Chapter 4
My reservation is for the only room left, and Rainey looks at me like she's deciding whether sharing a bed with me is more dangerous than whatever's hunting us in the dark.
The clerk at the Crossroads Motel is apologetic but firm. Convention in town, circuit riders flooding every cheap place within twenty miles, only room they've got is the one with the queen bed and questionable water pressure.
"It'll have to do," I say.
One bed. One bathroom. Nowhere to hide.
She drops her bag on the dresser and moves to the window, checking the locks. Her hands are steady, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. The van getting trashed shook her more than she's admitting.
"You don't have to stay here," I say. "I can find you somewhere else. Somewhere safer."
"And split up? Make it easier for them to pick us off one at a time?" She turns from the window. "We're safer together."
She's probably right. Doesn't make this any less complicated.
I set my bag down, pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Colt, two from my sister Kenna. I should call them back. Tell them I'm fine. Tell them not to worry.
Instead, I text Kenna:
All good. Talk soon.
She responds immediately:
You're lying. Call me.
I will. Tomorrow. Tonight, I don't have the energy to explain what I'm doing or why I'm doing it to someone who'll just try to talk me out of it.
Rainey's in the bathroom, water running. When she comes out, her face is scrubbed clean and her hair's down from the messy bun she always wears. Longer than I expected, falling past her shoulders in waves.
"There's only one towel," she says.
"I'll get more from the front desk."
"Don't bother. We'll manage."
We. Like this is normal. Like sharing a motel room with someone I barely know is something we do all the time.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pull off my boots. My ribs are aching from that last ride, the bruises blooming purple across my side. I lift my shirt to check the damage and hear Rainey's sharp intake of breath.
"That looks painful," she says.
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't make it better." She moves closer, and before I can stop her, she's running fingers along the edge of the bruising. Gentle. Clinical. "You should ice this."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're hurt and angry and throwing yourself at bulls like you're trying to join Tyler instead of avenge him."
Her words hit harder than any bull ever has. I grab her wrist, not rough but firm, and she freezes.
"Don't," I say quietly. "Don't psychoanalyze me. Don't tell me what I'm doing or why."
"Then tell me yourself." She doesn't pull away. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're on a suicide mission and taking me along for the ride."
"Nobody's making you stay."
"I know." Her eyes search mine. "But I am staying. So I need to know if you're in this to win or in this to die."
I should let go of her wrist. Should put space between us. Should remember that she's here because of Tyler, because of what we're trying to uncover, not because of whatever this is that's building between us.
But I don't let go. And neither does she.
"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe both."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I've got."
We're too close. I can see the freckles across her nose, the amber flecks in her eyes, the way her pulse jumps at her throat. She smells like coffee and photo chemicals and something underneath that's just her.
"Grant." Her voice has gone soft. Uncertain. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know that either."
"We should stop."
"Yeah."
The tension that's been building since yesterday snaps like a bull rope under too much strain.
All the fear and adrenaline and rage finding an outlet that's got nothing to do with Tyler or what we're chasing and everything to do with the fact that we're alive and standing too close and both of us are tired of being careful.
I release her wrist. Take a step back. "You should take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."
"Grant."
"What?"
She closes the distance I just created. "I don't want you to sleep on the floor."
The implication hits me like a fist to the chest. "Rainey. We can't."
"Why not?"
"Because this is complicated. Because we're neck-deep in figuring out who killed Tyler. Because getting involved is the worst possible idea for both of us."
"I know." Her hand comes up to my chest, palm flat over my heart. "But I also know someone just destroyed everything I own and told me I'm next if I don't back down. And right now, I don't want to be careful or smart or strategic. I just want to feel something other than afraid."
I should be the responsible one. Should tell her we're not doing this. Should remember that using each other to forget how scared we are is a terrible foundation for anything.
But I'm not feeling responsible. I'm feeling desperate. And angry. And so goddamn tired of pretending I'm fine when I'm not.
"Tell me to stop," I say.
"Make me."
That's all it takes.
