37. To Never Hearing ‘Jolene’ Again
TO NEVER HEARING ‘JOLENE’ AGAIN
EMBERLEIGH
Usually a good orgasm will do it for me. It’s the equivalent of taking melatonin with warm milk, but tonight it’s left me high and dry. Well, maybe not exactly dry.
I’d be lying to say that Braxton’s little touches don’t affect me.
All day today, I’ve felt the warmth of his palm seared on my lower back or flitting along the inside of my wrist. I don’t think his movements were forced, or that he was trying to make a move.
Everything seemed natural. Almost organic.
It’s as if I was a part of the things happening here.
And I have been, but mostly because I’ve forced my way in. Into his front door, into his home, into his second bedroom, into his daily routine. Into his life.
I may not be tall or loud, but I’ve been called intimidating more than once in my life.
More than twice too. No girl’s dream is to come off unapproachable and brash.
Those are fancy words for too much. Too headstrong, too opinionated, too daunting.
Sometimes they say I’m too smart or too driven or too aggressive.
Those words never seem to be negatives for men. But when you’re supposed to be a lady—not a woman, not a girl, but a lady—you’re expected to be milquetoast. Can’t be too intelligent or too business-minded or too focused or too well-read. God forbid!
A man would never need to save that woman.
And that’s about right.
I don’t need saving.
The thing is—and I don’t say it much—there are days I do. Just a little. Not because I’m inept or make bad decisions or anything like that. But because sometimes it’s exhausting being on, being responsible, looking the part, and having it all rest on my shoulders.
And that’s what this evening has felt like.
As perfect as the morning was—and it was—I spiraled after lunch.
By the time I got the texts from my father, not to mention the unwelcome commentary from my mother, I recognized those old feelings welling up.
You’re-too-much quickly morphed into you’re-not-enough.
And that combo is hell on the mind and ego. It’s not easy on the heart either.
Holding Colt made it better. Playing with him. Talking with him. Having Emerson, even in that form, was enough.
Thank God he was able to distract me. That is, until I found Braxton in my room and I wanted to be distracted in a whole other way.
In a very adult way.
He said I was talking in my sleep.
Little does he know that I was awake enough to know what I was saying.
I’ve never been attracted to Em’s boyfriends or exes. We always had rather opposite tastes. Hers ran toward bad boys, tats, outcasts, and loners. Anything she could do to push our mother’s buttons, she did. And she did it big. She loved it.
I’ve always been attracted to the starched shirt and tie guy.
Nice trousers, clean shoes. Bonus if he looks as good with rolled-up sleeves and a loosened tie.
I toed the party line. I was a debutante, always keeping up appearances, always making sure that what I reflected back to my parents was never too egregious.
If I think about it, Emerson pushed the envelope while I fell in line. And, yes, her death is still fresh, but our parents are more about her legacy than mine.
I did everything they wanted and expected.
And it didn’t get me where I thought it might.
Although it did get me to some place I never dreamed.
Braxton
Three nights later, I make my way toward home depleted from a crappy day.
It hasn’t been terrible, just busy, and I spent it putting out fires all day.
I like seeing progress, and today was not that.
Today was all about plugging holes in the boat and scooping out the water trying to come in.
That’s a shit metaphor, though, since the ranch is so arid.
The drought has never let up, and the forecasts of even a little precipitation were off.
Like everything in a Texas summer, it feels like feast or famine. And this year, famine is on the menu. Correction… Famine is the menu.
We’re working with other farms and ranches nearby to share some resources on water. We’ve exhausted our emergency measures, and things that were dire now teeter on catastrophic.
I stomp the dust off my boots and open the door, only to stop dead.
Staring at me from the wall in my living room is a huge canvas.
A photo of me. With Colt. Stroking Marron.
She’s in profile, one eye visible, staring straight into the camera.
Her head is dipped; her nose nudges Colt’s belly.
His face is full of wonder peeking over her.
His fingers, so little in comparison, touch the chocolate brown coat of her nose.
I’m visible, but looking down at Colt’s face, a genuine smile spreading across my own.
My hand not holding him strokes Marron’s chin.
It’s got to be two feet by three feet or something. Maybe larger. It’s a focal point.
I don’t need to ask where this came from. It could only come from Emberleigh. But I didn’t know she even took it.
It’s incredible. The composition, the color, the expressions on our faces. It’s perfect.
“Em?” I holler since she’s not in the front of the house.
Her door opens, and she moves cautiously down the hall. She’s slid her hands into the back pockets of her jean shorts, and her bare feet are silent as she moves toward the great room.
“Hey,” she says, almost sweetly.
“This is— I mean, I…. Thank you.”
“For what?”
I extend a hand, but my eyes get stuck on the photograph. When they meet hers again, I’m afraid the warmth I see in hers is a reflection of my own.
“It’s stunning. I don’t know what to say.”
“Braxton Ranger, are you verklempt?”
“Old-school Saturday Night Live reference? You constantly impress me.”
The responding grin that breaks across her face is sincere.
And breathtaking.
“Never mind,” she hits back, in the high-pitched voice of Gilda Radnor’s Emily Litella.
I move to her, a man on a mission, but stop short of invading her space. Her eyes melt under my stare, and fuck if my eyes don’t fall to her lips. She sucks in a deep, quick breath, but shuts her eyes, breaking the connection.
I lean in, move a hand to her jaw, and drop a kiss on her forehead.
Anything more would be stupid. Stupid, complicated, and beyond fucked up. Even if I want to—and I want to—I can’t risk Colt because of my dick. A dick, that right now, is trying to reach out and touch one Emberleigh Carrington from Highland Park.
