Page 70 of Peaches

But I find the strength to shake my head and move toward the bike. “No, Rhett.Stop.”

And I don’t have to look at him to know exactly the way it lands, that safe word he’s always made sure I know I can grasp hold of.

I pull the helmet over my head and wait for him to do the same. He moves painfully slow, like he knows this is all wrong, but he doesn’t say a word as he gets on the bike. It roars to life beneath him before I get on and he slowly points us home.

The engine rumbles through the soles of my sneakers as he opens the throttle down the long empty road, sending shockwaves of heady awareness up the length of my legs and thighs as I keep a careful but distant arm around him. I’m thankful for the helmet as it hides the tears that freely stream down my face, and I wonder if this might be the last ride he gives me.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

RHETT

Isteer my motorcycle down the worn and beaten drive that leads through Rustler Ranch, white-knuckling the handlebars as I try to avoid fishtailing along the soft gravel. I wore my dark-visored helmet tonight even though it makes it hard to see the ground in front of me—it’ll give me the chance to take in the scene when I pull up to the game before anyone spots me.

The old cattle barn appears in the distance, the silhouette of the steep slope of the roof cutting through the warm colors of the dusky sky. The building looks even worser for wear than the last time I was here. The Rustlers built a handful of new cattle barns decades ago, and instead of tearing this old one down, they use it as headquarters for their side-hustle.

My phone buzzes against my ribs from the inside pocket of my jacket, but I ignore it for now as I canvas the half-dozen cars already parked in front of the game barn. There’s a white sedan and a gray SUV I don’t recognize and an old silver truck and a newer black one that I do, but it’s the classic orange coupe that catches my attention. I’d know that fucking car anywhere, unmistakable with the parallel black racing stripes that span from hood to rear.

Mean-Eyed Maverick.

My stomach rolls at the thought of Ellis allowing that hellion back into a game after what happened last time, when his fucking brother was stabbed at the table. For Christ’s sake—I’m shocked Colt would allow it after it took over a month before the hospital would even release him back home.

Fucking Rustlers.

Batshit crazy family with no regard for their own mortality. For as much trouble as my family has gotten into over the years, we don’t hold a candle to the shit these boys are involved in.

I ease my bike to a stop at the far edge of the narrow dirt lot and push down the kickstand with my boot. Yanking a glove off with my teeth, I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out my phone. When I see Olivia’s name across the screen, everything we said to each other last night comes racing back.

Fuck.

A volatile mix of panic and guilt slices through me as I fumble and almost drop my phone. I’m met with the sudden desire to turn this bike around and drive straight to her, leaving this stupid game in the dust where it belongs. The truth is, even though I gave my word to Colt, even though I need this money if we have a real shot at keeping the ranch, walking through those barn doors is the last thing I want to do. I’ve never cared a whole lot about myself or the trouble I get into, but something’s been shifting inside of me, something tired and aching for respite.

I look toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the burst of colors it’s leaving behind. My guilt turns sour, like acid. I told Olivia I’d be there for her, a soft space for her to land, and I’ve fucked it all up. Serves us both right I guess, for ever believing I could handle something as important as her.

Shoving the phone in my pocket, I stand from the bike and pull off my helmet before marching toward the barn, an uncomfortable fire igniting in my veins. It’s a familiar call of the wild, a temptation to tear everything around me to the fucking ground. The pang of knowing I’m letting everyone down—lettingOliviadown—settles in my stomach, because there’s a very real possibility that this goes sideways.

Good, I think.

Maybe she’ll finally understand why I’m no good for her.

The thought chafes. Before I know it, I’m turning on my heel and hustling back toward my bike, fishing my phone back out of my goddamn jacket.

She answers on the first ring. “Rhett,” she says, her voice warm but tentative, like the first morning of spring. “I’m sorry I called . . . I just—I hate how things went last night, and I was hoping we could try again.”

This girl . . . this perfect girl. Still not giving up.

My response is shaky as I admit, “It’s not a good time, peaches.”

“Oh,” she says. The disappointment in her tone is as obvious as my goddamn irritation about what I’m doing. “Are you okay?” There’s a trace of fear in the question, and I hate the sound of it.

I lean on the seat of my bike, squeezing my eyes shut. “Yeah, um . . . something came up with a friend of mine,” I force out through gritted teeth. I told her I would take care of my family as best as I knew how, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to risk sharing details that could implicate her. “But I’m good.”

Stop, she’d said last night—and I honestly thought I’d lost her for good, right there on that gravel road. Even though ending things was the whole point, my traitorous heart wanted to walk it all back the second I heard that word leave her lips.

That she’s even calling now—it makes me feel like even more of an asshole. I’d meant everything I said, that I can’t be what she needs, but I’m not sure I actually have the heart to let her go.

I hear her sigh. “Look, you don’t have to tell me what you’re doing. Just tell me that you’re safe.”

“I’m good,” I repeat low into the phone as another car I don’t recognize makes its way up the drive.

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