Page 24 of Shootout Daddies
Rhett clears his throat from the stove. “Don’t distract me. I’m literally searing chicken in hot oil.”
She laughs. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
I smirk. “That’s too bad.”
She grins and turns back to Rhett. “So, how long till dinner?”
“Fifteen minutes. Tops.”
I run my palm down her back. “That’s enough time to fuck her on the couch. You can have her after dinner.”
She turns to me, eyes bright with heat. “I like that idea a lot.”
Storm lets out a snore from his bed.
This night’s gonna be perfect.
I wake up drenched in sweat, heart thudding like it’s trying to tear out of my chest.
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
The ceiling above me looks unfamiliar in the dark, smooth and high with a faint amber glow creeping through the window slats. The sheets are soft and cool, a hand loosely curled over my ribcage.
There’s warm skin pressed to my left side. A soft, rhythmic breath tickling my shoulder.
But my body’s still braced for impact. For fists. For blood. For the scream that didn’t come but used to. My fingers curl into the blanket. My jaw’s locked tight.
I hear it again.
Not the sound from my dream—the locker slamming shut, the yelling, the goddamn buzzing lights—but something else. A rustle. A key turning.
Then the sound of the door opening.
A voice.
“Relax. Just me,” Rhett whispers. “Took Storm out to pee.”
I exhale, tension unspooling just a little. I glance at the alarm clock. “What time is it?”
“Just after four,” he says, walking around the edge of the bed. I hear the quiet shuffle of his shirt coming off, then the sigh of him settling the dog into the corner again, onto the bed we set up earlier.
Between us, Ivy stirs, her voice muffled by the pillow. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, my voice soft. I reach out and brush her hair off her cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
She nods groggily and sinks back into the mattress, the curve of her bare back arching toward me like she knows exactly how to wreck me even half-asleep.
Rhett’s shadow moves closer. The bed dips on the other side as he climbs in, careful not to jostle her.
He meets my eyes over Ivy’s shoulder. His brow lifts slightly. That look of his—dry, knowing, unspoken. He’s the only one who knows about the dreams.
I shake my head once, tight. I’m okay.
He doesn’t push. Just stretches out beside her, sighing as his hand finds her hip beneath the sheet.
Ivy stretches languidly between us, her foot brushing mine under the covers. “Last night was wild,” she murmurs.
I smile, easing back onto the pillow. “Yeah. It was.”
