Page 76 of Sexting the Cowboy
“And you’re a traitor.”
He throws it like a rope, and I let it hit the floor. The part of me that stings at the word has had sixteen years to toughen up. The other part is busy hanging on to the memory of Annie’s hands steady on my chest and her voice in my ear when the bell in my head was ringing louder than my name.
And the memory of her not responding to my texts. It’s been a weird day.
“Ren,” I say softly, “don’t do this to yourself.”
He barks a humorless laugh. “To myself? You did this to me.”
“What exactly isthis?” I ask, patient like a farrier with a horse that wants to kick. “Me being alive? Me finding someone I like talking to?”
“You like talking to her because she likes you,” he says. The words come sharp and fast. “She never looked at me like that.”
“She looked at you like you showed her the man you are.”
His mouth tightens. “You think you’re better than me.”
“I think I’m older than you. And I think I’ve already made most of the mistakes you’ve got lined up on your calendar.”
“You think you’ve got the right to take my girlfriend?—”
“She’s not a thing you own,” I say, and this time the patience frays. “She’s a person who decided she’s done with you. That choice had nothing to do with me, and that doesn’t mean what we do is about you. We met, we like each other, that’s all there is to it. This has nothing to do with you. I’m seeing her. I like her. I need you to deal with it.”
His face goes flat and mean at once. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re drunk,” I repeat, because it’s the only sentence in the room that keeps us from breaking furniture. “Sit down. Water’s by the sink.”
“Don’t youdadme.”
“I’m going todadyou until one of us is dead. That’s the deal we signed to be a family. We will figure this out.”
“Yeah? Well, the contract’s up,” he says, and he turns to leave, which is a relief for half a heartbeat until I see the keys spin in his hand.
I’m up faster than my head wants me to be. The world bumps once, like a trailer going over a curb. I cross the two steps between us and snatch the keys out of the air before he can argue. I hold them tight in my fist and take the half step back that keeps my shoulder from remembering it’s made of damaged meat.
“No,” I say, simple as putting a hand on a horse’s nose. “You’re not getting in a truck right now.”
He snarls, “Give them back.”
“You think I’m gonna let you get yourself killed? You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
He takes a breath, then another, and then he moves quicker than he looks like he ought to. It’s not a tackle, just a sharp reach and twist, the kind you learn at a kitchen table, fighting your brother for the last biscuit. The keys bite my palm, drag the skin hard enough to bruise, and then they’re gone. I suck air through my teeth because my shoulder tugs a complaint toward my ear. “Give them back, Reno?—”
“You’re hurt,” he sneers, half-triumphant, half-shaky. “You’re too old for the chute. Too old to fight me. And definitely too old for Annie. You’re a fucking fossil, old man.”
“Ren, wait?—”
But he storms down the steps and into the dark, and then he’s a shadow moving fast where he shouldn’t. The door bangs backagainst the frame and rattles until it remembers it’s supposed to close.
I stand there with my pulse in my mouth and the urge to throw up.
It takes me five slow breaths to find my phone. Two more to decide which number to press. The thought that shows up first is a bad one—call the cops on your own son—and it makes my hands sweat. The thought that shows up second is the same one with a different name—call security, call someone with a flashlight and a clipboard who gets paid to be the asshole when you can’t.
If he gets into an accident because I didn’t call for help…or because I’m too old and injured to stop him…fuck.
I stand at the little trailer window and look for the shape of his back, the way he walks when he’s leaning forward to turn anger into speed. The lot is a mess of shadows and tires and metal, a junkyard of bad decisions, and I can’t spot him before the view gives me up.
The knock on the door is light, a courtesy tap instead of a battering. I’m halfway to barking “what” when Blaze slips in sideways, like she didn’t want to wake the place. “You alive?” she says, eyes scanning the room like she’s counting for blood.
