Page 109 of The Billion Heirs Boxed Set
“Why the fuck would he kill someone on his own land?” I ask.
Peterson shifts his gaze from Chance to me. “You have enough of it. Lots of places to hide a body.”
I break free of Chance’s grasp, but instead of flying at Peterson and rearranging his face, I stomp past him and out to the garage next to the main house where my classic Harley Softail waits for me. I bought it from the classifieds in the local paper the other day. It’s in rough shape, but I know a good thing when I see it. Some TLC and she’ll be incredible, just like all my other projects.
If I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m not sure what I’ll do. So much for a beer and some delicious flautas. I can’t sit at that table and pretend Peterson’s not going to fuck us all over. One thing’s for sure. I will not go down for the murder of some poor SOB who somehow washed downstream onto Bridger land.
Peterson is out for blood. Bridger blood. He’s got the look, and I’m feeling that slimy sensation, like lizards are scrambling beneath my skin.
He’s definitely dirty, and he wants to take down Jonathan Bridger. Unlike the mayor, where his beef was personal, this is different. Worse. Since our dad’s six feet under, Peterson will settle for us instead. I’ve seen it in New York, but I didn’t expect to encounter it in Bayfield, Montana.
I crank the engine, listen to the lusty growling of the chrome pipes, kick the bike into gear, and scream out into the evening. I thought my time in Montana was going to be easy. Simple. Boring.
Fuck, was I wrong.
1
MILES
I cut the engine and sigh. Damn, that was a good ride, better here than back home. I yank off my helmet and push my hair back. There’s nothing better than straddling a motorcycle and riding the open road.
Here, there’s nothing but open road. Fucking perfect. It’s the best way to clear my head of all the shit going down lately. Not just my asshole father or the stupid rules of his will, but also all the hard labor on the ranch—which I never imagined I’d do in a million years, or for a billion dollars.
The murder, too. Yeah, murder, per the pain-in-the-ass detective Peterson.
I left all of that behind at Bridger Ranch.
I climb off my new ride outside of a roadside bar and give it another once over. Yeah, it needs work, but this is what I do. What I live and breathe. Custom builds. All my jobs start off looking like this. Dented. Rusted. Worn. But I see past all that and focus on what it can become.
Not can. Will.
The engine is good. All it needs is a little attention. A little babying. A little love. I’ll make this motorcycle I found in the bargain bin section of the local paper purr for me, the same way I work a woman.
The sun crawls toward the purple mountains in the distance, but it won’t set for another hour or two. I stop just inside the door of the bar. The parking lot is full, so it’s popular. The high-top tables and booths skirting both walls are occupied, but the dance floor is empty. Neon signs on the wood-paneled walls give the room a glow of reds and blues. I make my way to the bar and settle on a stool.
The bartender comes over and takes my order, a beer on tap and a burger with fries. I missed the Mexican dinner at the house because of that asshole detective, so I’m hungry. I savor the cool bite of my drink as I wait for the food and then spin around to look over the crowd. This place is about an hour from Bayfield, so I don’t see a familiar face. Not that I expect to recognize anyone.
I’ve been in the state for two weeks. Not long enough to make friends. I’m just happy to no longer find my brothers a pain in my ass.
I know Carly, Austin’s woman. Lexie, the ranch’s vet, and most of the ranch staff. Unfortunately, I know Carly’s dad, the town mayor, who is a pain in the ass. More for Austin than myself, although the man has a pretty big beef with our father that he’s carried on to the next generation. Seems to be an unwritten law around here. The sons of Jonathan Bridger are somehow responsible for their father’s sins.
Carly herself has helped her dad simmer his shit down, but I doubt we’ll be getting a holiday card from him this year. Or ever.
I’ll put in my year at Bridger Ranch like the will says, get my billion, and get the hell out of Dodge. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy taking out my new ride. At least until it gets cold, which I expect will be sooner than I want.
The music through the hidden speakers changes, and a bunch of screams and hollers have me swiveling on my stool. A group of ladies, clearly having a good time, are partying around two high-tops farther down the bar. They’re dressed to go out, which in Montana means jeans, flirty skirts, or dresses with cowboy boots. No stilettos or sequins like I’d see in New York City. No black leather. Hell, I’m the only one wearing that.
One woman has a tiara on her head and a white feathered boa around her neck. A beauty-pageant-style sash is slung over her shoulder and it reads “Soon to be Mrs.”
My gaze isn’t snagged on the lead bachelorette, but another woman in the group. Why? Because she has her dark eyes on me. I’m not sure she even hears the twang of the country music or sees the dancing and arm waving of her friends. All her attention is squarely on me.
Yeah, me.
I raise my brow because if she wants to stare, I don’t mind staring right back. She’s not hard on the eyes. Far from it. I’d even call her fucking gorgeous. She wears a black tiered miniskirt that flares and hits halfway to her knees. Her top is a plain T-shirt with a deep V that does amazing things to her tits. She’s taller than average, and she has meat on her bones. Thick and curvy. A lush body a guy can grip and hang on to. My fingers itch to learn every inch of her.
I’m single, but I’m not a monk. I know when a woman is interested. I can flirt, but I don’t like games. Don’t like circling. The dance between a man and a woman. I want chemistry. A connection. With those two things, flirting isn’t necessary.
With this woman, there’s fucking chemistry. I can tell she feels it too because she’s now heading my way. The corner of her full mouth turns up as she sways toward me. I don’t look away, not even when the bartender sets my burger on the bar.
