Chapter 16 Scotty
Scotty
Adrienne plants herself in front of me, chin tipped up, eyes flashing in the glow of the streetlamp. Her head cocks like she’s cross-examining me in a courtroom.
“What is this between us, Scotty?”
My throat goes tight. I want to look away, but her stare pins me there. “Apparently it’s the fucking circus because I’m a clown, darlin.”
“What?”
“You really had me—” I hesitate, being so vulnerable, but I let it out. I need to. “You had me out here thinking you actually did want something more with me.” I laugh bitterly to keep from crying. “It’s nothing. You’re fresh off a breakup, and I’m the rebound. That’s all this is.”
Her brows shoot up. “A rebound? Seriously?”
I jab a finger toward her, bitterness burning through my chest. “Look at your ex. Some big-shot MLB player. That’s the kind of guy you want. Not me. We both know that, come on now. You’ve never once brought home a man like me.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I almost hear it. “Keegan has nothing to do with this. Scotty, we’ve had sparks for years, long before him.”
I laugh, but it comes out harshly. “No. You’re just bored. Killing time until the next shiny guy shows up.”
Her lips part, voice trembling with what I assume is anger. “Is that really what you think this is?”
I open my mouth to fire back, but nothing comes out. Fuck. Do I? Do I really believe that? My chest squeezes. “I don’t know anymore.”
She takes a shallow, ragged breath. “That bar incident—you have to believe me. I didn’t text him.”
“Yeah, but you took his number, didn’t you?”
Her shoulders square, defensive. “That’s not fair. We never even set boundaries, and now I’m being judged against some arbitrary rule? I told you, I didn’t text him, and I didn’t want to.”
“Never set boundaries?” Jealousy twists into anger, coming out in a burst of laughter.
“You told me I better not be playing with you. And I fucking said I wasn’t…
didn’t I? I told you while my cock was still fucking inside you that if I’m fucking you, nobody else is.
” My voice is rough, too loud in the empty lot.
Adrienne flinches, and that’s when it hits me: she sees it. Not anger. Hurt.
Her expression softens, lips parting. “Scotty, I’m sorry—”
I can’t let her finish. If she says one more word, I’ll break. So I step back, forcing the emotion out of my voice and aiming straight for her heart, wanting in the moment to hurt her, the way she hurt me.
“Don’t bother. You were a hot fuck and worth the trouble, but not anymore.” I regret the words the second I say them, but it’s too late.
Her eyes widen, devastation flickering across her face, but I don’t stay long enough to see it land because I’m a coward. I yank my truck door open, slam it shut, and fire up the engine. Tires screech as I peel out of the lot, leaving her standing there in the glow of the parking lot light, frozen.
Don’t look back. Don’t fucking look back.
But even as the town disappears in my rearview, the expression on her broken face stays burned into me. Those eyes… that protective exterior she wears, that cracked look when I shoved the knife in.
And I know I’ve just done the one thing I swore I never would. I hurt her.
The ranch has never felt so damn empty.
I slam the truck door and stand there for a second, staring out at the barn, the dark fields, the silent house. Usually, the quiet grounds me. Tonight, it’s like the whole place is judging me, holding up a mirror I don’t want to look at.
The words I threw at Adrienne keep bouncing around my skull: You were a hot fuck and worth the trouble, but not anymore.
Christ. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve any of this… it was just a stupid phone number.
I shove through the front door, grab a beer, and crack it open. It doesn’t even taste like anything going down, just cold and bitter. I tip my head back, drain half in one go, and lean against the counter.
Her face won’t leave me. That flicker when she softened, when she started to apologize. She meant it. I cut her off before I had to hear what she was going to say next because I was so caught up in my anger and jealousy.
I bring the beer back to my mouth, draining the bottle in embarrassment. I repeat this over and over until by the last beer, the room is spinning and I’m passed out on the couch.
The next morning, I throw myself into work. During the day, the garage is my savior. I try to keep my head down, pretending I don’t notice how the crew side-eyes me when I snap too sharply.
At night, the barn becomes my refuge. Rosa lifts her head, offering me a contented sigh as I run my hand over her face, rubbing soft circles above her eyes like she likes.
“Hey girl, I see you.” Priscilla nudges against me, jealous of the attention that Rosa is getting.
I bury my hands in their manes, brush them both until their coats shine, muck stalls that don’t even need it. Work until my back aches and my shoulders burn. Anything to keep from thinking.
