Make Me (Play Me #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

Mira

“Oh no. You will not bully me!”

My voice echoes through the empty car, loud enough for the red light glowing on my dashboard to hear. But it heeds me about as much as I heed it—which is to say, not at all.

“I need you to pull through for me one more time,” I say, patting the console.

“Get me to Blackbird Ranch, and I promise I’ll start listening to you more.

” I reach for the visor, tugging it down so I’m not blinded by the midmorning sun.

“I mean, you know me, and the odds that you’re going to get regular oil changes aren’t great.

But I’ll try my hardest to hit the gas station before you start screaming again if you can just hang in there for me. Okay?”

Bang!

“Ah!” I cringe as the passenger’s side of the car slams into a pothole that I didn’t notice until it was too late.

Holding my breath, I listen closely for any sounds that would mean something broke.

But after a solid minute of nothingness, I exhale.

“I’m choosing to believe that isn’t an omen,” I mutter.

I glance down at my navigation screen and spot three little service bars.

Finally. The service on the backroads surrounding Sugar Creek is hit or miss, and I always seem to forget that until it’s super inconvenient.

But my elation over having contact with the rest of the world is diminished as soon as I glance at my phone.

No returned texts. No missed calls. No voicemails.

Dammit.

I bite my lip and press Hartley’s name for the twentieth time this morning. And for the twentieth time this morning, it rings until an automated voice tells me his mailbox is full.

“Come on, Hart,” I groan. “Answer your freaking phone.”

My fingers bite into the steering wheel as I glance at the clock. Practically speaking, I still have time. There’s not much wiggle room to spare, but I should be able to beat Oscar to Blackbird Ranch.

Chaos engulfs me—loud, urgent, and spiraling. Its tendrils wrap around every organ and nerve from head to toe. Because, yes, the delivery from Oscar will likely be … a situation. But the real situation wears a cowboy hat and mustache, and he probably won’t be smiling beneath it.

Before I can hit full-out panic mode, my phone rings. I accept the incoming call before I check the caller ID.

“Hey,” I say hurriedly, hoping like heck it’s Hartley’s voice on the other end.

“Why do you sound out of breath?”

I slump in my seat as I make a right onto Shoals Road. “Hey, Markie.”

My sister laughs. “Why do I feel like you’re on an epic side quest without me?”

“Because you know me. But trust me, this is one side quest you’re probably better off avoiding. Pleading ignorance will come in handy, I fear.”

“Oooh. Sounds juicy. Do tell.”

A smile slips across my lips until it splits my cheeks.

If anyone will understand this side quest, as she called it, it’s my sister.

We’re alike in so many ways. We share thick, chestnut-colored hair, either big boobs or a short torso—it’s up for debate—and a propensity for finding ourselves in the middle of sticky situations that we should’ve seen coming. And this one is definitely sticky.

“I was headed to Patsy’s last night,” I say.

“Did you see Jasper there?”

I grin. “I thought you didn’t give a shit about Jasper anymore.”

She scoffs in disgust. I’m just not sure whether it’s at herself for asking about her ex-boyfriend, at me for calling her out, or at the failed relationship itself. Either way, a shit she does clearly give. “He can do whatever he wants. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not curious.”

I sigh, knowing all too well what she’s going through. It sucks to have broken up with a guy, regardless of the reason, and being desperate not to care. Yet you still find yourself wanting to know what he’s up to, even if it’s going to feel like a stab right to the heart.

Lucky for her, I have nothing to share. And that might be the only good thing about last night.

“Well, I don’t know what he was doing because I didn’t end up at Patsy’s,” I say.

“I wound up at Oscar’s Auction House, where Patsy had an alcoholic pop-up, so I still got my beer—too many of them, it seems.” I pause to listen.

Did the car just sputter? “After the auction, a bunch of us wound up convincing Oscar to let us hang out and play music. One thing led to another, and by the time I got back to your house, it was well after three this morning, and you were in bed.”

“And then you were gone before I got up, which is weird.”

“Yeah. About that …” I grimace, replaying the events of the night and wishing I’d made more thoughtful choices. “At some point between beer number three and six, I aided and abetted an escaped inmate, paid off his debts so he wouldn’t have to stand trial and be given a death sentence—”

“What the heck?”

“—and then I had to make accommodations for the guy because his whole family was murdered. Or will be. May they rest in peace.”

“Mira. What in the world are you talking about?”

I groan, checking my phone again in case Hartley decided to join the twenty-first century and return missed calls. “I bought a pig.”

“You what?” Her screech is loud enough to make me grimace. “You have to be kidding me.” She inhales a sharp breath. “Don’t think for a minute that you’re bringing it here just because I’ve let you bring ferrets and a bearded dragon to my house. I draw the line at swine.”

I start to laugh at her unintended rhyme, but stop myself. This is no time for jokes.

“I saved the piggie’s life, Markie. They were going to sell it, fatten it up, and then process it.” My nose wrinkles as my face turns an unfortunate shade of green. “Did you know they called it that? They process the animals.”

I gag, rolling down my window for some fresh air.

“No, I didn’t know they called it that,” she says. “But I’m not surprised. It makes sense. I mean, how else do you think we get, I don’t know, sausage? Bacon? Pepperoni?”

“Stop it.” I gag again, coughing as a shot of bile creeps up my throat. “I think I just turned vegetarian.”

“So what are you doing with this pig? And don’t even think about taking it to Lolly’s. She might have three hundred acres, and she might even think she could harness a pig—and God knows she’d try—but she has no business doing that. It’d wind up knocking her to the ground and eating her alive.”

My jaw hangs open. “Markie! Don’t put something like that out into the universe.”

