Page 21 of Wait in the Truck
I rise to my feet. But even as I do, I know I’m foolingmyself, thinking distance will snuff out what’s been kindled between us.
But like a moth to a flame, I’m pulled in by the heat of her, by that memory we etched down by the river that’s ours and ours alone. My insides churn with a hunger fiercer than a starved animal, and my hand—traitor that it is—slips to the buckle of my belt.
I can’t do this. Ain’t right.“Shit,” I hiss, breathing hard as the leather gives way and the metal clinks softly in the stillness of the barn. It’s like that sound is a starting gun, and there isn’t any stopping what comes next. My fingers, rough from working ranch life, fumble to free myself from the confines of denim. And then, I’m out, bare to the world, to the shadows, to the sleeping beauty unaware of the storm she’s conjured in me. The air’s cool on my heated skin. With a shaky exhale, I grip myself, tight enough to claim but gentle enough to draw it out. Long, slow strokes mirror the waves at the riverbank—the ones that lapped at our joined bodies as we moved together beneath the sun. “God…” The word is either a prayer or a curse; I can’t tell. Her face, so serene, is all I see behind my squeezed-shut eyes, and every image is a lick of flame on my already scorched mind.
Thoughts unbidden and raw barrel through me, dirtier than the bottom of a dried-out well. “Needed you… Need you now,” I murmur to the darkness. The walls seem to close in on me as the rhythm builds, steady, purposeful, each stroke a brand onto my very soul. I’m riding the edge of something fierce, and it’s all wrapped up in the girl who’s got my world teetering on the brink.
“Ah, fuck, Sage…” A shudder racks through me as I come undone, spilling into my waiting palm like a rush of water over rocks and fallen logs. I’m on fire, every nerve ending pulsing with pleasure as I grip myself tightly, feeling the hot friction of my hand against my skin. Breathless, I lean over her sleeping form and catch the gleam of the sinful evidence of my solitary act as it coats my fingers.
With a tenderness that belies the filthiness of it all, I reach out and brush my cum-covered thumb across her soft, parted lips, transferring a trace of my release onto her waiting skin. “Mine,” I whisper against the quiet night. But at this moment, it’s the only truth I have. “Always mine,” I add, the words as much a brand as any hot iron could sear.
I leave her with that silent vow, my retreat to the shadows as hollow as my resolve. Tonight I’ve crossed a line, blurred by lust and a need fiercer than any cattle stampede. Tomorrow I’ll reckon with the fallout. But for now, I’m just a man haunted by the taste of something he can’t have.
SAGE
13
The morning sunhasn’t been up long, but already I’m hunkered down at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee clutched in my hands. The ranch’s accounting books are splayed open before me, pages filled with numbers that make no sense. My eyes squint at the columns, trying to wrangle the figures into some kind of order. “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, taking another swig of coffee as I notice something off—a discrepancy staring at me like an ugly scar on a prize-winning stallion. There’re cattle sold that don’t add up, cows missing from the tally. I tease my fingers through my hair and assess the numbers again, thinking maybe I’ve miscalculated, but the math is not mathing. “What the fuck am I missing?”
A sour suspicion starts gnawing at my insides. Could my dad be skimming cash for his drinking habits?No, a nagging voice in me argues back. Ridge Everett is a lot of things, but he’s nevertaken money from the business. He depends onmyincome to fund his extracurriculars. But if not him, who?
“Samuel,” I say, the name leaving a bitter taste on my tongue like burnt toast. I push away from the table, my boots thumping across the wooden floorboards, each step heavy with purpose. I find myself outside, the dry wind whipping at my hair as I march toward the barn where the slippery eel of a man, lords over the place like he owns it.
“Samuel!” I call out, my voice firm, not giving him the pleasure of seeing me rattled.
He steps out from the shadows of the barn, a sneer curling his lips beneath that ragged mustache of his. He’s got at least thirty years on me, possibly in his mid to late fifties, and he looks every bit the part of Roland Schitt from thatSchitt’s Creekshow I’ve recently started to binge. He’s a caricature of a country hick if there ever was one.
“Whatcha want, Sage? Can’t you see I’m busy?” he drawls, leaning against the barn door like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
I plant my feet, hands on hips, feeling my blood pump hot and angry. “It’s about the cattle numbers. They’re not adding up.”
He chuckles, low and mocking, and it scrapes at my patience. “Now, why you fussin’ ’bout such things? Shouldn’t you be mindin’ your own business, like a good little girl?”
My teeth grind together, and I feel my cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and ire. “Cut the crap, Samuel. If you’re hiding something or you’re messing with the books, I swear on my brother’s grave, I’ll get the law involved.”
His menacing laughter echoes through the air, a grating sound reminiscent of a crow’s caw. “The sheriff?” he scoffs. “And what will you say to your father? Doubt he would even care. He’s too busy drownin’ his sorry ass in a bottle to give a damn about a few missing cattle. Unlike me, you Everetts couldn’t recognize a good deal if it hit you like a dirt-road pothole.”
“Maybe not,” I shoot back, anger lacing my words, “but I know when someone’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Maybe you should focus more on those summer classes you’re planning to take and leave the farmwork to the men that know it. Besides, you can’t prove a damn thing, sweetheart,” he taunts, his voice dripping with condescension. “I think you must be confused.”
I feel like a kettle about to boil over, steam ready to whistle out my ears. I need air, space, anything to cool the fire of anger he’s lit under my skin. “Fuck you, Sam.” I turn on my heel and storm off, heading straight for the pasture where my sweet mare waits.
“Hey, girl,” I murmur, stroking her velvety nose. Shenuzzles my palm, and just like that, a sliver of peace slices through the turmoil inside my body.
With practiced ease, I saddle her up, then put a foot in the stirrup, grip the saddle horn, and swing my leg over. As soon as I give the signal, we’re off, galloping across the fields with exhilarating speed. The wind whips through my hair, tangling it into a messy frenzy, but I pay no mind as the rush of adrenaline courses through me. Cruella’s hooves pound the earth in a steady rhythm, creating a soothing cadence that lulls my jangled nerves into peaceful submission. We are one, horse and rider, flying through the open meadows in perfect harmony.
“Good girl, Cruella,” I whisper into her ear as we ride, the land stretching out before us, a promise or a warning, I’ve yet to decide. I let the reins slacken, and we slow to a trot, the steady beat of her gait working into my bones, calming the fury that had me in its grip.
“Gotta figure this out,” I say to no one but the horse beneath me, her ears flicking back at the sound of my voice. The wide expanse of the ranch spreads out around us, holding its secrets close, and I can’t help but wonder what other darkness might be lurking out there, waiting to be uncovered.
“Let’s head on back, beauty,” I say after a time, patting Cruella’s neck. As we make our way back to the ranch, I resolve to dig deeper, to unearth whatever filth Samuel’s got buried beneath his lies and swagger.
But for now, I just ride, letting the rhythm of my mare’s movements and the vastness of the land wash over me.
Before long, we reach Lilac Meadows, and the stables come into view. “Easy now, girl,” I murmur, my voice a raspy whisper against the silence that’s settled over the ranch. I dismount with a soft grunt, my boots sinking into the dirt that hides more than its share of skeletons.
Unsaddling my mare, I put the tack away, and that’s when I hear it—a sound that doesn’t belong among the usual evening chorus of the ranch. It’s a wet, rhythmic squelching, mixed with heavy grunts. My brow crinkles in confusion, and something deep in my gut coils tight with dread.
