Ride Rough

by Tessa Layne

  "So you're not really Sterling's cousin?" Jax asked.

  He shook his head.

  "Who else knew about this?"

  Trace outed his team of protectors. "Don't be mad at them? I insisted. If the press knew I was in Prairie, there'd be paparazzi everywhere - hiding in bushes, tailing people on motorcycles. They're assholes."

  Across the room, his phone buzzed. Part of him wanted to throw the phone out the window, then run it over with his truck. But the other part of him needed to know. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion - he couldn't look away. Robbie tossed him the phone. He'd expected a dozen notifications, a written diatribe, maybe flaming emojis. But there were only two. A photo, that when he studied it, punched him in the gut, and a one line text from Cecilia that ripped his insides out. "I've returned your car to Resolution Ranch."

  She didn't need to yell or send a long-winded text pointing out all the ways he was the biggest asshole ever. No, she was poetic to the core. Her screaming was louder and more effective in seven words than a fire and brimstone preacher with no time limit.

  Trace stood. "Guys, I'm sorry. I have to drive back to Prairie. I have to talk to Cecilia. You can take me out and woodshed me Sunday night when you get home, but if I don't explain in person, I'll lose my only chance with her."

  Robbie gave him a sympathetic look. "Get out of here."

  Trace slipped into the bathroom to change his clothes. When he came out, he grabbed his wallet and keys and paused in front of Jax. "I meant what I said about being a silent investor. If you'll still have me."

  Jax nodded, but didn't give any indication one way or another. Fuck. Talk about chickens coming home to roost. How had he not planned for this? He should have just put out an announcement that he was retiring and leaving Hollywood for good. But at first this had been a game to him. And his ego wouldn't let him walk away with his head down. Now he'd have a full five hours at least, to ponder all the ways he could have played this differently. Trace grabbed his gear bag off the suitcase rack. "See you guys back at the ranch." The door shut behind him with an eerie finality.

  Sitting in the truck, he pulled out his phone. Texting was a longshot, and maybe it did more harm than good, but he was desperate and had nothing to lose. His gut told him the worst course of action would be silence. I'm on my way. I planned to tell you everything Sunday, but I'll explain all of it when I get there. He paused, thumb hovering over the letters. He could send it as is, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. And he'd been operating with so many half-truths that he needed to bite the bullet and come clean, no matter how much it scared him. I love you.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The sun was just breaking over the horizon when Trace pulled into the circle drive in front of the Sanchez residence. He cut the engine and heaved a sigh of relief, insides settling as if this was a homecoming and not a march to the guillotine. There were a few ways the next fifteen minutes could play out. A- Cecilia could refuse to see him, block him and cut him out of her life like a limb with gangrene. He gave himself about a fifty-fifty chance of that. B - Cecilia could hear him out, then cut him off. Chances of that? Maybe ninety-percent? His gut clenched at the thought. Again, if that was the outcome, he'd have to prove to Izzie he was worthy and then hope that Cecilia came around at some point in the future. C- Cecilia could hear him out, believe him, and they could ride off into the sunset together. Chances of that? Zero. Although it was by far his favorite option.

  Icy fingers of dread curled around his stomach. Suddenly he was the little kid waiting for his mom to come back, the older kid hoping that the next foster home would be his real home. The homeless teenager sick and shivering under the pier, quietly wishing for death. And yet... he instinctively knew this was his last chance. His chance to ask for his wildest dreams, and if necessary, wait for it. If he wasn't brave enough to put it all on the line now, he didn't deserve happiness. Trace sucked in a deep breath and pushed it out. If there was one thing he wasn't afraid of in life, it was bad odds. He breathed again, fighting the sick feeling in his stomach, then hopped out of the car and slowly approached the porch steps, boots feeling like they were soled in lead.

