Page 15 of Burn the Wild

All the while, it felt like she had walked off and left me to die on that field.

Later, she found me in the locker room.

“I can’t, Ford.”

“You need time, I get it.”

I tried to touch her, but she stopped me. “I don’t need time.” Her pretty face screwed up. “I need someone else. Someone better. You’re—you’re white trash, Ford. You’re not here.” She held her hand to a spot below her heart. “It was supposed to be fun. Not forever.”

Fuck. That hurt.

It all fucking hurt.

It hit at once like a lightning strike. Everything clicked, though it was about three years too late. She wasn’t the one. Never once did she go home with me to Georgia. The way she’d micromanage every little thing I wore, especially when we went to one of her fucking parties. How she hated when I wasn’t with her but wasn’t happy when I was. The way we never had gooddays. They were either amazing or awful—so high or so fucking low. It was never good enough.

Iwas never good enough.

It was all a waste of time. A waste of my heart.

Love can’t be trusted because it’s never real. It’s all a bomb waiting to blow up.

After Savannah ended things, I was in a new stage of grief. The woman I loved left me. I felt everything closing in on me. The life I had worked so hard for—gone. I saidcheersto all my troubles. Too much alcohol. Too many pills. All I wanted was a warm body and a cold beer.

It was the end of the season, and we were in the World Series. I showed up to practice drunk and stoned but I was still pitching strikeouts.

But in the last game, I was off. In the second inning, I wound up, stumbled ten feet from the mound, and let that ball fly. In the wrong direction. Horrified, I watched it soar into the stands and—

“Fuck,” I yell.

Groaning, I scrape a hand down my face. My heart won’t quit slamming against my ribcage. I shake my head, clearing the memory. There’s no use going back.

I can’t change a damn thing.

That’s the fucking truth.

With that, I unhook my line and drop into oblivion.

Un-fucking-believable.

Gritting my teeth, I stare at the flat tire on my glittering blue ’67 Chevy pickup.

I pull out my phone and pace while I try to get a signal. Fucking figures, I get goddamn reception on the mountain, but in town, I’m shit out of luck.

When I see the time, I groan.

It was meant to be a quick two-hour climb, but without a doubt, I’ll be late.

Davis and Charlie are going to have my ass. Opening week is stressful as hell and we’re already short-staffed as it is. Which means I fucked up.

I take my job seriously. I let down the ranch, I let down the guests, I let down my brothers.

My phone chirps.

NO SIGNAL.

“Shit.”

I gotta get back. Now. If it means hitching a ride—so fucking be it.

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