Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Wyatt
I slam the door to my truck and tear down the gravel.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I wind down the window, the cool night air doing nothing to quell the fire in my blood. Normally, I hate going out, but for some reason, I don’t seem to be in control of my decisions tonight.
What am I even going to do when I get there? Tear the head off every single guy that so much as looks at her sideways?
Which, judging by the way she looks tonight, would be a never-ending blood bath. You’d have to be fucking blind not to notice her.
In no time, I’m pulling into the parking lot of The Rusty Nail in a clean pair of jeans and a plaid shirt. I shove the truck in park and plant my boots in the gravel.
I look up at the flashing neon sign of The Rusty Nail and take a deep, steadying breath before I make my way to the door. As I push through, my senses are assaulted. It looks exactly as it has for the past twenty-five years.
My boots still stick to the floor as I walk, and the air still smells like stale beer and tobacco.
The juke box seems to have had an upgrade, though I’m sure the same old songs will still play eventually.
I quickly scan the room with my hat pulled low, trying my damndest not to look like a predator.
It isn’t long before the sound of my sister’s cackle leads me to the booth they’re all gathered in, and there she is. Every reason I shouldn’t be here.
I quickly watch for a second as she leans in and laughs at something my brother is whispering in her ear. Envy prickles from my boots to my fingers. It’s him who notices me first. His brows furrow joyfully at my presence.
“Well, look who showed up!” Jax hollers as all their heads collectively turn to my direction.
Great.
But it’s Emily I notice, her eyes seem to light up as she takes me in, and I can’t ignore the way she bites the corner of her lip as she smiles in my direction.
I'm already adjusting myself in my jeans.
Jax is already out of the booth, a grin spreading across his face as he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’m dreaming, right? Someone tell me I’m dreaming.”
“Shut up, Jax,” I grunt, not meeting his eyes.
“Come on, let me get you a drink before you change your mind and bolt.” He leads me toward the bar, gesturing to the bartender.
I follow my brother, but I can feel Mike, who must have met them here, joining my side. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence.”
The three of us lean against the bar. Jax’s eyes track a waitress who walks past with a tray of shots.
She shoots him a wink, and he gives her that effortless, charming smile.
The type I forgot how to use years ago. He turns his attention back to me, his expression morphing into something more contemplative.
“She looks good, Wyatt,” he says, nodding toward the booth without needing to say her name. “All grown up. A far cry from the scrawny kid who used to follow us to the creek.”
I took a long, slow draw from the bottle that Jax slides toward me, the cold liquid barely touching the parched feeling in my throat. “Yeah, well, she’s thirty now. What did you expect?”
Jax snorts, shaking his head. “Thirty or not, you’ve been looking at her like you’re trying to figure out how to keep her in a cage.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I’m your brother.” Jax’s voice drops, the teasing edge vanishing. “Look, I get it. I know why you stay on the ranch. I know who you’re loyal to. But Wyatt…it’s been four years. You’re allowed to want things again. You’re allowed to live again.”
I gripped the bottle a little tighter, catching Mike’s eye. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a look on his face that says he agrees with my brother.
I continue peeling the label under my thumb. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Jax counters gently. “She’s good for Alex. She’s good for this place. And maybe if you’d stop acting like a martyr, she’d be good for you, too. You don’t have to stay in the dark forever, man.”
I turn my gaze back toward the booth, watching the way the light catches the white polka dots on her dress.
My brother doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I came here to keep watch. My father made a promise to hers, and I’m honoring that. And God help anyone who forces me to do more than that.
The jukebox changes its tune to something a little more upbeat.
I’m watching her, but she isn’t looking in my direction.
Kassie’s eyes widen, and I stare as she grabs Emily’s hand.
Kassie rises to her feet, attempting to pull Emily to the dancefloor.
Emily hesitates for a second, a flash of that city-girl reservation crossing her face, but then she laughs and follows my sister into the throng.
I’m still staring as I track the way her hips sway in time with the rhythm.