I back her against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Just tilts her chin up and waits for me to close the distance.
When I kiss her, it's not gentle. Nothing about this is gentle. It's rough and desperate and claiming, my mouth on hers like I'm trying to prove something neither of us can articulate.
She kisses me back just as hard, hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. Her teeth catch my lower lip and I groan into her mouth.
"Grant." My name sounds different in her voice. Raw. Needy. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Stop thinking. Just. For five minutes. Stop thinking and make me forget everything except this."
I can do that.
I slide my hands under her shirt, find bare skin, and she arches into my touch. Her body's warm and soft and everything I shouldn't want but can't stop touching.
"Tell me no," I say against her mouth. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"Don't stop."
"Are you on anything?" I ask, because even now, even with everything falling apart, some things still matter.
"IUD." Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "You clean?"
"Yeah."
"Then stop asking questions."
I pull her shirt over her head, drop it on the floor. She does the same with mine, fingers tracing the bruises on my ribs like she's memorizing the damage. When her hands move to my belt, I catch her wrists.
"We're doing this my way," I tell her.
"Then do it."
I pin both her wrists above her head with one hand, flat against the wall. She tests the hold, not trying to escape, just measuring how serious I am. I tighten my grip, and her breath stutters.
I let go of her wrists long enough to reach behind her and unhook her bra, strip it down her arms, and toss it.
Before she can lower her hands, I pin them back above her head.
The whole thing takes three seconds. She tests the new hold, and I tighten my grip.
She's bare from the waist up, pinned against cheap motel wallpaper, and the sight of her like this, the rise and fall of her chest, the flush spreading down her throat, the way her nipples harden under my gaze before I've even touched her, makes my cock strain against my jeans so hard it hurts.
I lower my mouth to her neck. Taste salt and skin and the faint trace of whatever soap she used in the bathroom.
She tilts her head to give me more, and I take it, dragging my tongue down the line of her throat, across her collarbone, lower.
When I close my mouth over her nipple and suck hard enough to make her gasp, her hips roll forward against mine, searching for friction she's not going to get yet.
"Grant. Please."
"I said my way." I bite down, just enough to sting, and the sound she makes goes straight to the base of my spine. "My way means I decide when."
"You're killing me."
"That's the point."
I release her wrists long enough to strip her jeans down her legs.
She kicks them off, and I press her back against the wall, one thigh wedged between hers.
She's in cotton underwear, plain and practical, and the wet heat I feel through the fabric when she grinds against my leg nearly undoes every scrap of control I have left.
I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down. She steps out of them, completely bare now, and I drop to my knees.
"What are you—"
"Quiet."
I grip her thighs, spread them apart, and put my mouth on her.
She tastes like want and adrenaline and something sweet underneath, and the moan she lets out hits the walls of this room and comes back to me.
I pin her hips against the wall with my forearm because she's already trying to move, trying to ride my mouth, trying to take control. Not yet.
I work her with my tongue, slow and deliberate, learning what makes her shake and what makes her grab my hair so hard it stings.
She's loud. I like that. Every sound she makes is unfiltered and raw, nothing performed, nothing held back.
When I press two fingers inside her while my tongue circles her clit, her knees buckle and I have to hold her up.
"Grant, I can't. I'm going to—"
I pull back. She makes a sound of pure frustration that borders on fury.
"You son of a bitch."
"Not yet." I stand, unbuckle my belt, shove my jeans and boxers down. Her eyes drop and her lips part, and the hunger on her face feeds something dark and possessive in my chest. I grip myself, stroke once to take the edge off, and watch her watch me do it.
"Turn around," I say.
She hesitates. Just a beat. Weighing whether to obey or fight. Then she turns, palms flat against the wall, and looks at me over her shoulder with amber eyes that dare me to back down.
I press against her from behind, my chest to her back, one hand sliding around her hip to find where she's slick and swollen. She pushes back into me, and the head of my cock slides against her, not inside, not yet, just the wet friction of almost.
"Say you want this," I tell her, my mouth against her ear.