15
(Garrett)
The first time I shot a compound bow was on my thirteenth birthday. It was a present from my dad that I’d worn him down about for months before that. In the ten-plus years since then, I’ve been through five different bows, learned how to fletch my own arrows, and worked hard to become a consistent shot at seventy yards. I’ve put in some time. Long gone should be the days when I was plagued by beginner’s mistakes.
Mistakes like gripping the bow too tightly when I draw back, which means the bow will tip when the arrow flies and send it off course. Or punching the release instead of squeezing it, and rushing the entire shot. And forget follow-through. Because today, I’ve lifted my head too many times to count.
Chuck Adams, I’m not. Cameron Hanes? Nope. And Donnie Vincent’s rep is safe from the likes of me. For those who don’t know or care who those guys are . . . Katniss Everdeen could outshoot me right now with a blindfold on and President Snow breathing down her neck.
My latest arrow flings forward, headed toward the foam block target set up behind Braden’s garage. It wobbles its way there and sinks into the upper right-hand corner, a good ten inches from the bull’s-eye.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I let my arm drop heavily, my bow swinging loosely along the way.
Except for the jangle of Charley’s dog collar, it’s quiet from behind me. Even Braden gave up on the insults and commentaries about half an hour ago, which says a lot.
I could blame this pathetic display on a few different things. The low light of approaching dusk, my bow, or a bout of bad luck. Maybe my bum shoulder is the culprit, tweaked out of place yesterday after loading a pallet full of mineral bags into Kenny Euland’s truck.
But let’s be honest. The problem is me. A guy who’s been in a bad mood since a certain city girl booted his ass to the curb.
“Just put the bow down; you’re depressing me.” Braden shuffles toward the house. “I’ll meet you out front with beer. Pet the dog. She’s good for this sort of thing.”
When I hear the back door slam shut behind him, I whistle for Charley to follow me around the side of the house and onto the front porch, where a pair of log-hewn Adirondack chairs are set up. Braden lives outside of town near one of the area’s mesas, in a cabin on a decent-sized plot of land covered in rocky outcroppings and scrub brush. The place suits him: a little rough and unwelcoming, but when you’re here it’s still a nice place to be. The late-afternoon sky is darkening, a swath of gold slowly disappearing into the far horizon.
Almost immediately after I flop into a chair, Charley finds a spot next to me and starts to nudge my hand with her muzzle. I give her a neck scratch and do the same to my own, a prickle of unease itching the hairline where my ball cap meets my skull. A six-pack of Coors Light, short by one, lands on the tree-stump side table between the Adirondack chairs, followed by a big bowl of the homemade snack mix that Braden makes to keep us from ingesting too many of the cancer-causing additives he’s always soap-boxing about. He drops onto the other chair and kicks his legs out, tugging his wool knit cap down lower on his head before taking a long pull of his beer. I snag my own and crack it open, stare at the foam that seeps up.
“Let’s just do this. I’ll ask you once what’s wrong and you can either share your feelings or tell me to drop it and we can talk about something else.” I lean my head against the back of the chair and wait. “Cara?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“You guys hooked up?”
“Yup.”
He takes another drink and sticks his hand into the bowl, scooping up a handful of the mix.
“Seems you should be a hell of a lot less pissed off, then. A good lay is usually a salve for the mood. Instead, it’s like you’re doing an impression of . . . well, fuck . . . me.”
I try to tamp down the fit of emotions that rise up, breathing deep before I answer.
“First off, she isn’t a good lay. Don’t talk about her like that. Second, my mood was fine—goddam great—between the time we got together and the time she ended it four days ago. Third, that’s all I want to say about it. Thank you for your interest, Dr. Phil, but I’m done sharing now.”
To Braden’s credit, and true to his general personality, he drops it as promised. Charley nudges my hand again, setting her head on my thigh. At least there’s one female who wants my attention. She gives up a little purring dog grunt when I rub behind her ears, and a little drool falls from her jaw onto my pant leg. Apparently, I’m a dog whisperer. If only I could manage something similar with Cara.