She’s left her jacket at the booth, so there’s more skin on display than ever.
Her hair tumbles freely down her back, where the dress completely exposes her.
A tiny tattoo I’ve never noticed before and can’t quite make out is visible under the thin strap of her dress.
A small act of defiance that reminds me of her independent streak.
I find myself wanting to map out every inch of her skin. As she and Kass sing along to the words of the familiar song, she looks free, she looks happy. And watching her, a bitter seed of envy takes root in my gut.
She’s lost everything—her career, her home, her parents—and yet here she is, letting herself enjoy the moment. I’m the one with the land, the legacy, and the family, but I feel like I’m the one rotting from the inside out.
“She’s a natural,” Mike mutters from my left, leaning his elbows on the bar.
I keep watching the way the neon light dances off the fabric of her dress. She isn’t doing anything provocative, only moving with the rhythm, but in a room full of flannel-wearing cowboys and worn-out denim, she stands out like a diamond.
It doesn’t take long for the vultures to start circling.
I see them before she does. A couple of guys from the construction crew out near the highway, leaning against a pillar, and eying the dance floor.
They’re looking at the curve of Emily’s waist, the length of her legs, and the way her hair catches the light every time she spins. Or at least, I am. So they must.
“You want another beer?” Jax asks, noticing my knuckles whitening around the neck of my bottle.
“No. I have the truck,” I say, my voice sounding tight.
Suddenly, the space around Emily closes in. One of the guys who was leaning by the pillar—a tall, thick-necked prick with a backwards cap—sees his opening when Kassie gets spun away by Dayton. He moves in behind Emily, closing the gap faster than he had any right to.
I stop mid-sip, the bottle frozen at my lips.
He doesn’t ask politely. He doesn’t hesitate. He drapes a heavy hand right around her waist, pulling her back against him.
From across the room, I see the exact moment her smile falters.
She looks over her shoulder, giving a polite shake of her head, her body language screaming no thank you.
But the guy doesn’t take the hint. Instead of backing off, he leans down, whispers something in her ear as he tightens his grip, his fingers dig into the fabric of her dress.
Beside me, I hear the synchronized scrape of barstools. I don’t have to look to know that Jax and Mike are already rolling up their sleeves. They know it’s over. They know exactly what kind of storm is about to break.
“Well,” Mike says, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I’d say this was a fun night while it lasted.”
I don’t wait for them. I set my bottle down on the bar with a definitive thud and move across the floor.
The music seems to dull as I carve a path through the crowd.
The neon lights and the other couples dancing are no longer visible to me.
The only thing I see is that thick-fingered hand digging into Emily’s small waist. Every step I take feels like years of suppressed rage finally finding a direction.
I reach them as she tries to pull away again, her face clearly shows her discomfort, and it makes my vision swim. I don’t politely ask him to step aside. I plant myself like an oak tree right in his line of sight.
“Hey, man,” I say, the words vibrating in my chest. “I think she said no.”
The guy doesn’t let go. He clearly has a death wish. He looks me up and down, a smug, beer-soaked grin curling his lip. He looks at my worn hat and my dusty boots and clearly decides I’m not a threat.
“Who the fuck are you? Her boyfriend?” he sneers. He pulls her an inch closer to his side like he’s trying to prove a point.
I feel my jaw tick. My eyes flick briefly to Emily’s face as she reclaims the inch he’s taken. Her eyes are almost pleading for help.
“No,” I answer. My voice is a low, dangerous rumble.
“Then she’s fair game, my friend,” he says, his eyes dropping back to her cleavage with a look that makes my stomach turn. “And I’m just getting started.”
That’s it.
He’s just reduced the woman who takes care of my son, the woman who fixes her own engines, and wades through her own grief, to a piece of meat.
I don’t give him a second warning. I step into his space, pivot my hips, and put every ounce of my frustration into a right hook that connects squarely with his jaw.
The sound of my fist landing against him is a sickening, wet crack that vibrates even over the music. The pain in my hand is instant, but I couldn’t give a fuck right now. He stumbles clean off his feet, crashing into a nearby table, sending a spray of beer and broken glass across the floor.
