Page 41 of Burn the Wild

“Strutting those long legs up on stage ain’t a job, honey. Neither is bossing around the help or getting special treatment.”

She delivers a look forged in ice. “Are you always such an asshole?”

Impatience and anger get the best of me. “No, Reese, I’m not. Do you want to know why I’m an asshole? Because you’re a brat. Because I don’t want to be babysitting your spoiled ass the entire summer. I don’t want to miss out on fishing and baseball because guess what? Those are two things I really fucking love. I sure as hell don’t want you to stress out my brothers because they have enough on their fucking plates at the moment. In fact, the last thing I want to do is spend time with a spoiled, pampered, pain-in-the-ass princess.”

She stares at me, her lower lip trembling.

I cross my arms. “C’mon, scream and shout, blondie.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she picks herself up, dusts her hands on the stomach of her glittery dress, and in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard says, “I hate you.”

She grabs her empty coffee cup like she’s fully prepared to lob it in my face and then stares into the dregs. A tear slips down her face.

Without another word, Reese turns, and walks toward the chalet, shoeless.

A muscle jerks in my jaw.

Fallon socks me in the arm. “Youare an asshole, Ford.” Another punch so hard I rock back on my boots. “Seriously, gofuck yourself and your high horse.” With venom in her eyes, she flips me off and storms for the ring.

The disappointed look Wyatt gives me scalds. “I don’t know, Ford. This ain’t you, man.”

It’s not. I think of the text burning a hole in my back pocket.

I glance toward the barn.

The concrete floor is bare and clean, every blade of hay stacked perfectly in the loft.

I couldn’t even do it better.

An ache twists in my gut. I tear a hand through my hair. “Fuck.”

I am an asshole.

My cowboy babysitter hates me.

Ford Montgomery thinks I’m an immature, spoiled brat.

Not even the shower has rejuvenated me. I can still feel the iced coffee all over my lap. The sharp scratch of hay. Hear the whinny of those damn horses. Even though I was scared to death being around them, I stuck it out. I didn’t run.

I slip on a robe, tousle my wet hair, and slam back a sugar-free energy drink. My measly purchases from The Corner Store all sit on the kitchen counter. The carbonated liquid settles heavy in my belly. I need something electric in my system, otherwise, I’ll just crash-land somewhere sad.

I hate it here. Hate Ford Montgomery and his sharp stinging words.

The last thing I want to do is spend time with a spoiled, pampered, pain-in-the-ass princess.

Most of all, I hate that he’s right. I don’t even want to spend my day with me. I tried hard today. I shoveled that fucking hay. But it wasn’t good enough. I never am.

To everyone who knows me, all I am is some shallow pop princess with a fake twang.

Every awful emotion crashes into me. How did I think I could do this? Heal? Be a better person? Because I can’t.

I stare at my face in the mirror. My hair is curled beyond reason and for a second, I’m six years old, singing “Delta Dawn.” My mother is clapping along, my father handing me sheet music to my favorite song. Back when I felt like I could do anything. Especially survive.

I pace the chalet, stopping at a window to open the blinds. Though it’s 9 p.m., the sun has barely set. It’s like it wants to stay up as long as it can. Briefly, my mind lights on the lake I haven’t yet seen, but it’s not what I want.

Two sides to every coin. And that’s how I feel. Halved. A walking contradiction. Old Reese wants to go out and disobey. Dance on bars and drink whiskey. Do anything I want, anytime I want. Room service at 3 a.m. An impromptu flight to Paris.

This Reese, Ranch Reese, New Leaf Reese, should stay here. I’m in hiding, right? I should be a good girl. Sober up. Stay sane. Recharge. Re-live.

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