And the Cara situation was about more than the sex. I hated losing that, for sure—my dick was especially down in the mouth about that part. But even worse, I was losing out on more time with her. To top it all off, I was losing both things—the sex, and the time—because she had better, bigger things to do. She was working toward something more in her life, big dreams and real change. I was just the country fuck in a tiny town who had nothing going on. Today is the same as yesterday, the same as it will be when Cara leaves, and the same again ten years from now. Until she arrived in town and reminded me how good it was to have something to look forward to, I was fine with that. Now I was gnashing my teeth on envy and disappointment—at her and myself. A fucking terrible combination.
Braden drains his beer and gives the can a single crush, then launches it off the porch and straight into the bed of my pickup. Dick move, and he sinks it.
He grabs another. “Allow me to distract you with my own tale of shit, then.” The tab cracks and hisses. “Amber Regan’s producer called me earlier this week, wanted to talk strategy with me. And let me tell you, I should get a medal of compassion or something, because I did not once hang up on her. Even when she spent ten minutes using words like ‘recapitulate’ and ‘brand identity.’ ”
I laugh—only a short chuckle, but it’s nice to laugh about something for the first time in days. Braden presses on.
“Then she’s like, ‘Do you want me to send you a reel?’ And I’m thinking she’s talking about a fishing reel. Like some promo freebie they probably have boxes of, from being in bed with whatever company. So, I tell her, ‘Sure, send it over.’ I figure we can use it in the kids’ fishing derby or some shit.”
I finish my own beer and attempt the same toss as he did earlier. I overshoot it, consistent with today’s track record, but the upside is that it hits the bedside of Braden’s truck. Braden doesn’t comment, only continues with his story.
“Yesterday, this package shows up and it’s not a fishing reel. It’s a highlight reel. Two hours of Amber Regan grand-slamming her way through multiple continents. Two. Fucking. Hours.” His jaw is tight, flexing under what seems to be a tremendous amount of pressure, even for him.
“And? What did you think?”
Braden lets out a resigned sigh, shakes his head but doesn’t look at me.
“Unless she’s a damn good actress or they employ an award-winning editing staff, she seems to know what she’s doing. Definitely not what I figured she’d be. I mean, as dick sexist as it sounds, I figured you can’t look like that and be able to hold your own in the field. Didn’t seem possible.”
The way his face looks right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s thinking something sexist about Amber Regan right this second. Sexist and wrong, in a hundred different ways. I consider rattling his cage about it, but before I can, my phone buzzes with a text. I slip one hand to the inside pocket of my coat and fish it out.
Cara’s name lights up the screen, and inside my chest, things go tight as I swipe over the face to open it.
Sorry to bug you. Power is out again. I tried the breaker, but it didn’t work. Any other tips you could give me? If not, it’s fine, I’ll call an electrician in the morning.
The tightness in my chest ratchets up again because there are too many things wrong with this text.
a) She isn’t bugging me. She never could, no matter what.
b) I have more than a tip for her.
c) I do not think it’s fine for her to be over there without power.
d) She’s not calling an electrician in the morning. I’m going over there tonight.
When I look up from the phone face, I don’t even have to make my own excuse to bail. Braden raises a brow.
“That her?”
I nod. Braden looks at me solemnly and waves toward my truck, giving me his blessing. “Go. Turkey season starts in three weeks. You need to be able to hit something by then.”
Well, that’s interesting.
When I come to a stop in front of the farmhouse, the porch light is on. Same goes for the living room, where the lights are shining bright through the opened curtains. As I pulled up, I saw that the lone kitchen window visible from the side of the house was lit up, too.
