Benji (Dry Creek Cowboys #2)

Prologue-Esme

The box in my hands is heavier than it should be.

Not because of what’s inside—just clothes, folded neat and tight like that might somehow keep me from falling apart—but because of what it means.

This is the last one.

I stand in the middle of the small military housing unit that used to feel like home, my gaze sweeping over the empty space.

The walls are bare now.

The little hooks where I used to hang photos—our photos—are still there, tiny reminders of something that doesn’t exist anymore.

Benji’s boots aren’t by the door.

His coffee mug isn’t in the sink.

His voice doesn’t echo off these walls.

It’s just me.

And all the deafening silence.

I swallow hard, blinking against the sting in my eyes.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry again.

I’ve done enough of that over the past few months to last a lifetime.

“Get it together, Esme,” I whisper to myself, shifting the box on my hip.

The lease is up.

Not renewed.

He didn’t even tell me.

I found out from base housing, a polite little email informing me that my occupancy would be terminated at the end of the month.

Just like that.

Clean. Clinical. Final.

Like I meant nothing.

Like we meant nothing.

I laugh, but it comes out broken, hollow.

Because I know why.

I know exactly what he thinks. But knowing it doesn’t break my heart any less?

How could you believe that about me, Benji? How could you?

My gaze drifts to the kitchen counter, to the spot where my phone used to sit while I waited—day after day, night after night—for it to light up with his name.

It used to.

Not often.

Not enough.

But it used to.

And God, how I used to live for those precious few moments when I got to hear him.

My husband. My Benji.

The only man I ever loved.

And the one who ripped the foundations of my very soul right out from under me with one cold phrase.

“I don’t believe you.”

Calls from overseas were never easy.

Bad connections. Time differences. Missions he couldn’t talk about.

I understood that. I signed up for that when I married him.

What I didn’t sign up for was being left alone. Being mistrusted. And having to deal with his best friend.

I know it’s bad to speak ill of the dead, but I owe nothing to Paul Meadows.

As far as I’m concerned, he was a conniving little prick.

My stomach twists just thinking his name.

“I told Benji I’d watch out for you.”

That’s what he said the first time he showed up unannounced, leaning against my doorway like he belonged there.

At first, I thought he was just doing what friends do.

Checking in.

Making sure I wasn’t lonely.

Bringing takeout, fixing things around the house, sitting too close on the couch but—hey—some people don’t have a sense of personal space.

I tried to ignore it.

Tried to tell myself I was imagining things.

But then the looks changed.

The comments got bolder.

The way he watched me started to feel wrong.

I told Benji once.

Just once.

It took everything in me to even say it, to admit something about his best friend made me uncomfortable.

And he shut me down so fast it felt like a slap.

“Paul would never do that, Esme. You’re reading too much into it. He’s like my brother. He’s just looking out for you because I asked him to.”

End of conversation.

So I stopped trying.

Because what was the point?

My husband was thousands of miles away, risking his life, and the last thing I wanted to do was add stress or make him question someone he trusted with his life.

I thought I could handle it.

I thought I was strong enough.

God, I was so wrong.

My chest tightens as the memory hits—the message. The video.

I still remember the way my hands shook when I opened it.

The confusion.

The horror.

Because it looked like me—it was me.

But then it wasn’t.

I don’t know how he did it.

What software he used.

If it was AI or just clever editing.

But in the video he sent—to Benji and to me—along with that sick, smug confession about our so-called affair, it all looked so real.

Too real.

I remember staring at my phone, my hands going numb as it played.

Because that was me.

My face.

My body.

My voice.

Laughing.

Leaning in.

Letting him touch me like I wanted it.

Like I asked for it.

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat even now just thinking about it.

Because I know—I know—that moment never happened.

Not like that.

Not ever.

And then his voice in the video—low, earnest, like he’s confessing something sacred.

“I love you, Esme. It’s always been you.”

I freeze.

Because what comes next?

It’s my voice.

My voice.

Soft. Breathless. Intimate.

“I love you, too, Baby. So much.”

