Chapter 18
RHETT
Halle ended up texting me the location she had from Colt’s phone and I followed it, finding his motorcycle parked outside of a two-story apartment building three blocks off the main drag of a town about two hours away from Cedarbrook.
The lights are on in the second floor window, so I continue to just watch.
I stay in my truck for a few hours, in the dark, across the street from the building, just watching that same lit window, waiting for something to happen.
Finally, Colt comes out, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, his chain necklace catching the porch light.
He’s saying something back over his shoulder—laughing, almost. The sight of him hits me the same way it hit me at the bonfire at the beginning of the summer.
It’s like a full-body recognition. Like a gravitational pull that I can’t stop.
A woman follows him out. She links her arm through his and they head down the sidewalk, getting into her car before leaving the parking lot.
Is Randy a fucking woman?
Goddamnit, Cash and Halle. The two of them probably already knew this and thought it would be hilarious to fuck with me.
I file that away for later, knowing I will need to kick someone’s ass for that.
I start my truck and follow them at a distance. Eventually, the girl pulls into the parking lot of a dive bar. I pull into the lot and park on the opposite side of them and watch as they get out and enter the bar.
After about ten minutes, I get out of my truck, but stop myself before getting to the door.
There’s a window at the front of the bar, the kind with the neon signs that lets you see inside, if the angle is right. I find the angle and stand on the sidewalk of a town that doesn’t know me, in the dark, and I look through the glass. I find him again and watch.
He’s at a high top near the back, beer in hand, laughing at something she said. The woman says something else and he throws his head back, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling.
I watch him for a long time.
I watch the way he talks with his hands, the way he leans forward when something interests him, the way his whole body shifts when he’s genuinely amused versus performing.
I’ve spent a summer cataloguing him without meaning to, and standing here, in the dark, I let myself do it on purpose for the first time.
Because he’s mine.
The thought arrives without drama, and isn’t followed by a list of reasons why it’s wrong. He’s mine the way the ranch is mine, the way Cedarbrook is mine, and the way some things just are without requiring an argument.
He’s mine and he doesn’t know I’m standing outside this window, but I’m going to walk through that door and I’m not leaving without him.
I watch them for the better part of two hours. Eventually, I make my way into the bar and order a beer. Lucky for me, my hat is able to shield my face and the place is busy enough where they don’t even notice I’m there.
I’m not proud of being his new, creepy stalker—I’ve become exactly the thing Molly was and I’m aware of that.
But I’m doing it anyway because there’s a difference.
I know exactly what I am, I know exactly what I want, and I’m not going to use what I find to hurt him. I’m going to use it to go get him.
Him laughing at that table, not knowing I’m here, makes my dick rock hard, which only fuels my fire to get to him as soon as possible.
It doesn’t matter who she is. It doesn’t matter what she is to him. Whatever Randy is or was or could be…she’s not me.
I finish my beer, set the bottle down, then pull my hat off and leave it on the bar because I don’t want anything shielding my face when he sees me. I want him to see me. I want him to know I drove here, that I found him.
I cross the room and about halfway over, our eyes meet.
The easy looseness goes out of him, but then, in an instant, something moves across his face in the half second before the neutral mask comes up.
I stop at the table, not even bothering to make eye contact with Randy—or whatever her name is.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” he asks.
“We need to talk.” I hold his gaze.
“No, we don’t.”
“Colt.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “I quit. That means we don’t work together anymore. That means there’s no we. That means whatever you drove out here to say you can turn around and take back with you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Then stand there.” He picks up his beer. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The woman sips her cocktail and stays quiet, looking around the room at anyone but us.
“I figured out who the texter is.”
“Good for you,” he says.
“She’s handled; she won’t be a problem anymore.”
“Awesome for you. Now you can go off and keep your little illusion alive, right?” He scoffs.
“I came here for you.” I throw my hands up.
“You don’t get to do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Show up here look like that.” He points at my eye. “And say things and just expect me to—” He stops and sets his beer down. “I’m sitting here with a bruise on my jaw that you put there, Rhett. You told me it meant nothing. So, disrespectfully, fuck you.”
