CHAPTER 59
Special K
I’m trying to appear normal.
Act normal.
Work normal.
And though I’m doing my best to be the standard-issue Special K—introvert and hard-working cowboy—somebody’s always pointing out that I’m not fooling anyone.
Emma delivers casseroles and Aunt Phyllis brings fresh fruit, because they’re both sure I’m not eating right. Dad comes over to provide fatherly advice I didn’t request. Phoebe, Emma, and Victoria come over to tell me how obvious it is that Frankie’s in love with me.
And best of all, Summer likes to walk in my front door without knocking, march over to where I’m trying to relax on the couch and yell at me to get my shit together.
Just another day with the MacLaines of Yosemite Ranch.
Luckily, Summer and Declan flew to Las Vegas early this morning to take a stroll down memory lane.
Why they’d want to revisit their drunken wedding night at the Mariah Carey Chapel of Love is anyone’s guess, but those two are nothing if not unique.
I guess they want to have fun before the baby comes.
The upside is I don’t have to worry about getting yelled at today, so there’s that.
But I’m far from normal. No amount of casseroles, fruit, or homespun words of wisdom can get me back to the way I was before Boots came into my life and then left again.
That’s why I’m not overly surprised when I look around to see where I’ve wandered. I didn’t plan to, but after many hours riding the range lands, DG and I are now well on our way up to the campsite on the ridge. It’s habit, I guess.
A habit I’ll have to learn how to break.
I dismount, tie the reins to the usual tree limb, and take a look around. I try to convince myself that I’m doing this to get Frankie out of my system, to de-mystify the place where I fell in love with her. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
But it’s a crock of shit. I’m torturing myself. Nothing more and nothing less.
My heart lurches at the sight of the tree stump by the fire ring. I remember so clearly the look she gave me the evening I rode up here with the ATV trailer packed to the rafters with supplies.
She sat right here on this stump with her forearms on her knees, shaking her head with disbelief. Exhaustion. Distrust.
And told me to get the fuck out.
But that same night, we found a way to connect.
And that was all it took—it was man down.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m pretty sure I fell in love with her that night.
It’s too bad we’ll never have children together, because it would be a great answer to the question about how mommy and daddy became a couple.
“Well, it all started when I saved your mommy’s cat from a feral hog…”
I chuckle softly to myself, but the sound fades into a sigh, and then a groan of sorrow.
I’m not sure how it’s possible to build so many memories in such a short time, but Frankie and I managed to do it. And now it’s all I have left of her—memories. Of the happiness we shared. The way we made each other laugh and the pleasure we found in each other’s arms.
I got a glimpse of all that was possible with her by my side. And then it was over.
I walk toward the cabin, place my hand on the door latch, and pause to collect myself before I throw open the door. My eyes immediately go to the bed. It looks so out-of-place sitting in the middle of the old wooden floor dressed in its rumpled flannel sheets, fluffy pillows, and down comforter.
How many times did we make love on that bed? Twenty times? In how many days? I still can’t fathom how something that felt that effortless—so right—could be so short-lived.
Not fucking fair.
I back out and slam the door shut, then stagger back into the pine needles. I gulp in the warm air and squeeze my eyes shut against the memories.
“She left you, buddy. Don’t be a pussy.” As soon as the words escape my mouth, I laugh. Because, literally, the title is taken, because Frankie left me her Pussy. The actual one. Only room for one pussy in my life.
And I don’t get it. Why the hell would Frankie do that?
I may not have received access to all of Frankie’s secrets, but one thing I know for sure: she loves that stupid cat. She told me flat out that she wouldn’t be able to go on without Pussy. And she just left her behind?
Nah.
No way.
And then a couple possibilities occur to me. Maybe she went somewhere she knew Pussy wouldn’t be safe. That’s not good news. Or maybe she has plans to come back as soon as she’s able, which is much better news.
It doesn’t matter. I went to jail and she ran off. History repeating itself. It’s a hard truth I’m just going to have to accept.
I’m about to mount DG and head back home when it hits me to check one last thing. I go back to the cabin, open the door, and peer inside, squinting into the dimness. I see it, there on the windowsill, its matte black finish leaving it nearly invisible.
Frankie didn’t take her gun.
I don’t know what that means, exactly, but it’s an important piece of information. If she’d had time and thought she needed it for protection, she would’ve come back to get it. But she didn’t. Was she in such a hurry to get away from me that she didn’t bother to retrieve a way to protect herself?
Did she think it wouldn’t make any difference?
Suddenly, I hear a mechanical whirring overhead. It’s a sound I know well. I exit the cabin again and look up to find one of Declan’s drones hovering overhead.
I straighten my arm toward the sky and shove my middle finger toward the camera lens. The drone immediately banks and flies away.
“Great!” I shout at the retreating craft. “Go ahead—spy on me, chucklefucks! First, it’s casseroles! Then drones! What’s next for me—an anal probe tracking device?”
I give them fifteen minutes, tops. I know how this shit works since I’d do exactly the same. In fact, I have done exactly the same. That drone was doing recon, and now, some or all of my brothers are already on their way.
I plop down on the stump and drop my head in my hands, waiting.
Just as predicted, I soon hear the rumble of an ATV engine cresting the ridge. I wish I could say that what I see shocks me, but it doesn’t. It’s Evander behind the wheel of our Can-Am 700. He’s wearing a three-piece wool suit, tie, and Italian leather loafers polished to a blinding shine.
He turns off the motor.
“Da fuq you want, asshole?” I ask him.
Evander ignores me and talks into his headset. “Target located. ETA is fourteen-thirty hours.”
I stand up. “I’ll ask you again… da fuq, asshole?”
“Get in the saddle,” he says, lifting his chin toward DG and adjusting his vest. I notice he hasn’t gotten off the ATV, probably because he doesn’t want to dirty his dainty-assed shoes. “We’re in a hurry. There’s an emergency meeting.”
“I don’t care about a meeting. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Evander looks at me, glances toward the cabin, and then looks at me again with raised eyebrows. “Busy moping? Sulking? Beating yourself up again for shit that isn’t even your fault? Again?”
“Watch it,” I growl. My ire is definitely up, and I don’t have any patience for ribbing from anyone on the planet right now, especially Evander.
“C’mon, Kevin. Mount up. We have important business.”
“Fuck you. Fuck all y’all. Fuck all y’all all the way off.”
“Well put. Poetic, even. C’mon. We’ve got planning to do.”
“I don’t give a shit about third-quarter or fourth-quarter earnings. I don’t care about R&D. I don’t care about deliverables or contracts or—”
“How about Frankie? You care about her?”