Living room, kitchen, and front porch—all currently honoring Thomas Edison with their electrical functionality. I shut off the truck and peer toward the house again, doing my best to fight the anticipation I know I shouldn’t let take hold. The fact the lights are on does not necessarily mean that Cara realized ending this was a bad idea. Maybe the breaker came through right after she sent that text. Maybe someone else came over to help in the meantime.
The cornucopia of light currently shining throughout the house definitely does not mean I should assume that Cara brought me here on a ruse because she misses me. Or wants me.
Because if I did entertain that idea, then I might also indulge the fantasy that she’ll be waiting for me dressed in nothing but the little plaid shirt of hers that I’m a big fan of. Completely unbuttoned, with only a few inches of skin between her breasts exposed at first, showing off the flat of her belly and the trimmed strip below. She’ll slip off the shirt and let it drop to the floor so I’m finally able to see her completely bare. Then she’ll apologize for putting us both through the last few days away from each other, but I’ll tell her she doesn’t need to apologize—that being with her again is enough. Since this a fantasy, what happens next should be obvious. A blow job. Sloppy and enthusiastic, with the perfect play between her hands and her mouth.
But this is reality. I’m sure there’s a much less interesting reason for what’s going on here, so it’s best to kill my growing erection now, instead of getting everyone’s hopes up.
I knock on the door and only have to wait a few seconds before the door creaks open slowly. Cara peers out from the small space she’s allowed the door to open, looking uncomfortable. I raise my brows and lift one arm up, raising my forearm to rest against the doorjamb. Cara sighs and opens the door the rest of the way.
And that fantasy I concocted? We’re halfway there, with a few extras thrown in. Plaid shirt, the first few buttons undone, enough to remind me what her black lace bra looked like underneath it a few days ago. Her gorgeous legs are clad only in a pair of those tiny workout shorts, nearly covered by the shirt, so it almost looks as if she’s not wearing anything. Better yet, she’s wearing her glasses and her hair is a tumbled mess of slightly damp waves, smelling sweet and clean.
As expected, this means I want to dirty her up. Dirty her up so much that she won’t be able wash all my dirty off of her for days. Unfortunately, her expression does not say she wants to be dirtied up.
I tilt my head and look over her shoulder, straight into the house. In the background, I can hear the echo of that opera music she likes.
“Things look plenty bright around here. I know you claim you’re good with words and any texts you’d send me would be clear as a bell, but maybe I’m a moron. Did I misunderstand what you meant by ‘the power is out’?”
Cara flops her face into her hands. “No,” she groans. “The power was out. But I didn’t hear back from you, so I went out there and tried again. After a couple more tries, it worked.”
“You know, you could have just called me and let me know you changed your mind. No need for all this.”
Cara crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s not what’s happening here. I would have texted you again to say not to bother, but you never replied to the first one. I figured you were mad and ignoring my text was your way of telling me to back off.”
Shit. I was too busy trying decipher why she was reaching out and crafting my own personal porn starring Cara to remember to text back, and the drive from Braden’s isn’t exactly five minutes away, even with how I was driving. I drop my forearm from the doorjamb and shove my hands in my pockets.
“Sorry. I was at Braden’s, and the drive takes a while. When I got your text, I just bailed, completely spaced on letting you know I was headed over. My bad.”
“Oh.” Her features start to soften and she lowers her arms from crossing her chest. “I’m sorry for screwing up your night with Braden.”
I let out a snort. “My night with Braden? You make it sound like we were halfway through our favorite chick flick and sharing a pint of Chunky Monkey.” Cara’s lips twitch. “How about I double-check the breaker box? Make sure everything looks good.”
Cara steps back for me to come inside, peering down at her bare feet, and my gaze follows hers. Her toenails are painted neon pink—the last color I would have guessed. The surprise shot of color there is like another taste of who she is, and with each one I want more. So many things I could discover about this woman if I had the time, or her permission. Already I know that she’s a million different bits of fascinating—and I’d give anything to know all of them.
