Page 68 of Double Bucked

I slip my hand in hers. She laces her fingers in mine.

“I know,” I tell her.

We lie there, kissing and touching, until the stars fall out of the sky.

21

RANSOM

Now.

Maeby drops me off at the Preacher estate.

The crickets chirp. It’s a clear night. Lots of moonlight for me to walk in as I pass the entrance. I glance down the tunnel of thick hedges, down the gravel walkway that leads to the Preacher house. There are lights on. Strange to know Claire and James are in there, and Mr. Preacher isn’t. I walk past it, through the groomed lawn and into the tall grass.

My trailer is a metal junkyard thing that’s tucked away in the woods on the fringe of the Preacher property. It’s mostly hidden except at strange hours when the sun hits it through the trees just right and makes the whole thing shine.

My trailer ain’t much, but it’s mine. That counts for something. It feels good to be home.

I need to cry. Or jerk off. Maybe both. At the same time.

You’re a damn mess, Ransom.

I hear the rustle of fallen leaves. My bones go stiff, until I see the culprit.

“Dammit, Chaucer, you scared the hell out of me.”

He sneezes and flicks his ears.

He escapes. All the time. Can’t figure out how the hell he’s getting out. Even if I knew, I’m not sure I’d stop it up. He always comes back.

He wanders half a mile up the hills, into the Dagney estate. They’ve got some weeds growing he can’t get enough of, I guess. He eats his fill, and then he ambles back down.

That’s how Jade and I first started hooking up. She returned the horse after she found him messing around behind her house.

Better not to think about that now.

“C’mon.” I guide Chaucer back to his stable.

He’s restless when we get inside, though. I take the brush and run it over his neck.

“Rough night?” I ask him.

He huffs.

“Yeah, me too.”

But as I run the brush over him, each swipe calms me. I feel myself start to shed the weirdness of the day. Mr. Preacher in that closed coffin. The unbridled rage James unleashed inside of me. Claire. The agony of Claire. Of being so close and being unable to comfort her. Hold her. Love her.

Barred from loving her. Yeah. That’s the worst of it.

I can’t tell her, so I pet Chaucer’s velvet-soft snout. I drop my forehead to his neck. His hair is soft against my cheek.

“Love you, old boy,” I mumble. He nuzzles my shoulder affectionately.

God bless these pain-in-the-ass horses.

My phone buzzes. When I lift it out of my pocket, all my blood freezes up in my veins.

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