A broken sound tears out of me as I rip the phone away from my face, like distance alone can undo what I just saw.

What I’ve been replaying most often at times like these when I seem to want to torture myself.

My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”

That’s not me.

I didn’t say that.

I would never say that. Not to him. Not to anyone who wasn’t my husband.

Not to anyone who wasn’t Benji.

My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe, panic clawing up my throat as I hit replay—because maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe there’s some explanation. Maybe there’s something I missed.

But it’s the same every time.

The same angles.

The same expressions.

The same lie.

It’s seamless. Clean. Convincing.

Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

And Paul?

Paul knew Benji.

Knew how he thinks.

What would break him.

What would make him believe.

A cold, sick realization settles deep in my bones.

Paul didn’t just want me.

He wanted to destroy us. Me and Benji. Our marriage. Our love.

And he succeeded—the motherfucker.

Tears blur my vision, hot and furious as they spill over.

My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms as something sharp and angry rises beneath the hurt.

“How could you?” I choke out, though he’s not here to hear it.

How could you twist me into something I’m not?

How could you take the one person I love and turn him against me?

And the worst part?

Benji believed it.

Of course he did.

Why wouldn’t he?

It looks real.

It sounds real.

It feels real enough to shatter everything we built.

And just like that—the man who was supposed to know me better than anyone else in this world—didn’t know me at all.

I called him.

Sure, I did.

Over and over again.

Left messages. Sent texts. Emails.

Begging him to listen.

To let me explain.

Nothing.

Silence.

Cold. Final. Absolute.

My husband—the man I loved more than anything—didn’t even give me the chance to defend myself.

And then, somehow, things got worse.

Paul was gone.

Dead.

Drunk driving accident.

Just like that, the only other person who knew the truth disappeared from the world, leaving me alone with a lie I couldn’t prove.

A bitter laugh escapes me as I grab my keys off the counter.

“Convenient,” I whisper, hating the bitterness I feel.

But it’s true.

With Paul gone, it’s easier for him to get away with his lies.

It’s easier for Benji to accept his best friend was a saint than see him for the monster he was.

It’s so fucking convenient for everyone except me.

I take one last look around the empty house, my throat tight.

This was supposed to be our start.

Our foundation.

The place we built something real while he was off fighting his battles.

God, just six months ago we were planning to have a family.

I spent months charting my cycle. See, I’m irregular and I wanted to surprise him when he got back. I’ve been taking supplements and exercising, and keeping track of my menses and ovulation.

See, Benji wants kids so badly. And I do, too. With him.

Or, I guess, we did, but not anymore.

Paul ruined that, too.

And instead of this house becoming a home, it became the place where everything fell apart.

“No job, no husband, no home,” I say softly, the words tasting like ash.

My little business—my vlog where I try out and discuss household items and clothes for plus size women—was never supposed to be my job.

I mean, I was trying to build something of my own. Something that mattered. I hoped, of course, for sponsors someday.

But without stability, without support—I don’t know what I’ll do.

Because right now? I don’t have a lot of options.

I’ve got a van, a few boxes, and a heart that feels like it’s been ripped out of my chest and left behind in a house that doesn’t belong to me anymore.

And I can’t stay here. There’s an officer outside waiting for me to hand in my keys.

I step outside, locking the door behind me.

The click echoes.

Final.

“Ma’am?” The officer stands at ease, eyes blank.

“Here,” I reply, juggling the box with one hand and dropping the keys into his open palm.

Then, I load the last box into the back of my van and pause, gripping the edge of the door.

I look back at the house.

“I loved you,” I whisper, the words carried away on the wind. “I loved you more than anything.”

But love doesn’t mean anything without trust.

And Benji Gunner?

I guess he never loved me. He sure as hell never trusted me enough to believe the truth.

And I don’t know what hurts worse.

I slam the van door shut, climb into the driver’s seat, and start the engine.

I don’t look back.

Because if I do?

I might not have the strength to leave.

And I’ve already lost everything.

I’m not losing myself too.