Chapter Eighteen
Good God! What a cry! My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralyzed.
My arms still drape over his shoulders. “Go ahead and make a run for it. I’ll put together a picnic and meet you at the far end of the old county fair trail.”
“Deal.” Chet plants his lips briefly against mine. “Pack some Impossible burgers, alright?”
“Huh?”
His laughter is proud, joyful even. “You didn’t notice? I made sure to have vegetarian options so there’d be something for you to eat.”
I’m stunned into momentary silence. “For real? How’d you know I’m a vegetarian?”
Chet cradles my cheek in his palm. “Come on, Jane. Anyone paying attention could’ve figured that one out.”
We kiss again, my hungry lips pressing against his.
After a minute or two, we break apart and go our separate ways.
As quickly as I can, I compose a picnic—wine bottle dangling between my knuckles, Impossible burgers wrapped in red-checkered napkins, two mason jars full of basil lemonade (to keep us hydrated), chocolate brownies that leave smudges on my fingertips.
After shoving it all into a cloth bag, I rush up the old county fair trail.
Chet’s leaning against a tree trunk, waiting for me. His rumpled white shirt clings to his torso, as the sweat from underneath his fortune teller’s robe still lingers. “I was beginning to worry,” he says. But his grin is wide.
“What are you talking about? I did a great job evading people and getting here fast.”
“No doubt. But you do a great job at everything you try.” He points up, toward a steep, rocky trail. “It’s like, a ten-minute climb. Can your poor feet handle that?”
“Sure. No problem.”
The hike up the cliff steals my breath. Or maybe it’s the way he keeps looking back at me, dark eyes even darker with promise.
When we reach the overlook, the stream below catches sunset light like scattered diamonds.
Chet’s back finds the elm tree first, and he pulls me down beside him, our thighs touching. “I’m starving,” he says. “Let’s eat.”
“Definitely.” We devour our picnic.
“This is perfect,” he says, “the food, the company, everything. Couldn’t ask for anything more.”
I give him a quizzical look. “Will your family be disappointed that you took off?”
“My mom might be. But I’ll call her in a couple of days and arrange a visit where just she and I will spend some time together.”
“What happened? I mean . . .” I pause, trying to phrase this right “. . . I understand messed-up family dynamics. But did you do something huge to royally piss off Tom and Mason?”
Chet brushes a fleck of dirt from his knee.
“More like a series of not-quite-huge things, starting with my very existence.” He lets out a humorless chuckle.
“Mason and I are the same age, so when Mom and Tom got married, they transferred me from my East Palo Alto middle school to this swanky private institution in Los Altos Hills. The other kids teased Mason for having a trashy stepbrother. But then I got more academic awards than Mason did, dated more often, and became a track star, while Mason was never athletic. Whenever Tom praised me, Mason would get this look in his eye. And when it was time for college, we both wanted to go to UC Berkeley, but they turned Mason down.” Chet’s mouth clamps shut for a second.
“He was sure that was my fault, that if we weren’t from the same family, he’d have been accepted.
Anyway,” Chet continues, “Mason went to Cornell, I went to Berkeley, and Tom paid tuition for us both. And right after college, when I decided to start ShopSpot, Tom invested. Mason wanted to be in on the ground floor, so of course, I said yes.” Chet’s eyes blink rapidly, several times, like he’s trying to forget something.
“Years later, we had a falling out. Mason bought up my shares. Tom’s still bitter; he thinks I exited too soon. ”
But why did you have a falling out? I’m not brave enough to ask that question. “So,” I ask instead, “the noncompete clause you signed, that’s Mason’s doing?”
“Yeah,” Chet answers. “Nice, huh?”
I glance at Chet’s profile. So strong. So enigmatic.
“Hey,” I say, “I was thinking about your idea for the small business platform. What if, instead of treating it like an Amazon- or Etsy-type of marketplace, you made it a directory? Businesses could share all their info, like physical addresses and phone numbers, plus links to their websites, so people could then order from them. Your platform could still have the social media aspect of Facebook or Instagram, but also be like an enhanced web search, making it easy to find products you want, or places located in your area.”
“Not bad.” Chet’s crooked smile stretches across his face, making that single dimple appear. “Thanks. I’ll mull that over.”
“Just an idea.” I shrug. “Anyway, I’m sorry your relationship with Mason has been so rough. You can take comfort, though, knowing that sibling rivalry is alive and well on both the West Coast and in the upper South.”
Chet raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Tell me more, Kentucky Jane.”
