Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She drives a fist into my ribs, and I bite down on my smile. She punches me again, and my dick jerks. Pissed off and worked up, with her eyes glaring and her arms swinging, she’s never been more insanely gorgeous.
It’s unreal being this close to her, smelling her and feeling the shape of her curves. My smile breaks free, and boy, does that make her hit harder. Which makes me harder.
Christ, I’m a sick son of a bitch.
“Jake.” Jarret grabs her keyring from the nightstand. “Focus.”
Right. I need to transfer her to the truck without touching her wrists, crowding her back, or drawing attention. To do that, I have to manipulate her.
A cruel lie expedited her departure from the ranch four years ago. The truth will bring her back home.
“Conor.”
She slaps and thrashes and scores my skin, wearing herself out.
“I lied.” My announcement makes her flinch.
Her eyes find mine, and she goes still, her nails digging into my arms.
“I lied about Ketchup.” With a hand over her mouth, I use the other to brush the hair from her face. “She’s alive, and I’m taking you to see her.”
Her expression twists against my fingers, devastation clashing with hope and hardening into pained fury.
“I’m sorry.” I pour every ounce of my regret into my eyes.
I regret the anguish I caused her, but I’m not sorry for the decisions I made. If I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing. I lost six years with her, but now we have a future. She’s alive because I broke her heart, and she’s going to stay alive while I put it back together.
“Are you going to scream?” I relax my fingers on her lips.
She shakes her head.
“Are you going to come with me without making a scene?” I lower my hand, freeing her voice.
“Why?”
It’s a loaded question. Why did I lie about Ketchup? Why does she have to come with me? Why am I sending her so many mixed signals?
“I have answers. Follow my lead, and you’ll get them.” I step back and hold out my hand.
She stares at my scarred palm and wraps her arms around her waist. “I won’t survive this.”
“You already have.”
Her gaze darts through the room, her shoulders tight and tendons standing out in her neck. I assume Jarret packed everything.
When her focus returns to me, it’s a slow, reluctant climb along my face before meeting my eyes.
“I’ll go.” She reaches back and grabs the door handle. “But I’m not holding your fucking hand.”
“After you.” I motion toward the door.
In the dark parking lot, I open the door of the truck for her and shut her inside.
Jarret approaches and slides her phone into my hand. “Good luck.”
With a pat on my back, he heads to the motel office with her travel bag. After he checks her out of the room, he’ll ride her motorcycle back to the ranch.
Step one finished. Ninety-nine thousand more to go.
As I pocket her phone and climb behind the wheel, the weight of the day catches up with me. Cattle herding, bookkeeping, trailing Conor since she arrived in town—all of it seeps into my weary muscles. It feels like bedtime, the stars bright against the velvet black sky, but it’s only nine o’clock. It’s going to be a long night.
Pulling onto the street, I drive in silence until I hit the first dirt road.
“Do you still play guitar?” I know the answer, but I need her to talk through it.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t have time for it.”
“When was the last time you played?”
“Chicago.”
“You miss it.”
She stares out the passenger side window, her voice a vault of hollow sound. “I don’t let myself miss it.”
I let that settle into the space between us. Then I push forward. “You never let yourself accept what happened in the ravine or with your dad in Chicago.”
“Stop looking for shit that isn’t there.” Her hand twitches on her thigh. “I’m not broken.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Then I don’t need to be fixed.”
“Didn’t say that, either.”
“What are you saying?” She cuts her eyes at me.
“Tell me what happened on your sixteenth birthday.”
I researched Prolonged Exposure therapy. The more she talks about her trauma, the less her memories will upset her.
“I was attacked.” Her voice is wooden. “We all were.”
“What happened to you, Conor?” I flex my fingers on the steering wheel. “Be specific.”
“You were there.” She turns back to the window. “No sense in rehashing it. It’s in the past.”
“No, it’s right here, in your triggers, in every aspect of your life. It’s haunting you relentlessly, because you refuse to stop for five fucking seconds and talk about it.” I take a calming breath and even my tone. “If you don’t confront it, you won’t defeat it.”
“I’m getting by just fine,” she says quietly.
“That’s right. You’re getting by.” I turn onto the next dirt road and slow the truck to a crawl. “The mind does a good job at protecting you from things you can’t handle. Sometimes, it’s too good. It represses memories and feelings, makes you believe you moved on. But those walls you’ve built to hold everything back? They’ll weaken. A hand on your wrist, a sip of alcohol, something will bring them down and let everything loose in one huge devastating flood.”