54. So Not a Minx
SO NOT A MINX
EMBERLEIGH
Overnight is a blur. I’ve slept all day and should be raring to go, but my mind is still exhausted, though my body has fully recharged.
After the nurses left, I slid to my side and offered the bed, as much as didn’t have plastic mechanisms and uncomfortable partitions, to Braxton. He didn’t argue, kicked off his shoes, and slid in.
At some point before the sun rises, my mind is awake too, and that’s when my stomach growls. I feel a laugh against my neck just before a kiss is placed there and a sexy gravelly voice grumbles in my ear, “Love waking up with you, but really wish it was in our bed.”
Our bed? Our bed. Ours. I don’t know what to say to that, so I pull his arm deeper around me and nestle my ass back into him.
“Torture. You’re a torturous minx.”
The laughter that bubbles up from me is loud and genuine.
“Braxton Ranger, did you just call me a minx? Has anyone used that word in the last forty years?”
“I just did. And you are. You have no clue how sexy you are, how tempting you are. How you in no makeup and a sports bra, just after a run, make me want to fall to my knees and beg. And the fact that you don’t know… Well, it makes it even better.”
I bite my lip and close my eyes. All I’ve ever wanted and more is in the gruff, sometimes crass, good man. And that’s just it. He’s a good man.
Perfect? No.
Asshole? Sometimes.
Good? Yes. Overwhelmingly yes.
“There are things to say, Braxton, but I’ll tell you when you’re moving inside me.”
He stills. The breath he sucks in pulls cold air across my neck. His arms go tighter around me and, if it is possible, he moves in even closer. His voice at my ear is measured. “Tempting, torturous minx.”
I laugh and the movement brings me in closer contact with his dick that’s already saluting the top of my ass.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” He pushes his cock into my lower back and nips at my earlobe.
“You’re insatiable.” I slap his hand at my belly playfully, but add, “And that bodes well for me.”
“Woman!”
The door pushes open and a stern-looking nurse with a severe ponytail shows her disapproval of our sleeping arrangement.
“I’ve come to check on Miss Carrington. Will you please excuse us?”
He whispers in my ear conspiratorially, “So not a minx,” and heads to the bathroom.
The nurse and I handle pleasantries and follow with a brief exam.
It’s mostly Q his eyes downcast. He shakes his head from his spot on the floor. “Trying to do the right thing, Wainwright. And that’s a hard thing to decipher these days.”
He nods, never lifting his gaze from the laminate floors.
I extend a hand.
When his gaze meets mine, there’s no fire. There’s no heat. There’s no anger. There’s defeat. He’s eaten up with loss and grief. Anger is just easier than sadness; accusation is easier than accountability.
He takes my hand and moves to the chair where he awaits his fate. Twice in a county jail in five days has got to be the epitome of how the lofty have fallen.
The next few hours are hurry up and wait and not the good kind. The paperwork for Emberleigh’s hospital visit is ridiculous. The time spent just waiting in between slow steps to get discharged is enough to make me crazy antsy.
There’s also Wainwright’s removal. Emberleigh stands, arms crossed, hip jutted out, chin defiantly raised as he’s cuffed and taken away.
Then she crumbles. I hold her on my lap and stroke her hair.
I tell her she’s brave and strong and absolutely right in everything she said.
I tell her that she assumed he was the instigator and he wasn’t, so maybe he still has a heart.
Maybe he will do the right thing. Maybe he would choose her.
But whether he does or whether he doesn’t, she always has a home.
She has a family. She always has our protection and she’ll always know that we chose her, want her, and need her.
Cyler texts about the sheriff’s department swarming the ranch for the second day in a row. They rightfully question why no one in the family is there. Our collective hospital records stand as a witness that we didn’t just bail.
Brighton messages that Colt needs bottles, more food, and a change of clothes when we head to Austin.
She mentions he’s fine, but somewhat antsy.
My sweet boy. In forty-eight hours, he’s had a hospital visit of his own, a reaction, gotten to sleep it off, and then missed his dad and his mom, for all intents and purposes, while being thrown out of his routine.
He’s laid back enough, but all the same, he likes his consistency.
Eli asks for his tablet that is in the barn in Bright’s office, since he’s not leaving Bright or Pop, but is getting swarmed with calls and needs the resources to deal.
I field calls from Ralph about how Pop is and how we’re not to leave the state. He slides that in as if it’s not a bomb dropped, but regular old hat. I agree and tell him what I know. He was there for most of it, but the missing pieces and whos and whens are still coming to light.
I need to look at the security footage before I hand it over.
I’d do it all again. No question and, from what I know right now, which isn’t much, I’d do it the same way.
I have the right to defend my home and family, but there’s some questionable comings and goings that I’d like to see and want Eli to review before I provide them.
Exton and Willa are en route. This is a relief. It adds a layer of complexity too, but a good one, nonetheless. More people, more family. I can’t argue that.
Layton is asking for follow-ups. The youngest of us, he stays on the fringes, and now that I think about it, I wonder if that’s his choice or if I’m so busy running the ranch and nine years older than him, that I just haven’t taken the time to connect in a meaningful way.
The dailiness of ranching can easily take you weeks or years down the road with its constant rise and grind. Seasons change, and my body changes, and I look up and it’s been months since Mom died. Years since I’ve taken a vacation.
Me: Miss you, bro. Know I’ll see you Sunday. In the meantime, kick ass. We’ll be watching and cheering. Proud of you, Layton.
Layton: Did someone die?
Me: Fuck off.
Layton: It was a fair question.
Me: Yeah, yeah.
Our typical smart-ass family text thread is too serious.
I don’t like the snark being missing, but I really don’t like three body bags being needed on the ranch yesterday.
My thumbs are flying over my phone searching for an appropriate GIF to send that conveys the right message when the nurses enter and finally give us the all clear for Emberleigh to go.
I slide my hand into hers. “Let’s get you home, baby.”
“We’re going to Austin. Now.”
“Compromise? Home to shower, get some supplies for Pop and Colt, and then on the road in under an hour.”
She thinks about it. Seriously, I love this woman. I have no doubt about that. She’s been pacing for the last almost two hours, fighting to get out to see my dad, when she was dealing with her own shit.
“Just say yes, Emberleigh. We’ll be quick, but I’ve been in these clothes for over twenty-four hours and so have you. I need coffee and—”
“I could do coffee.” At that moment, her stomach growls.
“And maybe breakfast?”
“Don’t push it. Need to get to Pop and Colt. Need to put my arms around both. Need to see they’re both okay. Until then, you’re getting bitchy Emberleigh. Easygoing Emberleigh is on a break.”
I laugh and lead her to the truck.