Page 69 of Double Bucked

It’s Claire.

One single, simple text that makes my heart damn near stop in my chest.

Need you. Now.

22

CLAIRE

Earlier.

There’s a deadly silence between us.

James and I don’t speak the entire way from Maeby’s Tavern to the Preacher Ranch. Harding seems to sense the tension—he doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t try to make small talk. We leave the bumpy roads, cross the tracks, and sail across smooth pavement until we get to the ranch.

It’s not until we’re inside, door closed, alone, that James finally tries to break the quiet.

“Claire—”

“I’m going to bed,” I announce. I shrug out of my shoes and quickly climb the stairs before he can get in a word edgewise.

It’s the day of my father’s funeral. I’m allowed to be a bitch.

I’m angry at James. I’m angry at Ransom. But most of all, I’m angry at him.

The one person I can never rage at. Ever again.

I cross the hall, enter the bedroom, and slip into the bathroom. I flip on the light and stare at myself in the mirror. I’ve fallen apart. I take myself down the rest of the way, plucking bobby pins from my head and arranging them on the sink.

The bedroom door creaks. I can hear James shuffling about. Even his presence annoys me.

I wash my face. I take my birth control. I remove cotton balls from my kit and start removing my makeup.

Be gone, Claire Preacher.

“You’re overreacting,” James says. He lingers in the bedroom—in case I turn into a dragon and start spitting fire, I suppose.

I scrub my face so hard it leaves little red marks. “You couldn’t have picked two worse words to piss me off.”

“Three.”

I shoot him a glare through the open door. He doesn’t express nearly enough remorse.

“I let you win one game of pool,” he continues. “One. On the day of your father’s funeral. Most people would consider that a mercy.”

I start fishing through my travel bag. “I don’t. I consider it a lie.”

“Claire—”

“Where’s my sleep mask?”

“Did you pack it?”

“Of course I fucking packed it. It was right here.”

Our suitcases are half-unpacked, lined up neatly beside the dresser. I tear apart my suitcase, hunting it. Then I grab James’s leather satchel that he used for a carry-on and rip into that.

“Let me,” he says. He grabs the strap and yanks it.

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