Chapter 3 #2
I don’t know why, but I do as he asks. Maybe because I am drunk and literally have no idea where I’m going.
The second my arms are around his waist, he guns it, tearing off down the road, and I have to bury my face in his jacket to keep the wind from whipping my face.
The night air turns my skin to goosebumps, but I don’t care.
It feels good, reckless, nothing like safe.
He pulls up short in front of my house, the back wheel skidding in the gravel. I get off, and he does, too. Standing in front of me, his presence overpowering.
“I’ll watch you go inside,” he murmurs.
I stare up at him, alcohol making me brave. “You’re wrong about my brother. Don’t ever talk about him like that again.”
He nods, sharply, then without another word, he leans in, plants a kiss right on my forehead—a real, burning, grounding thing that makes my insides flip. “Goodnight, Callie.”
Then, just like that, he’s gone, the roar of the engine fading into the dark. I stand there a minute, stunned and furious. When I close my front door behind me, I’m still in his shirt. I don’t take it off until morning.
I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND of someone tapping on my car window.
My entire upper half jerks upright, and my back screams at me as I jerk upright.
First thing I see is the morning sun—too bright, an assault—and second thing I see is a man in mirrored sunglasses with an olive complexion leaning down to peer inside at me.
I’m draped on my back seat, drooling on Knox’s shirt, hair everywhere, gum stuck god-knows-where.
Who the hell is this man?
He taps again, harder this time, and I wave my hand, letting him know I’m coming. I rub my face and snake one arm around so I can reach the handle, then lower the window a sliver. The guy bends closer. His eyes scan my car, and I’m suddenly very aware that he now knows I sleep in my car.
Suddenly, I don’t feel safe.
Maybe the rats are a better option.
“Morning, miss,” he says, voice a perfect blend of ranch-hand and used car salesman. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Name’s Ralston. Ralston Cupp. I’m here to talk about the cattle.”
I blink, try to organize my thoughts. “Wrong house,” I croak, voice shredded from sleep. “No cattle here. Nope.”
The man grins, revealing suspiciously white teeth. “That so? Hard to tell these days. The folks who called me sure sounded like this was the spot.” He leans in, squinting into the back seat. “You the cousin?”
I shake my head, then instantly regret it as it feels like my brain is rattling around in my skull. “No cousin,” I lie. “Just...Callie. I’m staying here for the summer. My uncle’s house.”
Only a partial lie.
He nods and straightens. “Anyone else staying here?”
What a strange thing to ask. It makes me immediately nervous, because why is he asking those kinds of questions.
“Yes.” I lie.
He studies me, and I could swear he can see right through me.
“Well, I see cattle in the paddocks. You selling them?”
“Why would I be selling them?”
He is freaking me out now.
“Your uncle ain’t around anymore, is he?”
He is posing it like a question, but I can tell he already knows the answer.
“I’m sorry, does he know you?”
He shrugs, straightening. “Knew Penn. Just interested in his cattle. Good beef.”
And yet, I feel like he’s lying.
“Well, I’m not selling them.”
I hadn’t even thought of it, but I’m certainly not about to hand them over to this guy.
“Well, if you change your mind. Cattle auction is once a month. Make big money from that lot. I’ll leave you to it. Be careful, won’t you. Not safe for a girl alone in these parts.”
He doesn’t let me answer before turning and walking away, leaving me incredibly uneasy.
The weirdness of the whole exchange makes my skin itch.
I sit in the car another few minutes, trying to figure out what the hell just happened and if I should let Knox know, because I have a bad feeling about it.
I pick up my phone and see it’s nine am.
Ugh.
I need to get into the house, and I need to do it sooner rather than later, before the day is away from me completely.
I spend a solid half hour sitting in the car, working up the energy to face the inside of that house again.
I scroll mindlessly, trying to trick my brain into believing I can delay this day a little longer, but I know there is no avoiding it.
I need to get to work.
First things first, I need food and caffeine.
There’s a gas station convenience store about two miles down the road.
It’s more a relic than an actual store—faded Coke sign, a gravel parking lot, a single slot machine inside, and a cashier who smells like tobacco.
I shuffle in, buy a coffee that tastes mainly of burnt disappointment, and a bagel that actually looks semi-fresh.
I also get some bleach, paper towels, rubber gloves, and a big black trash bag, because if I’m going to war with the kitchen, I’m not coming unarmed.
I eat the bagel in the car on the way back, knowing I really need to get myself some better food.
Which is why I have decided the kitchen needs to be done first. I need to cook.
By the time I get back, it’s hotter, cloudless, the whole world reduced to a blinding white haze broken up by green mountains.
I get out, slide on the dish gloves, and let myself in, already holding my breath.
It smells so bad in here that I’m almost scared about what I might find in the kitchen.
Hell, there is probably years-old food rotting in the darkest corners.
Taking a deep breath, I get to work. I start by blasting every fly I can with the bleached sponge, chasing them around the counter.
The first trash bag fills up with rotting food in record time.
