputable. He should know if he’s being an ass or making stupid decisions, I’ll call him on it.
I did it yesterday when he took out his aggression on a wall.
We’ve texted off and on today. The shit swirling around Colt’s custody is ugly, and it sucks for everyone involved, most especially Colt.
That baby deserves none of this, and if I do nothing else with this case—aside from win, of course—it’ll be to make sure that Colt feels as little blowback as possible.
My parents’ divorce was ugly. I didn’t deserve what happened. It happened anyway, and I’ll make sure that’s as minimal for my best friend’s son as I possibly can.
I tip my hand to his get-up. “You look like you got wrapped up in a weird hug by a predatory octopus.”
“I’d like to see you wrestle a baby into a harness without dropping him. You know how many times I attempted this?”
“Forty-eight hours, dude. You can’t be perfect in forty-eight hours.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
When Brighton opens the door, a slow grin pulls across my face. Hers is more hesitant.
I take her in, top to toe, wearing a rust-colored tee and denim shorts before falling on her mouth, wrapping her up in my arms. When I pull back, I look into her eyes. “Honey, I’m home.”
“Don’t know if that’ll ever not be weird, Elias.”
“We’ll work on it.”
She leads me into the living room and folds her feet under herself in the corner of the sofa.
“What did you do today?” She asks, gesturing to my starched shirt. “It’s Saturday.”
“Turns out the law doesn’t take weekends off.”
“So cheesy. Seriously, what had you working today?”
“Needed to catch up with Brax about some stuff with Colt.” I hold her gaze. “And I needed to chat with your dad about a few things.”
She leans forward. “Like what?”
“Remember when I said we would talk more over tiramisu?”
Her eyes hold mine as she slowly agrees.
“Well, you passed out, and—”
“Well,” she echoes, getting her back up and digging in her heels. “In my defense, I’d had a lot of orgasms. I can’t even remember how many, and it had been a long day. The night before was brutal too.”
“Darlin’, I got to hold you in my arms as you fell asleep. I’m not complaining. Now, your snoring, though… That’s another story.”
A pillow narrowly misses my head, whizzing past me and landing on the floor. “I do not snore! Take that back.”
“There’s my girl.”
Her face softens. She’s navigating this newness. Her take-no-shit, crash-through-life attitude is dialed way back. I need my Bright.
“Come here, darlin’.” I open my palm to her, and she crawls across the sofa and onto my lap. “How was your day?”
“Good. Relaxing. I took the day off and did some Michelin therapy.”
“And that is…?”
“I went for a drive. Windows down. Music up. Twisty-turnies and old country roads. I tried to get myself lost on the way to the lake. It almost worked, too—the lost part. The therapy part always works. It’s not pasta or orgasms, but it’s a damn good third place.”
“Pasta and orgasms are on the menu tonight.” I whisper in her ear as I nip her ear lobe.
“What did you see my dad about?” She whispers back.
Luna lumbers in, and I give her a rub between the ears before she slides to rest on the floor near the sofa at our feet. Her blond fur shines in the afternoon sunlight. I rub one hand up and down Brighton’s spine.
“There’s a case I’ve been working on that has some impact on the ranch. I wanted to talk to him about it.”
“What about the ranch? What impact?”
I blow past her questions. “And I told him about us.”
Her head whips back, and the eyes she pins me with would terrify a wild boar. “You what?!”
“I didn’t stutter, baby.”
“I didn’t either, Elias.” She emphasizes every syllable in my name.
“I told him we’re together and asked for his blessing. He gave it.”
“Just like that?”
“He had more to say than that, but… yeah.”
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“Did I steal your thunder?”
“No.”
“Then why are you surprised?”
“We’re so new. So new. Like one day new. Why would you bring my family into this?”
“Are you planning on dumping me on day two?”
“No.”
“Day three?”
“Of course not.”
“Darlin’, we’re not sixteen. We’re not navigating life unsure. I’ve wanted you for a long time, and you told me you feel the same. We’re adults. We’re going to give this a shot. I’ll fight for it. I hope you do too. But, baby, I’m not sneaking around behind Kimp’s back. I respect him too much.”
“But he… I…”
“He’s happy for us, Bright. You need to recognize that.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
I kiss down her neck and stop near her ear. “You like when I tell you what to do. Or you will.”
The shiver that runs down her vibrates through me.
“Now, pasta and talk?”
She nods, and we get on with dinner.
Brighton
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
Dinner has gone downhill since he mentioned the conservancy. Even Giovanni’s seafood cannelloni can’t salvage it. And that’s saying something.
“Telling you now, darlin’.”
“Don’t darlin’ me, Elias Finchley! You knew this and didn’t bother to say anything?”
He sits at my kitchen table, saying nothing as I pace and rant.
“How long have you known our home was under threat? How long have they been planning to fuck with our livelihoods? And you’re just now getting around to telling us? Fuck you!”
“Stop.”
Everything I say is sliding right off his unruffled veneer. He’s practically Teflon. And that pisses me off almost as much.
“No, I won’t stop. Why would you even think about hiding this? How could you?”
“Enough, Brighton.”
