Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Ace
I've got a cold beer in one hand, my dick in the other, and the face of a pretty blonde who broke my heart on my mind.
After a day of herding cattle, chasing leads, and trying not to think about the Greek zip-tied in our tack room, all I want is her.
I want to chase her, catch her, and fuck her until her voice breaks.
I want her scratch marks all over my neck.
I want to feel her teeth on my shoulder and hear her say my name the way she used to—breathless, wrecked, like the word Ace was the only one left in her vocabulary.
Fuck.
I rest my head back against the couch and close my eyes. The house is quiet. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock on the wall, and the sound of my own breathing getting heavier.
I swear I can still hear her moans if I think hard enough. The pitch of them. The way they'd climb. The way she'd dig her nails into my back when she was close.
I run my fingers along the bars of my Jacob's ladder.
Four rungs. I got to four and decided that was enough, because fuck, throw me off a bull and let it stamp on me before you pierce my dick again.
But Harper loved them. Loved them. The first time she felt them inside her, her eyes went so wide I thought I'd broken her.
Then she smiled. That slow, filthy, beautiful smile. And said do that again.
I let my mind drift to the last time. The night before she left. A black mask and a cowboy hat, chasing her through the pitch-black ranch while the stars watched and the whole world shrank down to just the sound of her bare feet on the dirt.
My girl could run fast. And she was sneaky—always cutting corners, making turns I didn't see coming, doubling back through the barn so I'd lose her trail. And when I finally caught her, I shoved her up against the paddock gate, and I fucked her so hard the hinges rattled.
She clawed at me. Bit me. Came so loud and so violently all over my cock that her legs gave out, and I had to hold her up.
That was our thing. Most nights toward the end. Even when we were out—a bar, a party, dinner at my parents'—all I had to do was run my finger along my bottom lip and look at her.
She'd run. And I'd chase. And neither of us would sleep until the sun came up.
If I said on your knees, she'd drop.
I'd wake up with her lips around my dick. Or let her wake me up riding my face. Every damn day with Harper was epic.
And it turns out, all I need is those memories to keep me going. Nobody else fills the hole she left. I've tried. Or at least, I've stood at the edge of trying and couldn't make myself jump.
Nobody.
With a few final strokes, I'm done. I let out a groan and reach for my beer.
Can I really do another forty-plus years of this?
It can't be normal to still be this hung up over a girl six years later. It can't be healthy. But here I am—twenty-seven years old, world-class bull rider, mafia underboss, owner of a beautiful ranch house with nobody in it—jerking off to the ghost of a woman who won't even text me back.
A loud knock at my door nearly makes me spill my beer.
"Fuck," I hiss.
"Fuck."
The knock again, this time to a tune, three beats and a pause, that tells me it's Jett.
"Give me a minute!" I shout and sprint to the bathroom. Wipe away the evidence. Splash water on my face. Toss the towel in the hamper and walk back.
I open the door. Jett doesn't move. Just looks me up and down suspiciously.
"Did I interrupt something?" he asks, his eyebrow raised.
I open the door wider. "Shut the fuck up."
"Hello? Any pretty girls here?" he calls into my empty house.
Silence.
He chuckles and turns to me. "Ah. Just you and your hand girlfriend tonight?"
I roll my eyes.
"Did she do a good job?" He pauses. But then his face drops. "Did you wash your fuckin' hands, Ace?"
I laugh, walk over, and tap my hand on his cheek. "What do you think?"
He bats me away, gagging.
"You always have been a disgusting little shit, Ace."
I shrug, heading to the refrigerator and grabbing two beers. "Well, what do I owe the pleasure of this evening visit?"
He takes the beer and drops onto the other end of the sofa, flicking on the television. Puts his boots up on my coffee table. Makes himself at home because Jett treats every building he enters as if it were built specifically for his comfort.
"Well, Hunter gave me a very vague job to do. And I'm wondering if my plan is too fucked up."
I rest my elbow on my knee and lean forward. "Explain."
He sighs. "Apparently, a reporter is coming into town tomorrow to meet with him. But he can't, so I have to go bring them here. He said we gotta make sure they kill the story."
"Hmm. Okay. And your issue is?"
"Am I bringing them here, or taking them?"
I arch a brow. "Interesting dilemma."
He chews his lip. "Yeah. See… how do we know we can trust them to kill the story? I assume it's something to do with what happened—Hunter getting arrested, all that shit? What if they just go and leak it anyway? We gotta scare them. That's how we do it. The cowboy way. Fuck the money."
I run my hand over my jaw. He has a point. But Hunter would've said if he wanted it handled differently.
"Did Hunter use the word kidnap?" I ask.
"Well, this is where the lines are blurring. He said he'll send me the location, I'll meet them, and bring them to him."
Jesus Christ. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
"Look, Jett. I don't say this often. But I agree with your idea.
We can't trust reporters—especially not with the skeletons we've got hiding.
We can't pay them off. We need to show them they can't publish anything.
We also need to know what their fuckin' story is.
It could be anything—we've got a whole graveyard here.
" I take a pull of my beer. "So yeah. Kidnap them.
Bring them here. Keep them tied up in the barn, then I'll help you send the message. "
He grins. "And this is why I came here and not to Colten."
Colten would've said no. Colten would've said let's talk to Hunter first. Colten would've been right. But Jett came to me because I'm the brother who says yes first and thinks later, and honestly, that's served us pretty well so far.
I'll do anything to protect my family. I've done it before. I've got blood on my hands that doesn't wash off.
I'll do it again. Reporters don't scare me.
"Can I crash here? I ain't got it in me to drive back to my ranch tonight."
It’s thirty minutes to drive, lazy shit.
"Ugh. Sure. Just don't make a fuckin' mess, Jett."
He holds up his beer.
"To kidnapping." He cheers.
I clink my bottle against his with a laugh.
"To kidnapping."