We walk through the entryway and dining room, passing by the spot where I had her pressed against the wall and sank inside her only a few days ago, even though it feels like a lifetime. In the kitchen there’s a box of microwave popcorn sitting on the counter next to a tub of butter and a small shaker jar of spice mix. An unopened bottle of wine sits behind them.
Cara waits inside while I head out to check the breaker box. A quick inspection reveals nothing out of the ordinary, like a half-melted paddle or scorched metal. I slam the cover shut and walk back inside, where Cara’s waiting next to the microwave, her index finger poised to press the start button.
“Can I use this now?”
“Go for it. Everything looks fine out there.” I point toward the countertop. “Popcorn and wine for dinner? Your night looks only a touch classier than what Braden was serving: Coors Light and his special Chex Mix.”
She turns on her heel and leans back against the countertop edge, setting one foot on top of the other.
“Oh, yes. I had a very classy night planned. Binge-watching Real Housewives, while eating popcorn and drinking red wine. Now that I have power, the popcorn and TV are a go, but the wine is still a problem. I didn’t think to bring a corkscrew with me, and there isn’t one stashed in any of these drawers.”
I grab the bottle and inspect the top. Setting it aside, I dig out my multitool from my pocket, cut the foil with the small penknife, then flip out the tiny corkscrew attachment. Cara gasps and I cut a glance her direction to find her entire face lit up. A few turns and a pull, and the cork pops free. Cara claps like I just did something way more dramatic than opening her wine. I extend the bottle her way.
“A change of clothes in your truck and a magical corkscrew in your pocket. Is there any situation you aren’t prepared for?”
I leave the magical corkscrew comment alone.
“Redneck shenanigans, I told you. We’re like Boy Scouts with beer and camo. Geared up for anything.”
She grabs a drinking glass out of the cupboard, then cuts a look my way from over her shoulder. “Do you want some?”
Maybe it’s the light in here or my mind is simply playing tricks on me, but I’m convinced there’s a flare of anticipation in her eyes. But as much as my dick likes the idea that there might be an opening for more here, the rest of me isn’t quite on board. It’s only been a few days since she made it clear that she has bigger, more important things to do with her time other than me, so I’d be an idiot if I stayed without bothering to figure out why she’s asking.
Cara pauses before reaching for another glass, turning awkwardly to face me with her back pressed to the countertop edge. Wrong as it might be, watching her squirm a little under the weight of my steady gaze and silence isn’t all bad from my viewpoint.
“Depends.” I give her a slow once-over, just to draw out the moment. “Are you offering just to be polite? If that’s what this is, don’t bother.”
Cara lets out a jaded snort and looks away for a split second before setting her glass down, then puts her hands to either side of the counter edge, taking a stance that somehow looks both casual and confrontational.
“I think we’re well past polite, don’t you think?” She returns the once-over I just gave her. “I asked because I thought it would be nice if you didn’t take off right away. I asked because I’ve really missed seeing you—a lot—enough that the power going out gave me a legitimate excuse to text you, one that didn’t involve chutney or jam. I asked because as much as I know it might not be the best idea, I want you to stay. So no, this isn’t about my good manners. But that means you don’t have to stay just to be polite, either.”
Even though I have no clue what chutney or jam has to do with anything, my heart starts to bump around in my chest, an unsteady hammering beat to match the way I want to stalk over there and give us both what we want, while reminding myself to stay clear of exactly that. What tonight is, I’m not sure yet. But I’m damn sure that I’d like to stay and find out.
“Good. Then I also don’t have to pretend that I like wine.” I sling my ball cap and coat off, tossing them on the counter. We lock eyes, both of us giving in to relaxed grins. “I have some beer in the truck.”
She gives up a soft laugh. “You have beer in the truck? Just randomly?”
“Not random. I keep a few stowed in my truck bed toolbox. Were you not listening earlier? Boy Scouts. With beer.” I point to my coat. “And camo.”
The microwave dings as I head toward the front door, hoping to hell she doesn’t decide to lock the door behind me.