36. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
The line I drew was supposed to be control. She has to ask. She has to consent. She has to choose.
It’s the right thing to do—the only thing to do, given what she's survived. Given who I am.
But right now, standing in Turner's office with her body inches from mine, that line feels like the cruelest form of torture I've ever inflicted on myself.
I can see everything. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes. The scar on her cheekbone. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath, faster than normal.
She's not calm.
Neither am I.
My hands are still gripping her arms. I want to believe I’m steadying her, keeping her from colliding into me, but I'm the one who needs steadying.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to pull her closer instead of letting go—to close the six inches between us and find out if losing control is as inevitable as it feels right now.
I don't.
"Mandy," I say, and my voice comes out unsteady. Not Amanda—Mandy. Because I need that distance.
She hears it. I see it in the way her eyes shutter, the way her body lists away from me.
I force myself to let go, to step back, and she does the same. The space between us feels too wide and not wide enough.
"We should keep looking," I say.
"Yeah." She turns away, and I see her hands shake slightly before she shoves them into her pockets. "Yeah, we should."
We search the rest of the house in silence.
Every room has been ransacked, every hiding place exposed. Whoever was here, they were thorough. Professional.
They didn’t find what they were looking for. If they had, this place would’ve been left exactly as they found it.
Which means they’re still looking.
I look around at the chaos. It’s overkill for a notebook filled mostly with girls who are already lost. Something doesn’t add up.
By the time we make it back to the truck, night’s fallen.
Mandy climbs into the passenger seat without a word. I start the engine, and the dashboard lights cast her face in shadow.
"Dead end," she says finally.
I nod, my eyes on the road. "For now."
"So what's next?"
“We wait for my guy to see what he can dig up.” Right now, two days seems like an eternity, for a lot of reasons.
I pull onto the main road, heading back toward Iron Ridge. The silence stretches between us—heavy, weighted with everything that almost happened in Turner's office.
"How long have you lived in Iron Ridge?" she asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard. I glance at her, but she's staring out the window, her reflection ghosted in the glass. "Why?"
"Just curious." She shifts in her seat, turning to face me. "I thought you lived outside Chicago."
Frowning, I keep my eyes on the road, but my grip tightens on the steering wheel. “You aren’t supposed to know that.”
She laughs softly. “Uh-huh, Bernard.”
It’s funny how she keeps trying to guess my name. "I have multiple properties."
"The one in Santa Monica looks nice. I always wondered what it’d be like to live on the ocean.”
No one should know about that one—or any of my properties. I go to great lengths to make sure they exist only for the people who need to know about them. I narrow my eyes, staring straight ahead, and refrain from answering.
“I’m kind of surprised you decided to live in Iron Ridge,” she continues blithely. “I thought you have to be a cowboy to live here.”
“I like horses,” I hear myself admit. I’ve been thinking about buying one—I certainly have enough land—but I’m always away on assignment. I used to ride as a kid. It’s one of the perks to Iron Ridge, other than the proximity to the Blackthorn Ranch.
She angles her body toward me. “Horses? Really?”
“They’re uncomplicated.” I shrug.
Mandy laughs. “Of course that’s why you like them.”
I glance at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They don’t ask questions. They don’t move your shit around. They don’t buy you decorative pillows.”
“The pillow is an abomination.”
“And yet it’s still on your couch.”
I have no answer for that. I keep my eyes on the road. “I didn’t say I wanted it gone.”
She straightens in the seat, facing forward again, and I think the conversation is over.
It's not.
"So..." Her voice is upbeat, which makes me brace myself. "Did you find my panties?"
The truck swerves slightly. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I correct it, bringing it back in the lane.
“I guess that’s a yes,” she says lightly.
"Yeah.” My voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. "I found them."
"And?"
If I hold the steering wheel any tighter, it’s going to snap. "And what?"
"And what did you think?"
I think she smells fucking delicious. I think her cunt could become my new obsession. I glance at her, just for a second, but it's enough. She looks entirely too pleased with herself. “I think you left them there on purpose."
"You think?"
She’s fucking with me, and I’m taking the bait. "I just can’t figure out why you left them."
"I wanted to see if you'd notice."
It’s not just that, but I’ll figure it out. "Amanda, I notice everything about you."
The rest of the drive back is unbearable. The tension from the office—the near-collision, the moment we almost crossed a line—combines with this new awareness, creating something electric and dangerous.
The silence that follows is different now. Heavier. Weighted with acknowledgment—of what she did, of what I know she did, of the fact that neither of us is pretending anymore.
I shift in my seat, my cock hard against my zipper. I don't bother adjusting it. She can see the outline if she looks. Part of me wants her to. Part of me is counting down the minutes until we're back at the house and I can put distance between us before I do something I can't take back.
She's been researching me. She left her panties in my bathroom to fuck with me. She knows exactly what she's doing.
And I'm letting her do it.