“Fuck that. My home. Our business. My livelihood. My peace. Our horses. Our heritage. And you just sat on it because…” I roll my hand around and around.
“Bright.”
“Seriously? That’s all you have to say? How could you?”
“Johnny Cash.” It rolls off his tongue matter-of-factly.
I stop dead in my tracks. I don’t know what the man in black has to do with anything. “Huh?”
“Johnny Cash.”
“The man. The myth. The legend,” I say under my breath, before throwing out the rest. “What does Cash have to do with this?”
“How many times did you play Johnny Cash with me on your doorstep?”
“What does—?”
“How many times did I text you? Call you? Stop by? How many times did I try to get you alone at the ranch, Bright?”
His posture is relaxed. The litigator in him knows he’s got me. He’s not leaning forward, making a case. He’s legitimately kicked back in my dining room chair.
“Baby, I wanted to tell you first. I came to you. I did everything I could. You refused to speak to me. So, this” —he extends one arm wide looking around my kitchen— “is me telling you the moment you would listen. You can’t lay this on me, darlin’. I told you the moment you would hear me out.”
“There was last night! You could have told me last night!”
“I could’ve. Maybe over tiramisu?”
The light dawns, and I know I’ve lost. He knows I’ve lost this argument too. Like hell I’ll ever admit it though.
“Well… You could’ve told Pop earlier, at least.”
“Should I have told him before the funeral? Should I have mentioned it when Willa was hospitalized? When should I have done it, Bright? When I had no information? When I didn’t know what the claim could be?
That’s like me shouting your house is on fire and standing next to you to watch it burn, but not making a move to help extinguish the flames.
That’s not me.” He looks at me, holding my eyes.
It’s like he’s willing me to see his commitment to my family.
“I’ve spent months researching. Months, baby, looking for loopholes.
When I went to your dad, and now telling you, I had to know what was legit, what could happen, what legal precedent there was, what was being exploited, and how we can fight it.
” He’s equally calm when he adds, “For the record, Kimp asked me not to say anything to Brax.”
“What?” I gasp.
“And I’m honoring his request.”
My mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. There are no words.
“That said, I’m not going to hold back from you or treat you with kid gloves. I’ll protect you from everything, baby, but I won’t withhold information from you. So, now you know. You could’ve known in March. But we’re three months deeper in research, so at least there’s that.”
I nod. I want to scream but I bought this dilemma. My mind yells at me about lying in the bed I’ve made.
I pace, but less frantically. “What do we do, Eli?”
He leans forward, elbows to knees. “I have some ideas up my sleeve, but my biggest concern is not what we know, but what we’re missing.”
“How are you this calm?” I wave my hand in his general direction. The energy inside me vibrates and not in a good way.
“Come here, darlin’.” He opens his arms wide. This is a pattern. It’s like he wants me close when he drops a bomb. I can’t handle another bomb today… or this year.
I shake my head and continue wearing a pattern in my old, wood plank floors. I’m lost in my own world.
Another man would try to contain me, make me listen, not let my head swirl into the vortex like a flushing toilet. Another man would soothe me or coddle me or pet me to soften the bristling I feel.
I stop dead in my tracks. He knows me. He knows me. He knows that wrapping me up would be like trying to trap a Tasmanian devil. I look up and hold his gaze.
“Are you just going to let me keep yelling?”
He leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows.
“Are you just going to let me keep pacing and stewing?”
He does nothing but emits a long exhale. A twitch plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Well?” I continue.
He stands and stalks to me. Both hands land on my neck, thumbs at my jaws. With his lips a hair’s breadth from mine, he whispers my name and hovers above me, not kissing me.
Slowly one of his hands trails down my right arm until our hands are clasped as his other slips to my waist pulling me tight to him.
Starting with the vibration in his chest, he moves me with the song he begins singing.
“She’s Every Woman” by Garth Brooks rolls from his lips.
We dance in my kitchen to his singing a cappella about letting a woman rage and be herself.
Because she’s real.
And she’s worth it.
If I let myself think about it, Eli is ruining me.
Not just spoiling me, but ruining me.
He’s not trying to change me, not trying to polish me. There’s no performance here, no need to put on a show. It’s me. And he doesn’t just accept me, he embraces me as I am.
“Yes.” He says when he finishes singing, and we’re holding each other, swaying, navigating my kitchen in a delicious embrace.
“Yes, what?”
“Bright, I’ve known a lot of women.”
I growl, and my eyes slice to slits.
His responding grin is infuriating. “Let me finish.” He waits until he sees something on my face that gives him the go-ahead.
“I’ve known a lot of women. None of them are strong enough to go toe-to-toe with me. None of them love something so much they’re pissed they can’t defend it. None have the passion to yell and pace and scream because they feel helpless but aren’t.
“Will I let you rage? Yes. Why would I not? Bottling up your passion is the equivalent of creating a timebomb. I’m not afraid of your fervor.” He pulls me to a stop and holds my gaze. “I’m afraid of your indifference. So long as fire burns in your belly, you’re you.”
Keeping my gaze, he drops his mouth to mine and gives me a tender kiss. When he pulls back, he holds my eyes. “Don’t ever change.”
We never get to tiramisu. I’d be pissed, but dessert was way better.