Ride Along
COLT
I laugh.
It comes out loud, a boom that I feel in my chest and stomach.
I got the windows rolled down—always do when the weather’s this good—so hopefully she can hear it.
Watching her sprint toward me through my windshield, I laugh harder. Louder. Even though my stomach is in knots.
She looks like a fucking flamingo in those jeans and shoes.
Long, slender legs. Hair flying. She’s throwing elbows in an attempt to remain upright as she crosses the yard toward the driveway.
She hits a divot in the grass and pitches forward, only catching herself at the last minute to avoid tumbling ass over boots—or clogs, in her case—onto the ground.
I grip the door handle. I gotta go help her, right?
But then she straightens. Throws back her shoulders. Our eyes meet through the windshield, and the defiance I see in her expression—the rage—has me laughing again.
Aw, she don’t need no help.
What she needs is to get gone.
I’m being a dickhead. I own that. But I need a gorgeous “branding expert” riding shotgun like I need a hole in my head. She’s full of shit—people that intense, that earnest, that fucking young always are—and it’s my job to protect my family from charlatans like her.
Let’s not forget that my brothers already have an almost three-hour head start on me.
Before Abby passed, I reported for duty at the stables or office at 4 a.m. sharp too.
Now the earliest I show up is eight fifteen.
While I hate starting the day on my back foot, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at playing catch-up.
Sometimes I have to work on weekends—let’s be real, a lot of the time—but Dean doesn’t mind tagging along. In fact, he’s really started to enjoy cowboying now that he’s older.
Lainey maintains eye contact for the remainder of her flamingo dance toward my truck. Gotta give credit where credit is due. Girl is not afraid to communicate a nonverbal fuck you.
I’d admire her spirit if I didn’t distrust everything she is. Everything she represents.
Vibes. What the hell do I even do with that?
And yeah, maybe I’m a little concerned Dad bit off more than he could chew here.
I meant what I said when I told Lainey we’re busy.
We do fall calving on our ranch, so we’re in the thick of that right now.
Even when that’s not the case, I can’t imagine expanding our operations any further.
With the new arena we just built—Dad and I agreed it was high time to start a training program for barrel racers—we’re stretched to the limit in terms of staffing.
In terms of what I can handle.
Draping my wrist over the steering wheel, I look out the windshield as Lainey climbs inside.
“Thanks for waiting.” She’s breathless.
“You’re welcome.” I lift my fingers in an approximation of a wave, biting back a grin. “How ya doin’?”
She pulls the door shut behind her, and then all of a sudden, I’m looking at her again.
Her face is flushed. Cheeks are a pretty shade of pink. She’s breathing hard, her ample chest rising and falling, straining the buttons of her shirt.
My skin pulses. Any other woman, I’d be asking her out to see Frisky Whiskey, a local cover band, at the Rattler on Friday night. But this woman? This twenty-four-year-old bullshit expert? I’m not touching her with a ten-foot pole.
She offers me a smile so big it shows how pointy her incisors are. The rage in her eyes sparkles. “I’m doing pretty damn great. How about yourself?”
There’s a tug in my center. More like a squeeze, actually, that has me feeling short of breath. So we’re playing it like that.
“Fuckin’ peachy.”
I try not to watch her tug on her jeans as she gets settled in the seat.
I blame my inability to look away on how weird it is to have a girl in my truck.
Last time was…never? Mom and Billie like to drive themselves wherever they go, and the hookups I’ve had usually take place in someone else’s bed or back seat.
“You wanna talk about it?” Her hair falls in her face as she looks down to buckle her seat belt.
I put the truck in reverse. “Talk about what?”
“The weather,” she deadpans.
“Weather’s good. Hot. But good.”
“No shit. Why don’t you trust me?”
Fuck her for diving right in. It’s infuriating. Who does she think she is?
“Because.”
She waits for me to finish the thought. I don’t.
“Excellent. I work better when it’s quiet anyway.” Straightening, she settles her notebook on her lap and gives me that angry, glittering smile again. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
“Just stay outta my way, yeah?” I pull out of the driveway. For a split second, I consider hanging a right. That would take us to Hartsville, the town closest to the ranch. From there, she could catch a bus home.
Bet that’d really get her going. Would she lose her mind on me? Slap me even?
My blood jumps at the thought. I know one thing: My dad would kill me. Much as I can’t stand Miss Priss here, I’d hate disappointing my dad more.
Lainey had to have driven here anyway, right? Where’d she park? What kind of car does she drive?
Why the fuck do I care?
I take the left turn toward the stables a little too fast. Lainey grabs the door as the truck lurches, but she doesn’t say a word. Just keeps looking through the windshield, gripping a pen in her other hand.