I try not to retch, but it’s a losing battle.
That’s when it happens.
I’m reaching over the sink, hiking up my shirt sleeve to yank out what looks like an entire mop’s head of cobweb, when I feel something sharp on my finger.
Like a bee sting, but meaner. At first, it’s nothing—just a pinch.
But two seconds later, my whole hand goes hot, then numb, and when I look, there’s a fat black spider sitting almost innocently in the sink.
Oh. My. God.
My breathing goes tight. I stand there, frozen, clutching my finger, waiting for my face to melt off or my mouth to go slack from venom.
It’s probably nothing, but my uncle was always telling stories about brown recluses.
I walk in circles for a minute, then reach for my phone with my good hand and call Knox.
The phone rings eight times before he finally answers.
“Yeah?”
He sounds grumpy, maybe hungover, but alive.
“I got bit by a spider in the kitchen,” I say. “I think it might have been poisonous. My finger already feels weird. I think this is the end. I need you to come before I pass out, shriveling into nothing on this kitchen floor.”
He goes quiet, and then makes a sound that is something between a snort and a laugh. I can hear something in the background, and I could swear it is a girl giggling. Ugh. He is no doubt in the bed, surrounded by two or three gorgeous women, and I’m here, dirty, fighting for my life.
“You want me to come look?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe? I just don’t want to, like, die in my sleep.”
“Yeah, you sound like you’re on death’s door,” he says, dry. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
I hang up. My finger is starting to throb, purple and swollen at the tip.
I have the sudden urge to Google “spider bite necrosis” but stop myself, because I’ll only psych myself out more.
Instead, I sit on the porch and alternate between staring at my hand and at the cows in the paddock, who look unfazed by the entire ordeal.
Knox shows up exactly seventeen minutes later, because of course he does, and he’s wearing sunglasses and a tight black tee, no leather jacket, and I can’t help but notice the way it clings to his large, muscled body. He stops at the top of the steps, looking down at my hand.
“Let’s see it,” he says, and I hold out my finger. He holds my hand in both of his, and for a second, I’m weirdly aware of how warm his skin is, how close his knuckles are to mine.
He inspects it like a real doctor, turning my wrist, squinting at the bite.
“Show me the nest.”
I stand, walking into the house, and he follows. I point to the sink, and he goes over, studying it.
“It’s not a brown recluse, and you’re not going to die. It’s just a shitty house spider. It will hurt for a couple of hours, then be good.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I live here,” he points out.
Right.
“That all you need?” he finally says, as if he can’t wait to get out of here.
My belly sinks a little.
“There was a guy this morning, came over, was talking about cattle, but he was asking weird questions.”
This grabs his interest. “He give you a name?”
“Ralston or something like that.”
“Ralston Cupp,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ bad news. He shows up again, you tell me.”
My heart tightens. “He was asking weird things, like if I was alone here. Now he knows I sleep in my car, I’m not really very happy about that.”
He sighs, and then without another word, he walks right past me. “C’mon then,” he calls. “I’ll help you fix up a room so you can sleep inside. Even if it means I die of black mold.”
He doesn’t wait for me to argue. I go after him, and for the next hour, we clean the room I already mostly did when I got here.
He fixes all the holes, ensuring nothing can sneak in at night, and goes into town, getting a new window to replace the broken one.
I scrub walls and floors, washing every surface, and when it’s done, it actually looks kind of homely.
“Didn’t think we could actually get this place lookin’ good,” Knox murmurs, his shirt stuck to his body with sweat.
Then, he reaches for the hem and pulls it over his head, leaving me staring, completely stunned.
Knox is all muscle and ink, and for a second I’m reduced to just staring, unable to look away.
I’ve seen bodies before. I’ve even seen good ones, defined abs and arms chiseled out of summer work, but nothing like this.
He is a walking canvas. Blackwork bands spiral up both arms. There’s a crow on his chest ripping apart a cherry, and a coil of thorns circles his waist, vanishing under his belt.
He is pure perfection.
He wipes his forehead, catches me looking, and his mouth quirks very slightly. Not smug, not quite, but knowing. “Gonna keep starin’ or you wanna help me fill this air mattress.”
I snap back to myself, cheeks humming with heat. “It’s just you have a... lot of tattoos,” I blurt, instantly regretting the words.
He snorts, leaning down to attach the pump to the bed.
He fills it with air, effortlessly, then stands up straight again, stretching.
I look away this time. He shoves the garbage bag out the door and slings his shirt over his shoulder.
“Got a mini fridge you can use while you’re here, and I’ll bring you some sheets. ”
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I can manage.
He leaves, each step echoing in the empty house, and I let myself lean against the fresh, patched wall, heart skipping around in my chest. I think about his tattoos, his effortless power, the way he never tries to make himself likable. He is who he is, and he doesn't apologize for it.
The problem is, who he is, is my cousin’s man and not mine.
He’ll never be mine.
I need to put my mind back into finishing this house and getting the hell out of here.