“Wyatt!” Emily’s voice is a mix of shock and fury.
I don’t look at the guy on the floor. I don’t look at the bouncers starting to move in or the crowd that is suddenly staring.
I turn to her, my chest heaving, my knuckles already beginning to throb.
The adrenaline is a toxic high, and right now, I can’t distinguish between my need to protect her and my need to claim her.
“Get in the truck,” I command, my eyes burning into hers. “We’re leaving.”
“What?!” She stands her ground, her face is flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly under that black dress. “You can’t just—Wyatt, you just punched him!”
I step closer, closing the gap until she has to tilt her head back to see me. I grab her wrist, the one I’d bandaged hours ago, and feel the frantic beat of her pulse against my thumb.
“Just get in the damn truck, Emily,” I hiss, my voice shaking with the effort of not doing something even stupider like pulling her against me right here in front of everyone. “Before I do something I can’t take back.”
I don’t wait for her to agree. I turn and lead her through the parting crowd, my grip is firm but careful on her wrist, feeling the eyes of my brother and the guys on my back. I don’t care about the bar, the fight, or the talk that would be all over town by morning.
I need her away from them. I need her back in the dark where only I can see her. I know what I’m doing is irrational, but I can’t stop now.
The cool night air hits us as I burst through the exit, but I can’t feel a damn thing except the heat of her wrist in my grip as I march her through the parking lot.
I can hear her struggle to keep up, the heels of her boots scuffing against the gravel, but I can’t stop.
I need to get her away from them. I need to get her out of here before the rest of the world sees what I’m trying so hard to hide.
“Wyatt!” she protests, her voice sharp with indignation. “Slow down, for god’s sake! And you can’t just punch people for no reason!”
“You didn’t see how he was looking at you,” I shout back, still storming ahead. I don’t turn to face her. If I look at her now, I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind.
“So what do you care?”
I feel her hand slip into mine, shifting from where I once held her wrist. The contact is sudden, as our fingers lace. It shouldn’t be so damn comforting.
I stop and spin to her, pulling her against me. We’re face to face now, the neon light of the bar sign flickering in the distance. I’m searching those impossibly blue eyes, looking for a reason. She’s breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling against mine. My eyes drop to her lips.
“I—I don’t…I…”
I want to kiss her. I’m going to kiss her. I can practically taste the vanilla and summer on her already.
Then something slams back into my consciousness. I can’t fucking kiss her.
I drop her hand like it’s a white-hot iron. “Just get in the damn truck, Emily. I’m taking you home.”
She stands there, startled, her eyes wide as I round the truck to the driver’s side. She looks as though she’s about to protest, her mouth opening to hurl another round of fury at me, but for some reason, she relents as she looks at my face. Maybe she sees the wreck I am.
She storms to the passenger side, her cheeks scarlet with a rage that matches my own. She yanks open the door and gets into the truck with a huff that speaks volumes.
I shove the key into the ignition and bring the engine to a roar, the pulse in my ears thrumming in time with it. Tearing out of the lot, my tires screech against the asphalt as I leave the music and the chaos behind.
The rest of the drive is deathly silent.
Neither of us speaks. The only sound is the wind whistling past the windows and the roar of the tires on the asphalt.
She’s leaning her elbow against the door, her head resting against it.
Her body is turned toward it, shielding herself from me.
The silence is heavy, thick with everything we almost did and the one thing I can’t let myself do.
When we finally pull up to the ranch, I don’t even have the engine fully killed before she’s out the door.
She doesn’t wait for me. She doesn’t look back.
She marches up the porch steps, her heels clicking with a sharp, angry rhythm against the wood, and slams the front door so hard the glass rattles in the frames.
I sit there in the dark, my forehead resting against the cold leather of the steering wheel. My knuckles are throbbing, my head is spinning, and my heart is in absolute ruins.
“I fucking hate this,” I whisper into the empty cab.