I step back and head for the kitchen.
“How was your day?” I ask, changing the subject and killing the mood.
I get no response, so I lean back toward the living room. “Em?”
The reflexive jerk in her body when I call her that is evident. She begins to turn away, but I move toward her, turning her, and take her shoulders in my hands.
“Talk to me. I’m missing something. What did I do?”
She takes a deep breath, steels her spine, and meets my gaze head on. “Em is Emerson. You couldn’t know that. Our parents call, or rather called, us Em and Em but that was her nickname. She was Em. I am… not.”
As if she used all her strength and bravado to say that, she averts her gaze, and her shoulders slump. And I get it. I’ve done it at least twice now and never asked.
I pull her into my chest, her head somewhere near my pecs, and slide my arms around her.
“I—”
The front door swings open without so much as a knock. Bright manages to cross the threshold before her mouth falls open and remains in its position like a shocked Saturday morning cartoon character.
“What is—” Elias runs right into her back before revealing a similar expression.
I remove my arms, but turn Emberleigh, keeping my front to her side.
“Well, this is new,” I say, drawing out the words, staring at Eli and my sister and wondering why they just barged into my house.
Emberleigh
So this is what mortification feels like.
Not that we’ve done anything. Not one single thing, but having Brighton, and whoever this man may be, barge in feels like getting caught by my parents.
It’s the chill of fear that snakes down my spine, the need to look away and the inability to do so, and the frustration of being stuck in place because my feet cannot move from their spot on the floor.
Braxton must not feel the same, because he switches our positions in an almost protective nature, moving in front of me, blocking their view of my humiliation.
“What are you doing here?”
“Brax,” Brighton begins. “We didn’t mean to interrupt…” She leaves it dangling, her voice rising at the end in question. Since I’m a woman and a sister, I know the tone. She’s baiting him and trying to push to get a rise out of him.
I can’t see his face, but I notice the stiffness in his shoulders and his ramrod straight posture. His silence says more than his words can. And Brighton must register it because she takes one step backward, turning on her heel, and smacking right into her… whatever he is to her.
“Oof.”
“Sorry, Eli.”
“I only walk on the bottoms. Guess you can walk on the tops.”
“Shut up. You know I didn’t mean to.”
“Enough.” Braxton’s one-word response cuts through the back-and-forth.
I start to take a step away, but a hand snakes backward and hooks around my lower back, keeping me in place. His hand slowly falls away, grazing my ass and hip as it goes. The proximity means I can feel the heat emanating off of Braxton’s body.
“What are you doing here, Bright? Eli?”
The man named Eli clears his throat and lifts his chin. “Brighton and I were talking about grabbing a beer. Thought we’d invite you and… uh… Emberleigh along.”
“Thanks. Can’t tonight.” The response is gruff and dismissive, but not cold. “Just got home. Need to check on Colt—”
“Colt’s fine if you want to go,” I add, loud enough that only Braxton can hear, but it should escape the two still in the doorway.
His head snaps up and twists toward me. “Thanks, but I’m good.” Turning back to the door, he adds, “Eli, haven’t forgotten I owe you some info. Will get it to you tomorrow. That work?”
“Sure thing.”
“Where are y’all going to get a beer?”
“Crooners,” Brighton announces.
“Karaoke?” This comes from Eli, at the same time Braxton says, “Oh, Lord.”
Seems there’s a story to this that I’d love to know, if I weren’t hiding behind Braxton. I step to the side and peek my head around his broad back.
“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” I say.
“Well, I can for both of us,” Brighton answers, reentering the room.
The only indications that Braxton is annoyed is his head tipping toward the ceiling and the thick column of his throat bobbing as he swallows. That and the hands that are planted on his hips.
“I have a few talents,” Brighton continues. “Singing is one. Barrel racing is another.” She smiles with a devious grin. “Target shooting is another.”
“No one should risk pissing Bright off,” Eli adds, both of them moving farther into the house. “She’ll either shoot you or sing ‘Jolene’ on repeat until you want to die.”
“Jolene,” Brighton begins, and continues reciting the name. And she isn’t lying. She has pipes.
Braxton sighs and drops his face from the ceiling in defeat when Eli closes the door with him and Brighton inside.
“Come on in,” he ushers with a grand gesture, marking his sarcasm with the actions of a ringmaster at the circus. He huffs and strides for the kitchen, opening cabinet doors and moving ice in the freezer.
And I stand there like a dolt, not wanting to follow him and certainly not willing to play hostess in his home.
My uncertainty vanishes when Brighton sees the canvas I hung this afternoon and walks to it. “Oh my God. I love this. I didn’t know you took it. It’s amazing.” She offers me a genuine, full smile.
It’s out of character for her. She’s always been distant. Even when Marron was foaling and I took Colt to be a part, she seemed to be okay with me being on the fringe, but not actually involved.
Before I even have a chance to respond, she turns toward the kitchen and says loudly, “Brax, I love it. Emberleigh nailed it.”
He emerges carrying two tumblers of brown liquid, with Eli carrying another couple. He offers his second to Brighton, as Braxton passes one to me.
“To…?” Brighton lifts her glass waiting for someone to give a reason to drink. All I can think is Here’s to not being caught red-handed again and being embarrassed, but Eli pipes in, “To never hearing ‘Jolene’ again.”
Braxton’s, “Hear, hear,” is loud and clear, and the men have clinked before we can say another word.
I lift my glass and add, “Here’s to ‘9 to 5’ instead.” To which my glass gets a clink from Brighton, and she begins to belt out the number one hit from years before any of us were born.
“God help us,” Eli grumbles.
And I dissolve into laughter.