Chapter 3
Henley
“Yeah, and I’m always the errand boy,” I grumbled as I shoved the new round feeder into the horse trailer.
“Not my horse that broke it. Again.” Austin’s voice floated up from the speaker, my phone lying on the rubber mat of the trailer.
“Not the fucking point.” I shook my hand out, pinching my pinky between two fingers. It was definitely sore, but I didn’t think I’d broken it. These round feeders were a pain in the ass, and for probably the millionth time in my life, I’d pinched my damn finger in one.
“What crawled up your ass, Hen?” Austin asked.
“A ‘hey, you doing okay?’ would also suffice,” I muttered, slipping my glove off to inspect it for bruising.
A sigh filtered into the phone. “Is something going on? Do I need to talk to Booker?”
“Oh, yes. Please, run to daddy dearest.” Austin would likely melt at the seams if it weren’t for that man.
“He’d love to hear you call him that,” he joked dryly.
I looked at the door to the trailer, wondering how hard I’d have to hit it to knock myself out and end this conversation.
The only reason I’d called him was because they had me not only rectifying my horse’s mistake, but driving to three different stores for random bullshit they could easily grab on their own.
They were too damn busy with their girlfriends to drive over to the nearest town.
I’d say good for them, but too frequently, I took the fucking fall for it.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, ignoring his sarcastic remark.
And everything was fine. You know, aside from listening to Booker and Brynne fuck all night long, the girls’ lives being threatened, being shot at, my best friends using sex as a fucking punishment for me losing the deed to the ranch a few months ago—they'd taunted me by sleeping with Brynne while I watched, and I was proud of only giving in the one time.
.. The list could go on for miles, really.
But sure. Everything was fine. That was easier.
“You sound like McKenna before she’s eaten breakfast.”
I’d make some joke about him dating the girl version of me, but I didn’t have the energy to continue this.
“I gotta go.”
Before he could squeeze another word in, I ended the call. The crisp twelve-degree weather had me flexing my fingers, my muscles quickly going stiff. I slid my glove back on, closed the door, and double-checked everything.
God forbid the hitch have an issue and I lose the trailer on the highway. I’d never hear the end of it.
I jostled the side door, making sure it was securely latched, then shoved my hands in my pockets as I kicked each tire. It wasn’t necessary—I was simply trying to kill time.
As my boot tapped the last tire, a pop cracked through the air. At the same moment, air whizzed past me. Something ripped through the trailer mere inches from my hat. I paused my movements, turning only my head to glance at the bullet-sized hole in the metal.
Narrowing my eyes, I looked into the hole, finding it’d gone all the way through the other side.
“What the fuck?”
A smart person would move. They’d run into the store, or get in the truck, and hide.
And I was smart. I simply wasn’t afraid of death.
With my hands still stuffed in my pockets, I took in my surroundings. A thick forest bordered the parking lot, making visibility scarce. Whoever was out there had a perfect shot on me, so I waited, hoping the sun might glint off something to give away their location.
When nothing but silence and serenity greeted me, I sighed. At this point, if murder was their intent, they would’ve taken the shot again. Yet I stood here with not a scratch on me.
My trailer, however, had taken the hit.
I ran a gloved thumb over the hole, cursing. Both sides would inevitably fucking rust.
Moving to the forest on the opposite side of the trailer, I scanned the ground, trying to imagine the bullet’s path.
I walked for a long fucking time, searching for a needle in a haystack.
All the while, I could feel eyes on me. They didn’t seem threatening, though, which only confused me.
Why shoot at a man if you weren’t going to try again?
Finally, I spotted the round. I bent to scoop it up, inspecting the bullet. Of course, it was a common caliber, which told me absolutely nothing.
I pocketed it, then made the trek back to my truck, debating if I should even tell the guys. Inevitably, they’d see the bullet hole in the trailer, so hiding it was futile.
As I got behind the wheel, I could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.
For the third time in the span of a few months, someone was trying to fucking kill us. Or maybe only me this time.
