Chapter 12
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“Fuck you doing?” Some people can be described as their bark being worse than their bite.
Mark isn’t one of them. His bark is bad.
His bite is worse. I’m pretty much the same, but we’ve found some degree of respect in our similarities.
For the most part, we try not to piss each other off.
It’d be too easy to bury the body on the thousands of acres out here where no one would ever find it.
Not that I’ve considered that. Recently.
Today might challenge that, though.
“Texting.” Translation: what the fuck does it look like I’m doing, dumbass?
“Erica?”
I give him a dark look that threatens imminent violence even though I know he’s pushing my buttons on purpose. “Yep. How’s Princess this morning?”
No one gets to have that degree of familiarity with Katelyn but him. Mark and Katelyn are wound up in each other tight and are possessive as fuck of one another. So using her pet name is damn near like waving a red cape in front of a bull.
He returns the glare, dips his chin, and the battle ends. Hell, it was probably his version of fun. Or more likely, he’s testing out the situation to get a read on me.
“How’s Rix?” The change to the name everyone else uses is as much of an apology as I’m going to get because he’s damn sure not sorry.
But my reaction at his using Erica’s given name wasn’t lost on either of us.
He’s got reason to be possessive, and the sentiment is returned with his wife.
I’ve got no reason to be greedy about being the only one to use her name, and she’s made it crystal clear that we’re casual. Exactly what I want too.
Except . . .
We’ve been texting every day. Pictures of cars and pictures of cattle. Pictures of her short, muscled legs wound up in her sheets. Pictures of my chest with the sheets puddled a bit low.
I haven’t read a single page of a book all week because we sit in bed at night talking, the phone bridging the distance across town.
Sometimes, it’s just her voice in my ear.
Sometimes, we FaceTime, and I love to see her in thin tank tops with sleepy eyes.
We have conversations about our day—work, people, random tidbits of life.
I’ve heard stories about her time in the military and how she had to work twice as hard to prove herself because, according to Erica,
“Apparently, engines are these magical, mystical things that can’t be understood if you have a vagina instead of a dick.
The guys hadn’t liked it much when I told them that if I could find a G-spot, I sure as fuck could find a carburetor, but I doubted they could say the same thing. About either of those.”
I’d laughed my ass off so loudly that Brutal had knocked on the door to check on me.
When I said I was fine, he’d told me to shut the fuck up because Cooper had school in the morning.
Like I wouldn’t be up two hours before Cooper, anyway.
But I’d quieted down because I like the kid.
And we have plans for a rematch at cornhole tonight so I can redeem myself after getting skunked during our last match.
Erica and I have talked about her coming back to run the garage for her Dad, who retired a bit earlier than she expected.
He’s fine and healthy, apparently, which is good, and wants to spend time traveling the US with Janice, which is great.
But there’s a hitch in Erica’s voice there, something between her and her dad she’s not sharing.
I don’t push because I don’t like talking about my dad, either.
Which is why I tell her all the great things about ranch life, focusing on the hard work and pride in a job well done.
I show her the goat herd and tell her how I raised them from newborn babies to adults that prance around mischievously, kicking me in the shin every chance they get.
I explain raising calves and selling cattle every year so we can do it all again in a never-ending cycle.
With close to fatherly pride, I tell her how Shayanne became an entrepreneur on her own terms, Brutal is becoming the almost-husband and father he was always meant to be, and Bobby is getting deeper into his music every day.
It’s only been a week’s worth of conversations, but I feel like I’m getting to know Erica a little more in those few minutes of conversations before we both crash, knowing we have early mornings ahead.
Last night, the looming alarm hadn’t seemed to matter and we’d talked for almost two hours. And I’m feeling it today.
“She’s all right.” I answer Mark on delay because I’m glancing at my phone again, smiling at the picture Erica just sent. Black tires with white stripes along the side walls.
Me: Putting shoes on Sally?
Erica: Good memory. Wilson says hi.
Wilson did nothing of the sort.
Me: Tell him I said hello too.
I look up to find Mark looking at me, his face carefully blank. I don’t ask, don’t say a word, knowing if he has something to say, he will.
“I like her for you. She’s brash, keeps you on your toes. A bit wild, but smart too.” He nods, having said his piece.