My chest heaves with a sigh. “Not much to tell that you don’t already know.
Except that thirty years ago, my parents had a son and pinned all their hopes on him.
Years later, I came along—a short, feisty afterthought.
They made Reed heir to the family business and spent a ton of money on jockey training for me.
Until I developed this nasty habit of puking every time a horse was in pain.
Unfortunately, my only other interest was becoming a large animal vet technician, and as I mentioned before, it’s near impossible making it through practicums if you’re always about to vomit.
” I shrug. “Though maybe if I’d seen Psycho and known about your Norma Bates analogy, things would have been different. ”
Chet smirks and peers at me. “How did it start?”
“Me puking?”
He nods.
“I was fifteen,” I tell him, “training for this big deal horse race. And I accidentally whipped myself with my riding crop. It cut straight through my pants, and I got this huge welt.” I hold up both hands, using my thumbs and index fingers to indicate the welt’s size.
“I’d always been told that riding crops don’t hurt the horses, but it sure as hell hurt me.
Then I read that horses’ skin is just as sensitive as a human’s.
So I tried to back out of the race, but my parents said I was being ridiculous.
So did my trainer. ‘Suck it up, Jane.’” I mimic their voices.
“‘Do whatever it takes to win.’” I take a deep breath, feeling Chet’s eyes on me.
Meanwhile, I pick up a twig and fiddle with it.
“On the day of the race, I’m using my crop, hitting my horse, and—” I cut myself off, suddenly tearful.
Chet rubs my back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
I shake my head. “No, I want to. I was hurting him, Chet. Everyone said that wasn’t possible, but I just had this bone-deep certainty that I was.
And once I knew, that was it. I pulled over, mid-race, and puked on the side of the track.
Everyone laughed at me. Someone filmed it, and the clip went viral.
I became this ridiculous legend. The whole county called me Jane Wreck.
” Lifting my gaze, I meet Chet’s eyes and smile sadly. “Pretty funny, huh?”
“No,” he says, jaw clenching. “In fact, I’ve never felt this way.”
“What way?”
“Like I want to go beat up an entire county of people.” Chet sips from his jar of lemonade, which takes the edge off his words. “What about your brother?” he asks. “Does it ever bother him that he got everything while you got nothing?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “And now that Reed’s Botox-obsessed wife is leaving him, he’s mainly worried she’ll snatch up everything he’s worth, including horses owned by Adkins and Son Stables. Like Betty.” Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warm air blowing against my brow.
Chet shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. He places his large, warm hand over my knee and squeezes. “Is Betty your horse?”
“Emotionally? Yes.” My eyes open, but I stare at the ground. “She and I belong to each other. Financially, no. Right now, Reed technically owns her. But that could change if Melissa . . .”
What am I doing? I promised myself that I wouldn’t ask Chet for help.
Chet cups my chin, tilting it up so our gazes meet. “Jane, if you need me to—”
“I don’t.” I seize his hand, guiding it from my chin to my chest, where my heart hammers against my ribs. “Enough talking.” My whisper is urgent. Our foreheads touch; his breath is hot against my lips. “Kiss me instead.”
Chet hesitates for a moment, then seems to give in. “If you insist,” he mumbles.
Chet’s ravenous mouth claims mine, making me swoon.
As dusk blankets the overlook, our bodies press together.
His fingers tangle in my hair. Every touch ignites something primal in me.
Dizzy with want, I’m galloping toward a precipice.
The rational part of me screams a warning even as I lose myself in his taste, his scent, the delicious weight of him.
I could surrender to this fire between us.
I almost do.
But then I’m startled by a distant pop followed by light blooming above Sugar Pine. Fireworks. Chet’s hand slides to my waist, his arousal evident against my hip. When his tongue traces my bottom lip, I can’t help the soft moan that escapes my lips.
“We should probably get back,” I murmur. But just the thought of leaving here, leaving him, leaving this moment—it’s painful.
“How are you more worried about getting back than I am?” Chet’s breath is hot against my neck.
“Don’t want people noticing that we’re gone and putting two and two together.” My fingers betray me, grazing his skin underneath his shirt.
“As you wish,” he murmurs. But Chet doesn’t move away.
We lie together until the fireworks fizzle out and the moon is high. Chet’s fingers trace idle patterns on the back of my hand.
Too soon, through silent, mutual agreement, Chet and I stand and head back to the ranch.
We take the switchback trail. Compared to the hush of the cliff, the ranch is chaos.