“I lied to you.”
“Shocking. You’re good at that.”
Ouch.
“Yeah, but I’m done lying—”
The woman makes a quiet sound that might be her attempt at clearing her throat before pushing back her stool. “I’m just going to…” She gestures vaguely toward the bar, taking her drink, and disappears without either of us acknowledging her.
Now, it’s just us.
Colt looks at me for a long moment. His jaw is still tight, and there’s still anger in his eyes.
I lean down, both hands on the table, getting into his space, dropping my voice so only he can hear it.
“I came here because I have something to say to you that I should have said a long time ago, and I’m going to say it.
You can make me work for it, or you can come outside and give me five minutes.
” I hold his eyes. “But I’m not leaving without those five minutes. ”
“Five minutes,” Colt says. His voice has an edge to it. “Then I come back in here.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
He slides off his stool and walks past me toward the door, and I follow him out into the night.
The parking lot is half lit, one of the overhead lights buzzing and flickering. The air is warm and thick, the particular density of a summer night that hasn’t cooled down yet. Colt walks to the far end of the building, around the side, and turns around with his arms crossed.
I stop about six feet away.
We look at each other.
“Okay,” he says. “Talk.”
I close the six feet.
He holds his ground, but I watch his eyes track the change in distance.
“I’m gay,” I say.
He blinks. Whatever he was expecting, that wasn’t it.
“You were right. I know what I am—I’ve known for a long time and I’ve been lying about it, and I’m done.” I hold his eyes. “I’m done lying…about any of it.”
“Rhett.”
“I love you.”
The words land in the parking lot air and stay there. Colt goes very still. The particular stillness that means something has gotten through, all the way down to your bones.
“You don’t get to say that,” he says, but his voice isn’t steady.
“Too bad. I said it.” I take the last step between us, and I put my hand against the brick wall of the building beside his head, leaning in until there’s almost nothing between us.
“I drove two hours to say it. You can be pissed at me, you can make me earn it back, and you can take your time deciding what to do with it, but you’re going to stand there and hear it. ”
His jaw is tight, and his breathing has changed. He’s not looking at my eyes, he’s looking at my mouth and then back up.
“You threw a punch at me,” he says.
“I know.”
“You said it meant nothing.”
I hold his gaze. “I was scared and I lied and I hurt you and I’m sorry. But I’m not scared anymore.”
“You’re not scared,” he repeats, his voice dropping.
“No.”
“Prove it,” he says.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and push him until his back hits the wall. I feel the impact go through him and I watch his breath leave his body, his eyes wide and dark.
There it is.
I’ve had months to learn his face, and what’s in his eyes right now is the specific type of heat of someone whose body has just gotten some very interesting information.
I keep him there, both hands in his shirt, my weight against him, close enough that he can feel every breath I take.
“Still want me to talk?” I ask.
“Rhett.” His voice is rough.
“Because I can keep talking.” I drop my mouth to his jaw, not quite touching. “Or we can do something else.”
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss that is nothing like the ones we’ve had before. Those were angry or desperate to prove something. This one is different. This one is two people who have stopped pretending.
I feel him make a sound against my lips that I’m going to think about for the rest of my life.
I pull back.
He chases me, but I don’t let him have it.
His eyes open and they’re very dark, his chest is moving fast, and he looks…
undone. This man, who has been in control of every single one of our interactions all summer, who always had the next move already in his hand, looks completely undone by me not letting him have another kiss, and I feel something in my chest that is pure satisfaction.
“There’s a trail,” I say. “Behind the lot. Go down to the river.”
He stares at me. “You scoped this out.”
“I had a long car ride here, you asshole.”
Something electric moves across his face. “Rhett—”
“Run.”
He looks at me, looks at my eyes—reads whatever is there, and I let him. I don’t hide any of it; I let him see exactly what I mean and exactly what’s coming.
Because for right now, I’m the one in charge.
The corner of his mouth moves.
Then he goes.
He breaks from the wall and runs and I watch him—the darkness swallowing him as he hits the tree line, the sound of his boots on dirt. And I stand there and count.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
I go.