But when I’m lying in bed? It’s a different story. I can’t escape her. The ceiling fan spins slowly, the shadow of the large Aspen outside my window crawls across the walls, and my brain won’t shut up.
Her voice echoes over and over. What is this between us?
I didn’t answer because I don’t know. I still don’t fucking know.
Maybe this is what being in love feels like?
My stomach drops at the realization, and I feel like an idiot. Like an immature idiot that has been running from love my entire life, I really fucking missed it when it bit me in the ass.
By the third day, I’m running on caffeine and stubbornness. I stay late at the shop, eat whatever greasy takeout one of the guys brings back, then come home and sit on the porch with too many beers, watching the sun sink behind the mountains.
That’s when the memories creep in. The taste of her skin in my mouth. The way she laughed when I smacked her ass in my kitchen. The look she gave me in the morning, like she didn’t want to leave my bed. Each one slices me open a little deeper.
Thursday night, I walk into the house, toss my phone on the table, and hit the shower. When I come back out, the screen’s lit up with her name.
My stomach clenches. I swipe it open before I can stop myself.
Adrienne: Are we still on for the Mustang on Sunday?
I sit down heavily in the chair, phone warm in my palm.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but that uncomfortable, questioning feeling stops me.
I can’t imagine wanting to feel another woman against me, dancing in a bar after having Adrienne.
Clearly, she doesn’t feel the same way, and that reminder is enough for me to push the feelings aside.
Instead, I grab another beer, crack it open, and step outside. The stars are out, spread across the sky in a way that usually makes me think of her. Tonight, they just make me feel small.
I drink until the bottle’s empty, then drink another. The quiet presses in, heavier than the day my dad died, heavier than any lonely night I’ve had since. Because this time it’s my fault.
I hurt her. And I can’t bring myself to fix it.
So I shut the phone off completely. No more buzzing. No more temptation. Just silence.
I tell myself it’s better this way. Better for her. Better for me.
But when I crawl into bed, the sheets are cold, and the ache in my chest says I’m a fucking liar.
By Saturday night, the walls of my house feel like they’re closing in. Three days of silence from Adrienne have eaten me alive. Every time I walk past the phone on the counter, I feel the temptation gnawing at me. I almost cave more than once. Almost.
Instead, I drive into town.
The Place is the same as it’s always been, dim neon signs buzzing, pool balls clacking, jukebox playing a mix of old country and shitty nineties rock.
The smell of fried food and stale beer clings to the walls.
I slide onto a stool at the bar and order a pitcher, figuring it’ll last me through the night.
It doesn’t.
Half an hour later, the pitcher’s empty, and the buzz in my head isn’t enough to drown out her face.
Adrienne was in that tasting room, smiling at me like she wanted to bridge the gap.
Adrienne in the parking lot, asking, What is this between us?
Adrienne whispering my name in bed, soft and vulnerable in a way that fucking undid me.
I grip the empty glass so hard I think it might shatter. That’s when I hear it, the high-pitched laughter behind me. I don’t even need to look to know who it is.
Amy.
She was a good time for a while. It was easy, uncomplicated, a few months of distraction when I needed it. We ended on decent terms. She knows what I am, and she never asked for more, and neither did she. She has an ex in prison she’s waiting on.
She sways up with a friend in tow, her hand landing on my shoulder. “Well, well. Scotty Bescher in the flesh.”
I force a grin, polite but nothing more. “Amy.”
Her eyes sparkle, cheeks flushed from whatever she’s already been drinking. She leans down, close enough that I smell tequila on her breath. She puckers up her lip, pretending to cry. “You didn’t call me back last time.”
“Very funny,” I mutter, turning back toward the bar.
She pouts for show, then laughs it off, sliding onto the stool beside me. Her friend disappears toward the bathroom, leaving us in that old familiar orbit. She toys with the rim of my glass, nails painted fire-engine red.
“You always did brood better than anyone else I know. What’s wrong this time, your truck broke down? Or a woman?”
That one hits a little too close, but I bark out a laugh anyway. “Something like that.”
She smirks knowingly, crossing her legs so the hem of her dress hikes up. “Guess that means you could use a distraction.”
Her hand lands on my thigh. It’s casual at first, like an old habit, but then she drags her fingers higher, grazing the seam of my jeans.