  He paused, fist up, ready to knock. Was she asleep? Should he wake her? He shook his head, then pulled open the screen door. If she was asleep, he'd leave her be and wait for her at the kitchen table with a peace offering of coffee. Once inside, he toed off his boots and quietly made his way to the kitchen. Wine bottles and empty snack bags littered the counter, remnants of last night's girls' night, he guessed, and set about cleaning up. When the kitchen was pristine, he started the coffee and began to pace. Exhaustion ate at him. If he sat down, he'd sack out, and that wouldn't help his case at all. He was well into a second pot of coffee when he heard the stairs creaking. Trace pulled Cecilia's favorite mug out of the cupboard and had it waiting when she appeared in the doorway, eyes puffy and red, deep lines of sadness etched around her eyes and mouth, clutching a manila folder.

  This was his fault. The raw devastation on her face was all because of him, and seeing her this way was like a knife to the gut. And still, his heart jumped at the sight of her. To him, she was every bit as lovely as the morning he'd first met her. Trace watched her closely as she hovered in the doorway. Her eyes raked over him, hungry and sad. "Coffee?" He held out the mug prepared just the way she liked it. She tossed the folder on the table where it landed with an ominous smack, then accepted the coffee. "Have a seat?" he offered. She shook her head, taking a slow sip, then shut her eyes, inhaling. The realization hit him like a rogue wave. She was as unsure as he was. He could work with that. "I'm sure you have questions..." his voice trailed off at her death-glare. He swallowed. Shit. He knew it wasn't going to be a walk in the park, but this upped his odds of option A to seventy-five percent, easily. So she didn't want to talk. He'd wait then. The ball was in her court.

  The silence between them remained heavy and fraught, all the way through her first cup of coffee. He finished his own mug, and grabbed the pot, offering to refill hers first. Blessedly, she accepted. He'd take any small win right now. This was a battle of inches. She opened the refrigerator, and pulling out the cream, began to talk. "So what I can't figure out, is why you of all people, pushed my story."

  How did she figure that out? "Because I-"

  She held up a finger. "How did I figure that out? Because your breadcrumb trail is about as obvious as throwing out slices of bread."

  "I don't follow?"

  "When Marissa, the editor of the Atlantic Journal who tracked me down to the diner, first made me the offer, I naturally assumed that my previous boss, Bob, who killed the story, was having a crisis of conscience and had passed the story along. But Marissa didn't have any of the accompanying photos, and Izzie and Jeanine didn't know the specifics of the story, or where I stash my material." Her voice turned rough. "Because no one except my boss reads my stories before they're publicized. So that left you. You'd seen it, at least the first page. And hell, maybe you've read the whole thing-"

  "I didn't," he admitted. He could at least assure her of that. Cecilia's eyes widened briefly. So that surprised her? "Give me a little credit, Ceece. I wanted to help, not invade your privacy."

  "Yet that's exactly what you did by sending what I assume was the copy I recycled to someone you know." Her eyebrows lifted by means of confirmation.

  He shut his eyes, head dropping. "Yeah. That's what I did." He lifted his chin. "But only because I believe in you and I wanted to help. You have to believe that."

  Her eyes softened briefly. "Funny, I actually do. Because no high profile personality would ever self-incriminate the way you did by sharing that article."

  Trace's thoughts split. She was now referring to him as a high profile personality? Bad. Very bad. And the worse thought - he'd self-incriminated? "What do you mean, self-incriminated?"

  She tilted her head to the table. "I assume you recognized the photo I sent last night?"

  He nodded.


  "What can you tell me about it?"

  He shrugged. "Guy to my right is my agent, Emerson Scott. The woman to my left is Bonita Carradine."

  "And how do you know her?"

  "She's a friend of Emerson's. We partied a bunch, both in California and a handful of times where she lives, in Chicago."

  "And how much do you know about Bonita?"

  He shrugged. "Socialite with too much money to spend on maintenance. Introduces a lot of people. She's a connector. She... ahh, introduced me to a few women," he confessed, neck heating.

  Cecilia's face went white, and her mouth pinched. For a second she looked like she was going to vomit. She clutched her mug so hard her knuckles glowed. "Did you have sex with any of those women?" she whispered.

