Page 71 of Peaches

“Come over when you’re done,” she says in a rush. “I’ll leave a key under the mat.”

“No, don’t leave a key out.” The car in front of me parks and two men get out. They both throw uneasy glances my way. “Anyone with bad intentions would look there first. I don’t need a key to get in.”

“So you’ll come?” she asks, and the hope in her voice lights me up.

“It’ll be late,” I say. “You’ll probably be asleep.”

“I don’t care,” she insists. “I just . . . I need to feel you. I need to know you’re safe.”

“Okay.” I nod, looking down at my feet.

It takes her a beat, and when she says a quick “Okay” back, I hear the worry seeping through. “Be safe, please?”

“I will. Promise.” I hang up the phone before she can respond and take in a deep, shaky breath. Every ounce of will inside of me is begging to bail on this. To run back home to her.

Home.

“Rhett!” Colt calls from behind me, snapping through the haze of my internal undoing. I turn to find him standing at the entrance to the barn, his face cast in shadow as a dull, yellow light spills out into the dirt around him, illuminating his edges.

I hold a hand up. “Coming,” I shout before fiddling with the helmet that rests on the bike’s seat, pretending like I’m not having a fucking moment. Tucking my phone away again, I force my way back toward the barn where Colt waits for me. Unlike the last time I saw him at Spurs, he wears a guarded and wary expression that tells me he’s not looking forward to this either. “You good?” I ask quietly as soon as I reach him.

He nods his head once, quick and clipped. “Glad you’re here. Ellis bit off more than he can chew.”

I scoff, annoyed that the eldest Rustler brother would be so reckless. We’ve all had our fair share of debauchery, but inviting Mean-Eyed Maverick was a fucking dangerous and stupid move. I dip my head toward his car. “Did you know he was going to be here?”

“Nope. I knew there’d be other big players, people we don’t know well. But I had no ideahe’dbe here.”

“What the hell is Ellis thinking?”

Colt frowns as one of his hands lifts to press against his ribs, as if he can still feel the wound from Maverick’s knife where it pressed into him three years ago. “I don’t know,” he says, his worry evident. “Someone must have him by the balls if he’s this desperate for cash.”

I don’t want to tell Colt it’s my own desperation for cash that got me here. A half-million dollar bet puts over a million in the pot, and that kind of money would be life-changing in a way my family really needs right now, even with the unspoken rule between all Rustlers and Bennetts in play: any of us wins the pot, we split it evenly amongst ourselves. It gives us a greater chance at winning when Ellis isn’t counting cards. “Yeah, well, if Maverick sniffs out any funny business in those cards tonight, he’s going to flay us all wide open.”

Colt’s eyes snap to mine with a rush of fear that I feel in my own throat. “Thanks for coming.”

The words snare and tangle in my stomach. It’s never done well to have anyone relying on me, especially with something this serious. But I guess if there’s anything to rely on mefor, it’s answering assholes with violence. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Like I said on the phone, I can’t match the bet.” I took what I was able to from the bar’s safe, but it’s only about eight grand.

Colt looks nervous. “Ellis put aside a few stacks for you, but I’m pretty sure he padded them. Just—be careful betting too high if you don’t have a hand. If you have something good, make sure I know so I can bow out and feed you more under the table.”

I shake my head—it doesn’t take a genius to know fucking around with counterfeit money on a night like tonight is bad news. All of this could go downhill so fast.

Colt throws me a look like he’s sorry, and then turns to walk back into the dimly lit barn. I trail behind him, eyes tracing along the empty and forgotten horse stalls that flank either side of us, wondering who might be crouched and hiding within. My mind plays out visions of Maverick’s posse jumping out with shiny blades and brass knuckles—their favorite toys to play with—and I scrub a hand down my face.

I force my gaze forward, to a large round table set beneath the single bald light hanging from the rafters, where Ellis sits surrounded by gruff men and . . . “What the fuck is Wylie doing here?” I ask Colt under my breath.

He’s already ramrod straight next to me, cursing under his breath.

Wylie, the second youngest Rustler child, is by far the wildest, even wilder than Ellis. At only twenty-three years old, she’s already hurled herself so far through her own sordid life experiences that she came out the other side with a permanent scowl on her face and a baby on her hip. Tonight, her blonde hair burns golden beneath the yellow light, spilling around bare shoulders. Her black tank top molds to her body like a second skin, just like the blue jeans she wears.

I’m not surprised that, even in the middle of a biting Texas winter, she’s dressed to show herself off. Once, two years ago, I almost made the mistake of letting her into my bed after she’d used her weapons of those curves, a sultry-sweet smile, and captivating banter to unravel the awareness that she was myveryoff-limits best friend’s sister. We’d gotten as far as the hallway to the stairwell of the apartment that sits above Wild Coyote before she was already shucking off her shirt and the reality of what we were about to do hit me like a horseshoe to the face. I was able to come to my senses in time to expertly pull her shirt back over her head and gently shove her out the bar’s door back downstairs—thank god.

To this day, I’m not sure what her motive was in sleeping with me. But if one thing’s for certain about Wylie, shealwayshas a motive.

I still don’t know if she ever told anyone about it. Doubtful, since her brothers would wring her neck just as hard as they’d wring mine. But it doesn’t make me any less nervous to see her, and not because I’m scared of her. The Rustlers are the closest thing the Bennetts have to friends, and I don’t want our little almost-mishap to be what throws a wrench in that decades-long alliance.

Ellis watches Wylie like an overprotective hawk as she takes an open seat next to him.

“Oh my . . . Looky here,” Maverick says from where he sits between two of his fiercest cronies, eyeing Colt and me like we could be lunch. He wears a ratty denim jacket over a dark shirt, strands of greasy hair falling into his coal-like eyes. A thick, pale scar cuts across one eye from forehead to cheek—it’s a wonder he didn’t lose the eye itself. “Two of my favorite little rascals.”

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