“What? They do that, you know. If someone falls while in a pigpen, the animals will eat them. They’re opportunistic omnivores.”

I turn toward the open window to get another blast of air.

“These are things you should know before you purchase a live animal,” Markie says. “But that’s not my main concern. I’m still waiting for you to tell me that you’re not taking it to Lolly’s.”

I narrow my eyes, squinting into the sun. Of course, I’m not doing that.

Lolly, our mom’s mom, and the woman who took care of us when our parents died when I was twelve and Markie was fourteen, is the most remarkable woman on the planet.

Everyone loves her. She’s a dumpling-making force of nature who still tends to her rose bushes and volunteers at the retirement center in town.

Lolly might be seventy-eight years old, but she’s not old.

And only those willing to risk their lives would ever say otherwise.

“No, I’m not taking the pig to Lolly’s,” I say, halfway offended that Markie would consider such a thing. “I’m having Oscar deliver it to Hartley’s.”

Just as expected, the final sentence lands with a silent, yet very loud thud.

“And speaking of Hartley, I need to end this call and try to get ahold of him before I show up on the ranch,” I say, glancing at my phone to confirm that he still hasn’t called me back.

Markie pauses. “So it’s safe to assume that he doesn’t know he’s getting a new pig today.”

“Yeah. That’s a safe assumption.”

“Mira …”

“What?” I say, laughing in the hopes of impregnating this conversation with a little levity. “He’ll love it.”

She laughs, too. I think it’s more of laughter at me and not with me, but I let it go. I have enough arguments on the horizon.

“Well, if anyone can make Hartley love a pig, it’s you,” Markie says. “Just call me when this is over. I gotta know how it plays out.”

“Ye of little faith.”

“Me of a lot of faith that this is going to end in fireworks.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll call you later. And please don’t tell Miles about this.”

Our half brother already thinks I’m slightly unhinged. Every time we talk, he seems relieved that I’m not in jail and braces himself when I start to share a story as if it’s going to have an unfortunate ending. He’s lucky that I find his reactions amusing and don’t take them personally.

“I won’t tell him,” Markie says. “Love you.”

“Thanks! Love you, too. Bye.”

I press the gas—ignoring the distinct miss in the engine as it struggles for gasoline—and turn between the stone pillars capped with solar lights. The black iron sign bearing Blackbird Ranch’s name hangs proudly overhead.

My pulse races and thoughts trip over each other, tumbling around my head so continuously that it’s dizzying.

I didn’t think this through. Not the purchase of the pig, not the instruction to take it to Hartley’s, and definitely not the speech I’ll perform to keep Hartley from being mad at me while still taking ownership of the cute little criminal.

What am I going to say?

The thought of talking to him, of seeing him for the first time in months, creates an ache beneath my ribs.

It’s like I’m on a roller coaster and we’re nearly to the top of the climb.

The anticipation of just how deep the drop is going to be is killer.

This isn’t how I’d like our first interaction after all this time to be, but it’s too late for that now.

Hartley is the kind of man who blends into the scenery at first. He’s all quiet confidence and unshakable peace, not needing attention or approval. But then you see him, and it’s over.

Your eyes find him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re pulled to him because just existing in his bubble somehow makes you better. He’s so handsome that he’s beautiful, and so competent that it’s sexy.

He’s also my past. And there’s no way that he’ll ever be my present … or future.

“Maybe I should turn around and just let Oscar show up with the pig and hope he doesn’t mention me,” I mumble, darting around another pothole. “I might be able to float him an extra hundred to keep his mouth shut.”

Thick vegetation pokes around the slats of wooden fencing that border the long driveway to the main house.

It’s been a long time since I was last here at the ranch.

Two years, to be exact. It was a week after we buried my grandfather, and Lolly sent me over to return a tray that Hartley’s housekeeper, Cathy, sent to the house filled with pecan pie.

My favorite. But despite the length of time since my last visit, nothing has changed out here.

There’s something comforting about that.

My palms sweat against the leather steering wheel as I grow closer to Hartley’s. Maybe I should try to call him one more time …

I press his name and the ringing belts through the car’s speakers before I’m ready. But what I’m really not ready for is for him to answer.

“Hey,” he says, his thick, honeyed tone tinged with frustration.

My body recognizes his voice before it registers in my brain. It’s an instant shot of dopamine, a hit of serotonin that washes away my nerves.

“Well, hey to you,” I say, keeping my words as light as possible. “I’ve been calling you all morning.”

“I saw that.”

Oh. “So were you not answering me on purpose?”

“That depends on which call you’re talking about. The first … I don’t know, fifteen? No. The last six? Yes.”

That leaves me with several questions, but I don’t have time to ask them.

“I need to talk to you,” I say instead.

“I’m busy.”

“It’ll take five minutes.”

“Darlin’, I don’t have five minutes to spare you right now.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the way his nickname for me still melts me after all these years.

“Then I’ll talk super fast.” The top of the farmhouse comes into view as I round the last small curve.

“I’m almost at your house, actually. Will you meet me there?

Or I can come out to the fields to see you. Just tell me where you are.”

“Gosh dammit,” he says, his voice growing more distant. “Cathy! Watch out!”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

The question leaves my lips as the last of the trees give way, and the scene at Hartley’s plays out in front of me in slow motion.

Cathy’s arms are flailing. Hart’s right-hand man, Bobby, dives across the yard as if he’s about to catch a football pass. Oscar waddles as fast as his short legs will carry him across the lawn with a wild, slightly petrified look stamped on his face.

They’re all in pursuit of a little pink pig … headed straight for Cathy’s garden.

Hartley leans against his truck with his thick arms folded across his barreled chest and a carefully arched brow directed at me.

Oops.