See, that gets me going. Must take a lot to ruffle her feathers. Kinda makes me wanna see how fun it’d be to do just that.
“What happens if I do get in the way?” She’s uncapping the pen now. “Is the sheriff going to come and arrest me?”
I furrow my brow. “Sheriff?”
“Y’all have to have a sheriff. You know, the guy with the gun and the ten-gallon hat and the handcuffs—”
“Handcuffs?” I spear her with a look.
“Handcuffs, yes.” She holds up her wrists. The insides are soft white, the bones there delicate. I can see the tiny blue veins that form a road map up into her palm.
I’m gripped by the nonsensical urge to know what she feels like there.
What she tastes like.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. “I see what you’re doing.”
“Tell me what I’m doing with these handcuffs, Colton. Please.”
“You’re trying to get a rise out of me by repeating that word over and over again.”
“What word?”
“You know the word.”
“I don’t know the word, actually.”
I hold the wheel in a death grip. “Handcuffs.”
She angles her body to face me, tucking her back against the door. “Why would handcuffs get a rise out of you? Because you want to be the one to put those handcuffs on me? For being so insubordinate?”
Inappropriate.
Awesome.
Laughter rises up my sides and threatens to spill from my lips. But I feel like I shouldn’t laugh at her joke—it’s a joke, right?—because that would mean admitting something.
Admitting what? That yes, I’d enjoy the fuck out of handcuffing her with her arms behind her back. Better yet, above her head. That way, I’d have unencumbered access to that mouth—
Whoa.
Whoa whoa whoa.
That was explicit. And detailed. And does she have the same image in her head? Because now the anger in her eyes is searing.
Hungry even.
Next thing I know, I’m gesturing to the glove box. “Do me a favor.”
“Don’t tell me there are handcuffs in there. Are you the sheriff?”
“You must have a thing for law enforcement.”
“Not my type.”
“Yeah, and what is your type?”
“Not assholes.”
I harrumph. Since when do I harrumph? Am I eighty-seven years old? “You’re gonna love me, then.”
“Already do.” She smiles tightly as she opens the glove box. Seeing its contents, she blinks, and that smile…it morphs into something almost genuine. Like she’s pleasantly surprised, delighted even, and she’s not afraid to let it show. “Holy cow, Colton, are you fun?”
She holds up a half pint of Woodford Reserve bourbon and a trio of individually packaged Macanudo cigars.
“No time for fun.” I pluck one of the Macanudos from her grip and rip open the package. “But some days are tougher to get through than others. The bourbon keeps you warm when it’s cold.”
Lainey glances out the window at the arid landscape, which has begun to shimmer with the approaching midday heat. “Does it ever get cold here?”
“Dead of February at four a.m.? Yeah, it’s cold.”
“But what about when it’s not cold? What’s your excuse for drinking then?”
Without thinking, I glance in the rearview mirror at Dean’s booster seat. It’s covered in Goldfish crumbs and white smudges of indeterminate origin. Yogurt? Chalk? Vomit?
“Bourbon makes everything better.” I dip my hand into the well on my door, my fingers skating over the familiar shape of my cutter and lighter.
Straightening, I see Lainey looking in the rearview too. Then she looks at me, her expression one of pure shock now.
“You are a dad.”
I dip my head. “Yup.”
“How old—”
“Six.”
“Are you—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“I do.” I clip the tip of the cigar with the cutter and roll the Macanudo between my fingers before putting it in my mouth, using the heels of my hands to steer. “I know because that’s what everyone asks when they find out I have a kid. I’m not married, no.”
“But you—”
“Were? Yes.”
She looks down at the bourbon in her hand. “No wonder you keep this in your car. Being a single parent…”
“Hold the wheel, would you? I gotta light this.”
Now Lainey is staring at me. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. I need you to steer while I light my cigar because I’m not gonna survive the next however many hours you’ll be in my hair without some nicotine.”
Curling her lip, she crosses her arms. “I’m not supporting a gross habit.”
“Fine.” I lift my leg a little. “I’ll just drive with my knees. Pretty good at it actually. Until I’m not.”
Her eyes are wide. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Maybe.”
“Jesus Christ.” She grabs the wheel, making me chuckle as I thumb the strike on my lighter and take several quick, shallow pulls on the cigar until it lights.
“I don’t need to tell you it’s stupid and quite possibly illegal to be this much of a dick to me, right?” she asks. “Because you’re a grown-up and you hopefully know better?”
Grinning, I take the wheel from her, the earthy scent of tobacco filling the cab.