  Trace scraped a hand across his jaw. "Shit, I don't know. Maybe? Probably?" he hated admitting it. He didn't want the ugly part of his life to pollute what he had with Cecilia. Although, given the direction of their conversation, it was a little late for that. "I don't remember."

  Cecilia shut her eyes, dark lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks like little coal feathers.

  "Look, I'm not proud of my prior behavior. I spent a lot of those parties... out of it."

  "High? Or drunk?"

  "Sometimes both." His mouth tasted bitter with the admission. "If you'll let me explain-"

  She shook her head, cutting him off. "We'll get to that." She lifted her eyes, cold and hard. "Were any of the women Bonita introduced you to minors?"

  Trace jumped to his feet. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he snapped. "I'd never..." he clutched his hair, white-hot anger spotting his vision. "I'm an asshole and I have a lot to atone for. But the last time I even looked at a seventeen-year-old girl with anything more than polite regard was when I was seventeen."

  "It's hard to tell, Trace. That girl in the photo-"

  "I have no idea how old that girl was, and yes, I agree she's a girl. But that has never been me. Emerson? Quite possibly. Emerson has... fluid rules."

  "And you don't?"

  Oh, god. He was going to be sick. He could see how she would think the worst. The evidence was awful... and damning. He braced his hands on the table and leaned close. "My proclivities have always run toward older... willing women," he bit out in clipped words. "And I'll give you the contact information of someone who can verify it."

  "Who?"

  It cut to the quick that she asked, but he'd offered. "Portia Taylor."

  "Who's she?"

  "The only seventeen-year-old I ever fucked." He said it like that on purpose, and got the intended result. A flash of pain ripped across her face. "She's thirty-five now, and pregnant with her first child, not mine," he added, because he could see the wheels turning in her lovely head. "She also has the distinction of being my oldest, and some might say only friend." He retreated to the counter, leaning back and crossing his arms.

  "Is she any relation to Ophelia Taylor?" she asked barely above a whisper.

  Trace huffed out a short laugh. He'd give Cecilia props for her due diligence. "Younger sister."

  She nodded. "I see." She sucked in a breath, chest rising then falling with her harsh exhale. "So, full disclosure, if you don't have a lawyer on retainer, you should hire one as soon as possible."

  Trace's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

  She tapped the manila folder. "Your name's on the Until You client list."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  "What?" He pushed off the counter and snapped up the folder. "You're shitting me."

  "I wish I was," she said quietly.

  Fuuuuuuuuck. He scanned photo after photo - client lists, parties, couples, some very compromised - cringing when he came across the one of him and Emerson and Bonita and the pretty young thing. There were plenty of names and faces he didn't recognize, but the few he did... were big. "Shit. No wonder you got sacked." His comment from a few weeks ago came back to haunt him. Then fuck 'em. They deserve what they get. He guessed he deserved what he got, too. To be honest, he hadn't been much better than any of them.

  She ghosted a smile, still keeping her eyes on her hands clutching the coffee mug.

  "And this is the story that's going to run?"

  She nodded. "It's a five-part exposé. Marissa expects there will be news shows following."

  Fear spiked through him. "But doesn't that mean you'll have a target on your back?" Jesus, would she have to go into hiding?

  She shook her head. "I... had a source on the inside." The fact that she herself was also a primary source was something she'd take to her grave. "So to the world, I'm just reporting. When I discovered what was going on, I was extremely careful."

  How incredibly stupid. How incredibly brave. Trace dropped back into the chair across from her. "So now what?" He gestured to the folder. "You want me to admit more shit? That I was caught skinny dipping in my producer's pool with his very naked wife? Yep, did that. That I got kicked out of a restaurant for picking a fight with a patron when I was high? Did that too, although in my defense, the guy was being a douche to his wife. That I was late half the time to filming because I was hungover? True. I could pretty much get away with whatever I wanted because I brought in fucktons of money. Crap movies got green lighted if there was even a rumor I might be taking a part. My name was fucking gold. I -" he pointed a thumb at his chest. "Was fucking gold."