I shake my head. “You met her for the grand total of like one hour, and it ain’t like that. We’re keeping it casual.”
He laughs, deeply and violently. A rarity from the stoic man, which is probably why it sounds like rusty metal in his chest. I swear to God, he even wipes his eyes, tears leaking out from laughing so hard. At me? At the idea of Erica and me being casual? Fuck if I know.
He sobers, and it’s like the laughter never happened. “You weren’t around back then, or well, not around like you are now . . . but James and Sophie? They were a summer fling.” He spits out ‘summer fling’ like it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “They seem casual?”
He already knows the answer as well as I do.
“Me and Katelyn? Supposed to just be friends.” He actually does finger quotes with his thick, muddy hands. “Till she stomped out here in the middle of the night and forcibly yanked my head outta my ass for me.”
My brows jump together. “Katelyn?” She’s the sweetest woman I think I’ve ever met, literally nice as can be, with the patience of a saint. I try to picture her giving Mark what for and can’t even imagine it.
He snorts. “She’s tougher than she lets on.” His eyes go distant, and I know he’s thinking about his bride because he’s got that stupid-in-love look on his face. The look I never want to have.
“Yeah, well . . . Erica and I are on the same page. Casual only. She’s busy, I’m busy, and we ain’t got the time nor the inclination for anything serious.”
My phone dings in my hand. I’d like to say it’s a saved by the bell situation, but it feels more like it’s calling me out on my shit.
“Time’s a fickle bitch. Don’t let her fuck you over.
” He narrows his eyes like he’s imparting great wisdom.
“I ain’t never regretted a single moment I’ve spent with Katelyn.
Hard to say I regret the part when I was fighting us because we got where we needed to be in the end, but I’m a greedy fucker and I’ll take every second I can get with her, so I wish I’d had a head-out-of-my-ass-ectomy a little sooner. ”
Mark is not a share your feelings type. So he might as well have just opened his chest and fileted his heart to tell me how much his wife means to him, all the while implying that the woman I’ve spent one night with plus a week of texting looks like a pretty damn similar situation to him.
Fuck this. “Are we going to hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and talk about our periods, or work?”
These cows need to move over to the next fenced pasture, and we need to spread some hay and do a wellness check on as many as we can before the sun sets.
James is riding fence on an ATV today, far on the back pasture where we’re eventually headed with the herd.
It’s never-ending, it’s what I know, and it’s even what I love.
And I’m gonna win that damn cornhole match tonight if it’s the last thing I do. My buddy Cooper is going down. I like that a simple game with my nephew is the biggest thing on my plate right now, and I plan to keep it that way.
Me: I’m here.
Erica: On my way down.
At Cole Automotive, Erica’s upstairs apartment doesn’t exactly have a front porch for me to climb up and knock on the door like a proper date.
But the text does the trick. Because this is a date.
An official one, preplanned with me picking her up and nervous excitement in my gut.
I don’t know why I’m nervous. Hell, we talked earlier today, for fuck’s sake, but while I stand outside the door waiting for Erica to come down, my belly feels like I ate a gas station burrito.
I peek through the single row of windows when I hear a door inside close. Erica’s not visible over the truck she’s got in bay one, but then I see her as she rolls the overhead door up like she’s revealing a prize on a game show. And she’s the fucking grand prize.
Black suede boots reach just below her knees, fishnet hose disappear beneath a grey denim skirt that looks touchably soft and worn, all topped with a black tank top.
Her hair is down, a shiny curtain of dark brown silk that nearly reaches her waist, and her eyes are smudged with black stuff, making them look hypnotic and smoky.
“Fuck, woman.”
I’m not known for being eloquent, and she’s taken what few words I do have. But her smile says it’s enough.
“Looking pretty good yourself, Cowboy.” She lets her eyes lick up my body, and I hold still, not just letting her but wanting her to. I can tell she took her time getting ready for tonight, and so did I.
I detailed my truck, well aware that Erica will be judging me on it, left my dirty hat at home, and wore my best jeans, nicest boots, and a grey plaid button-up shirt. Without even meaning to, we sorta match. And doesn’t noticing that make me feel like a thirteen-year-old girl?