Either way, I was getting real tired of this shit.
“And you didn’t think to search the woods where the bullet came from?” Austin snapped.
So quick to judge when he wasn’t the one who’d just been shot at.
“You had your gun with you,” Booker said, his voice a low rumble. “You could have tried to—”
“Do I ever do anything right in your eyes?” I interrupted, looking between the two of them standing opposite me in the home office. Booker’s desk separated us, making this feel more like an interrogation than a friend-to-friend conversation.
The irritation on Austin’s face only deepened, and Booker ran a hand over his jaw.
“What the fuck is happening to us?” I asked. “Months ago, we were inseparable. Always together. Doing whatever the fuck we wanted, so long as the ranch was afloat. Now we’re fighting all the damn time, and the target is always on me.”
Austin’s brows shot up. “On you?” His hands clenched into fists, the veins in his arms bulging. “My girlfriend was kidnapped”—he shot a hand in Booker’s direction—“and Brynne was kidnapped. But the target is on you?”
My head fell, eyes focusing on my boots as I tried to rein in the urge to let all my bottled feelings loose.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” I said carefully, more quietly now.
Booker’s focus on me was heavy—it always was—and Austin crossed his arms over his chest. Lately, it felt like there was a divide between us.
I wasn’t sure if it was because I was the only one still single, or because the two of them thought they were better than me ever since I regrettably lost the deed to this ranch—and got it back, might I add—but I was growing fucking sick of it.
“Keep the bullet. I’m leaving.” I turned on my heel, heading toward the door.
Austin grumbled something about it being a shitty present while Booker spoke up. “Henley, wait.”
I paused at the exit, not bothering to face them.
“We know what it’s like for you to feel like your life is in danger,” he started.
I swung around, unable to stop myself. “Do you? Because it sounds to me like it was your girlfriends who had hits on their heads, not you.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed while Booker visibly fought the same reaction.
Personally, I liked Brynne and McKenna. There was nothing wrong with them—aside from McKenna holding a grudge against me. But I didn’t wish either of them dead.
Booker seemed to realize this conversation would go nowhere, because instead of the we’ll fix this, we protect each other bullshit he was about to pile on me, he said, “Just…watch your back, okay?”
My lips rolled into a thin line before I left the room without another word.
If I’d opened my mouth, all that would’ve come out was, No, Booker, I actually don’t give a shit if whoever is trying to kill me is successful, so I won’t be watching my back.
Then he would’ve pulled his typical broody attitude, and they would’ve pretended they cared.
The two of them had been my best friends for as long as I could remember.
They’d pulled me out of a dark fucking time, saving me from a world I almost died in.
But because of this shift in our dynamic, I was struggling.
Things felt lost, and without them, I didn’t think I could find a way to do… well, anything.
Call me dramatic, but when you found yourself digging your own grave for the sake of appeasing your fucked-up father, you kind of lost the will to look on the bright side of things.
Maybe history was about to repeat itself, and I’d form some sort of fucked-up relationship with my attempted murderer.
A breathy laugh left me as I climbed the stairs to my room, understanding that any normal person wouldn’t react this way to someone trying to kill them.
I hadn’t been normal for a long time, though. I did stupid shit, like betting the place I called home in some faux show of confidence, even knowing I lost almost every time I gambled.
It wasn’t because I sucked at it. It was more like exposure therapy, if it could be called that. I lived a childhood of appeasing a fucked-up man, and any failure was punished. So I purposefully squandered nearly every game to make myself immune to the feeling of not doing the very best.
It took a long time to stop slicing the blade of my knife through my skin—something my father did to me when I didn’t meet his standards. But I finally did, and now I didn’t care if I failed or won.
I covered that up by feigning stupidity when it came to gambling. If the guys knew I was well aware of what I was doing, and the consequences that came along with it, they’d ship me off to a goddamn mental institution.
Thing was, I was completely sane.
I simply had a fucked-up way of showing it.