  Jeezus, it was like her dark condemning eyes had picked off a scab and now the ugly shit was oozing out like a puss-filled, gangrenous, putrid infection.

  "But you know what? Did anyone - even once - when I was late or a no show ask how I was? I'll give you one guess, because you're smart, and you can put the pieces together." She shook her head once, and he slapped his hand on the table, making her jump. "Bingo. So yeah, dig through my past, and pretty much any shit you can dig up is likely to be true."

  Let her find out the worst of him. He wasn't so naive to think she'd love him when the dust had settled. She kept staring at him, eyes growing sadder by the second. He had to look away. It was ripping him to pieces. Pushing away from the table he started another pot of coffee. Her silence weighed heavily, but there was no escaping it. The only way out of this nightmare was through it.

  When he'd refilled her cup, added the requisite cream, and rejoined her at the table, she spoke, voice thick and raspy. "Was anything you told me true?" It was uttered like the plea of a heartbroken child, and it nearly brought him to his knees.

  He peeled her hands from her mug and encased them in his own, pushing away the tiny flicker of hope that flamed to life inside him. "God, yes. As much as I could without giving myself away. I was born Trace Walker McBride. I don't know my father. My mother left when I was four without a backward glance. I barely remember my Grandma Walker, but I remember her smile, and her squishy bosom." He blinked, wetness rising behind his eyes. "I ran away from a ranching job when I was fifteen, beaten by the foreman because he caught me with his daughter and then he refused me my wages. I don't remember much between then and seventeen, when I ended up on the beach - surfing and literally being a beach bum. I was homeless, and I'd sleep under the piers until the cops would chase me away. I was rolled a few times. I learned from the old-timers to keep my feet healthy."

  A small smile flickered across her mouth, then retreated.

  "Everything I told you at the wedding was true. And it's also true that you're the only person who knows that story. Portia found me under the pier when I was seventeen. I was shivering with fever. She literally saved my life."

  "And you fell in love with her," she mumbled.

  "For a little while. But then she came out to me a few years later, and that was that. But she's been the closest thing I've had to family until I moved to Prairie. And no matter what happens between us, I'll always be grateful she insisted I come here. Because being here... saved me. I've learned what it means to be a friend... and to fall in love," he added as a Hail Mary, even though it was true. "I really did sell my house in
Malibu a couple weeks ago, and the other day I contacted a local realtor about a piece of property just outside of town. And last night, before you texted, I offered to become a silent partner in Jax's roughstock breeding operation."

  He kissed her knuckles. He didn't know what else to say.

  "Why didn't you tell me? Tell us?" she asked, eyes still tortured.

  He squeezed her hands. "Because I'm a selfish bastard. I signed my first contract not long after Portia rescued me. I rocketed straight to the top. There's never been a time in my adult life where people liked me for... me." The pain that sliced through was so fresh it took his breath away. What a terrible thing to know and understand. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "The way you look at me when you're about to come... I didn't want that to go away. Or the way your eyes light up when you say something utterly snarky and sassy. And the same with the guys, too. Do you think Tony would have threatened to woodshed me if he'd known I was Trace McBride?"

  Her mouth lifted - the first possibility of a real smile since they'd started talking. "Maybe. Tony's not awed easily. If anything, he'd have worked harder to cut you down to size."

  "My point stands. He'd have treated me differently. As Trace Walker, I was just one of the guys. And I liked it." Too much, maybe, now that they all thought he'd betrayed them. "So now what?" he asked softly after several minutes of silence.

  She lifted her eyes to his, and his heart dropped to his toes. Panic rushed into the void, an ugly, shaky hollow where his heart would be if it wasn't lying smashed at his toes. His throat squeezed tight. So tight he could hardly make words.

  "Please, Cecilia," he whispered. "Don't end this. Give me a chance to make this right. Let me show you how much I love you. Let me show you I'm the man for you, that we can build a life together. Please... let me love you, Cecilia," he begged. He didn't even care if he sounded desperate.