20. Cash
CASH
Iwalk away from her because it’s the only thing that still feels like the right thing to do. I saw the way her face crumpled when I said we weren’t anything—when I told her to let it go. I put that look there, like the self-sabotaging asshole I’ve always been.
She doesn’t need this. She doesn’t need a fucked-up twenty-two-year-old who can’t even sit through a family dinner without starting a war.
I climb into my truck, slam the door, and just sit there in the dark with both hands on the wheel.
The engine’s off, and the only sound is my own breathing.
I should go back inside. I should apologize to Rhett, to Mom, to everyone I just made it harder for.
Instead, I light a cigarette and let the smoke burn my lungs while I stare at the dark fields.
The dinner conversation keeps looping in my head. Mom asking about the divorce. Halle admitting Zach shredded the papers just to fuck with her and now he’s dragging her back to court to split hairs on shit she doesn’t even care about. The way her voice got small when she said it.
That piece of shit is still trying to control her. And what did I do? I told her we were nothing and walked away like a coward.
My hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles go white. I can’t fix the way I feel about her. I can’t make myself into someone who deserves her. But I can make sure Zachariah Mercer never gets to hurt her again.
I pull my phone out and call Miranda before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the second ring. “Cash Thornwood. To what do I owe the pleasure at this hour?”
Miranda’s been in my life since Colt dragged her into it a couple years ago.
We met while I was visiting Colt at his college one weekend.
It was the same weekend I ended up fucking half a sorority and waking up the next morning with no memory of how I got there.
Miranda was the one who found my still-half-drunk ass, picked me up, and gave me a bucket to puke in on the way back to the apartment she shared with Colt.
She’s been a bro ever since. Not to mention, she’s techy as hell, and can figure out almost anything if you give her half a reason and a laptop.
“I need everything you can find on Zachariah Mercer,” I say, voice flat. “Fast. Especially where he lives right now.”
There’s a short pause. I can hear her sitting up, probably already reaching for her laptop. “This about that Colt’s sister? He told me y’all were fucking.”
“Just get me the address, Miranda.”
She sighs, but there’s no real judgment. “Full background … all that is going to take time—a couple days at least. But I can get you a current address tonight. Give me twenty minutes.”
“I’ll take the fucking address.”
“Okie dokes.”
The possessiveness is a live wire under my skin. I can’t have her; I don’t deserve her. But that fucker doesn’t get to keep his hooks in her either. Not while I’m still breathing.
My phone buzzes, and Miranda’s text comes through with an address in a nicer suburb outside of Dallas.
I’m already shifting the truck into drive before I finish reading the message.
The drive is long and dark, the highway lights blurring into streaks as I push the truck harder than I should.
Grief and rage twist together until I can’t tell them apart.
Grandpa’s gone—really gone. And instead of helping hold the ranch together like a man should be, I’m out here, driving to another man’s house in the middle of the night because I can’t stop thinking about Halle.
What am I? A twenty-two-year-old fuck-up who gets drunk and makes scenes and needs her to drag his ass home like some broken kid.
She told me to leave her alone. Fine. I’ll leave her alone.
But Zachariah Mercer doesn’t get access to her either.
I pull up to the address Miranda sent me a little after midnight. Nice neighborhood. Big house with perfect landscaping and an SUV in the driveway. The kind of place that screams “I have money and I’ll use it to make you miserable.”
I kill the engine and sit there for a long second, knuckles split from the earlier fight with Rhett, chest tight with everything I can’t fix.
Then I get out of the truck, walking to the front door. I pound on the door with my fist until the porch light flips on and Zachariah Mercer opens it, looking every bit the smug asshole I expected—tailored shirt, watch that probably costs more than my truck, hair still perfect, even this late.
He squints at me. “Who the fuck are you?”
“You Zachariah Mercer?”
“Yeah. And you are … ?”
“The guy who’s about to make sure you stop fucking with Halle Dawson.”
He leans against the doorframe like he owns the world. “Ah. One of her little side pieces. Cute. You here to play the hero?”
Side piece. The words ignite something ugly in my chest. I’m not a fucking side piece. And you’re the asshole who keeps trying to drag her back into your hell.
That does it.
I shove him hard, slamming him back against the doorframe with a dull thud. “I don’t know everything that happened between you two, but I know you’re still hurting her. And that stops tonight.”
Zach shoves back, eyes blazing. “She’s still my wife, you piece of shit. You think you can just fuck my wife and then come here, making demands? I built that life for her. She belongs to me.”
I land the first solid punch to his jaw. He gets one off on my ribs, but it’s weak, so I grab him by the shirt and slam him against the wall, hard enough to rattle a picture frame off its hook.
“She deserves to be happy,” I growl, my forearm pressed against his throat. “She deserves to breathe without you hanging over her like a fucking shadow.”
He laughs, blood on his teeth. “She’ll come back; she always does. You’re just a temporary distraction.”
I hit him again. Harder. The sound of my fist connecting with his face is satisfying in a way that should probably scare me.
I get him on the ground, knee on his chest, one hand fisted in his shirt.
“Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to go to court—finish the damn divorce. Then you’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to let her go.”
He tries to shove me off. I press my knee harder.
“And if you ever make her cry again,” I say, leaning in so he can see exactly how serious I am, “I will bury you. She’s not yours anymore—she was never really yours. She’s mine to protect now, even if she never wants to see me again.”
“You think you can come into my house and threaten me?” Zach spits, blood on his teeth, eyes wild with fury. “She’s my wife; I will never let her go. And if you know what’s good for you, ranch boy, you’ll let her go too.”
I stand up, breathing hard, knuckles split and bloody.
“You don’t get to threaten me. You had your chance with her and you fucked it up. Infect her life again and I won’t just break your jaw, I’ll fucking end you. Slowly.”
I walk out of the house and head toward my truck, slamming it shut as soon as I’m seated and pulling out of the driveway before the adrenaline starts to crash.
No one gets to have her, except me.