There are drunk tech bros wrestling on the lawn.
Meanwhile, the catering staff urges the locals to disperse, insisting that the party’s over.
But that doesn’t explain my growing sense of unease.
Then I hear it—a cry that cuts clean through the noise of the crowd and the last of the fireworks and every thought in my head.
It comes from the blue barn.
My stomach drops. I don’t think. I just move, shoving the picnic bag into Chet’s chest, pushing forward. Bodies are clustered near the blue barn’s door. “Excuse me,” I holler. “Please, let me through.”
Axel Rose, River, and other locals are gathered around something. Or should I say, someone. Because lying on the ground near the blue barn’s door is Mason. There’s a hoof knife wedged underneath his shoulder blade.
I know hoof knives. The blade is short and curved, designed to pare away dead skin. It doesn’t make a long wound, but a hooked and deep one. Mason’s shirt is dark and wet. He’s conscious, which is something. But his breathing is shallow and he’s trembling.
Gloria and Tom come rushing up.
“Oh my Lord,” Gloria cries, “what’s happened?” She rushes to her stepson, kneeling down. “Mason, who did this to you?”
He rouses and sits up. “Wh—What the hell just happened?”
“Somebody attacked you,” Tom states. “That’s what happened.”
Mason cranes his neck toward the knife. Even that small movement makes him wince. “Somebody attacked me.” Mason echoes Tom’s words in disbelief.
“Okay, nothing to see here,” Chet says to all the rubberneckers. His voice is quiet, which is somehow worse than if he’d shouted. His blue-black eyes do the rest, making people obey him. They all start moving away. Except for me.
I stay, hoping that Chet won’t notice, or—if he does notice—that he won’t mind.
Chet’s gaze darts to the blood staining Mason’s shirt, then away, as if he can’t quite bear to look. Tom and Gloria stand over Mason, hands hovering around his shoulders, frantic yet afraid to touch him.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” Chet says. He takes out his phone.
“I don’t need one. Jesus, I’m fine,” Mason grunts. But his face betrays the pain. His nostrils flare with every shallow inhale.
“You were stabbed,” Gloria says. “It’s better to have the knife removed by a doctor so they can stabilize the wound.”
Chet speaks to the 911 operator, then clicks off the phone. “Help will be here soon.”
Mason lets out a dry, pain-filled chuckle. “This is classic.” He glares at Chet. “The moment I step onto your property, someone stabs me in the back. Did you hire out a hit on me?”
“Of course not,” Chet says, voice tight.
“Then why aren’t you calling the police?” Tom asks his stepson.
“Because,” Chet answers, “it’s better to solve this privately if possible.”
“Did you see the person who attacked you?” Gloria asks Mason.
Mason’s breathing is ragged. “No. I was just walking by here, minding my own business. Then someone grabs me from behind. I didn’t see her face, but it was obviously a woman. She stabbed me, I fell to the ground, and then she ran off.”
Tom spears Chet with his gaze. “You got some kind of security setup? Cameras?” His voice is part accusation, like he’s already mapped out a list of suspects.
As Mason tries to stand, he grunts with the effort.
“Come on. This place—” he sweeps his hand in a circle “—is a walking lawsuit.” Mason pins his gaze on Chet.
“You’re still a coward, running from what you did.
And if you think that this—” Mason winces as he gestures to the knife in his back “—will scare me off from getting revenge, from getting back everything that’s rightfully mine—you’re wrong. ”
Gloria sucks in a breath. “Come now, Mason. Surely you don’t think Chet planned this?”
“Your son isn’t the saint you think he is.” He looks at Chet. “Get ready. Cuz just like you took everything from me, I’m gonna take everything from you.” When Mason notices my presence, he chuckles. “Better hope your new piece of ass doesn’t learn the truth.”
Chet turns, seeing that I’ve been here the whole time, bearing witness. His face turns red. “Jane!” he yells. “I told you to go!”
My heart’s in my throat. “Sorry,” I murmur.
I scurry away.
Once I’m safely back in my trailer, I peek through the window blinds.
The ambulance arrives, Mason boards it, and Tom and Gloria take off following in their car.
Meanwhile, Chet stands, lonely in a pool of light.
Once they’re gone, he bangs on the door of the blue barn.
It opens, he steps inside, and then—that’s it.
I watch for a very long time, but Chet doesn’t emerge. Finally, I surrender to sleepiness. But as I’m lying in bed, staring at my trailer’s ceiling, I have to wonder—
What the hell is going on?