Page 22 of Wild Horses

War’s hands rise to my hips, squeezing as I rock against him. “The rest of my list is tied to today. But honestly, you don’t seem like you want to talk anymore.”

I stroke his cheek, and in the flickering glow of the neon signs outside our window, I drink him in. Softening my voice, I say, “I’m a pretty good listener, War. I also happen to be awonderful distraction. The question is, which do you need more?”

Crunching up, he snags my lips with his. “Talk later. Distraction now.”

Blackness seeps into the room. The creeping dark that precedes the dawn.This is it, Laramie. You should go. You’ve stayed too long as it is.

I blink back the burning in my eyes. I don’t want to go. I want to stay. Here. In Mel and Dolores’ crappy little motel. In a too-small bed. With a man I hardly know but long to.

War is out cold beside me, his soft breathing an arresting contrast to his hard body. The warm weight of his arm around my waist is an anchor, but it isn’t drowning me. No, it’s simply mooring me. Keeping me steady.

But steady has never been my goal. And War, with his business suits and fancy Dallas life, doesn’t fit into the foolhardy future I’m chasing.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I carefully lift his arm. Once I’m out of his hold, I take one last look. One last chance to capture him in my memories. Placing a kiss on his forehead, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Then, I run.

CHAPTER EIGHT

war

Trail Creek, New Mexico

March

I plop down next to my sister, where she sits with Bond—her fiancé—his sister Charli, and their friends, Griff and Dane. I’m not exactly feeling social, but meeting up at The Bee and The Bean, the local bakery and coffee shop Bond’s other sister, Clairy, owns has become part of my new normal.

With bloodshot and bleary eyes, I study my pecan coffee as if the delicious dark roast can give me the answers I’m searching for. My phone vibrates in my pocket again. I already know who it is—and who it isn’t—and it’s no one I want to talk to.

“War?” My name registers, but only barely. “Earth to War!” This time, Tuesday snaps, her voice cutting through last night’s bourbon fog.

I grin despite her scolding. I love that she’s growing comfortable enough to yell at me. “Sorry, what?”

“Have you thought any more about Bond’s offer to come onpermanently at Davis Designs?” The man in question kisses the top of her head.

The bell above the door tinkles as another patron enters the busy shop. “No.” I drain my coffee, hoping the caffeine will kick in sooner if I drink it fast enough.

“Care to elaborate?” She gives me an expectant look.

Shrugging, I say, “I’m enjoying the day-to-day work, and I appreciate you offering, but construction isn’t my future.”

“Davis Designs isn’t Phillips Construction.” She says it gently, as if mentioning our father’s company will send me into a spiral. The single buzz of an incoming text is the more likely culprit of any potential meltdowns, though.

I slide the phone out and glance at the lock screen.

Warren Phillips

It’s been three months. You made your point. Now stop being a disappointment and…

The message preview cuts off there, but it’s more of the same. Another not-so-subtle demand I return to Dallas. Return to myrightfulplace at PC.

Clenching my hands around my mug, I mutter, “Fuck that.”

Every head at the table swivels, staring me down.

“Shit, I, uh, I mean, I know.” Sighing, I lower my shoulders away from my ears and loosen my jaw. Tuesday doesn’t know about the constant calls or messages.

Because you’re keeping it from her.The annoyingly perceptive voice is right. I am keeping it from her. Not telling her is easy to justify with the rapid escalation of contact. Tuesday is happy here. The last thing she needs is to hear how Mommy and Daddy Dearest are attempting to stack the blame for my dissension on her.

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