Wicked Choice (The Wicked Horse Vegas #4)

by Sawyer Bennett

  I get a return grin, and it chafes he’s amused at me.

  “So,” he says slyly, with a little wink. “You and Wright, huh? Can’t say I saw that one coming.”

  “I didn’t see it coming either.” The petulance in my voice makes his chuckle go to a belly laugh. I roll my eyes. “Just stop. I was upset over Joram, had way too much liquor, and well… he was all hot looking and I needed the distraction.”

  “Was it good?” he asks. In normal circumstances, I should be offended. Yes, this man is my friend, but he’s also my boss. And he’s asking about a personal intimacy.

  But I’m not, because Kynan and I used to be lovers before we settled into a good friendship without benefits. That was long ago, but there was a time I laid in bed with him and spilled secrets. He was by my side during some of my darkest days. While we haven’t been carnal with each other in almost a decade—since I started work at Jameson as a matter of fact—he still has firsthand knowledge of my sex life. We can’t exactly frequent the same sex club without seeing a few things.

  “It was good,” I admit, but that’s not the full truth. It was spectacular, and that’s surprising to me. I was totally buzzed from the alcohol and full of seething anger at myself. It should have been hard as hell for anyone to get me off, but damn if Wright didn’t do it in just a few short minutes.

  He’d thrown me on the bed and because I’d already been naked, his first move had been to shove his face between my legs. The first touch of his tongue on me and my back arched so high I thought I’d broken it.

  Just minutes.

  Minutes and a very talented mouth, and I was screaming out the first of three orgasms.

  “Your face tells me all I need to know,” Kynan says knowingly.

  My face flushes red, and I wonder how long I’d zoned out thinking about that night with Bodie.

  Wright.

  I need to think of him as Wright.

  Just a coworker and a teammate.

  “Whatever,” I growl under my breath, but then give Kynan a very bland look. “Like I said, it just happened. It was a onetime thing.”

  “If you say so,” he intones in such a way that I know he doesn’t believe me.

  “I do say so,” I say firmly.

  “I believe you,” he says soberly, but then his lips break into a grin. “No, I don’t. I just saw that look on your face. Whatever Wright gave you that night in addition to a baby blew your fucking mind. You’re going back for more.”

  “Am not,” I insist.

  “Are too,” he says like a five-year-old.

  “He’s too young for me,” I argue.

  “You dig that hole deeper, Hart. Keep telling me all the reasons you’re not going to fuck Bodie Wright again, and I’m going to laugh in your face when it happens.”

  It won’t, I think stubbornly. No way.

  “Just drop it, McGrath,” I tell him. “I’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  His expression sobers, and he nods. “Yeah, I know. And I’ve got your back. But just remember… nothing wrong with you and Wright hitting it together.”

  I really wish he hadn’t said that.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bodie

  My cell phone rings, and I roll slightly on the couch to nab it from the coffee table. My mom’s pretty round face is on the screen, and I’m smiling when I answer. “And how is the best mom in the entire world doing today?”

  Estelle Wright giggles into the phone. Most fifty-year-old women can’t pull giggling off well, but my mom is lit from within by a natural sunny disposition. Practically anything that comes out of her mouth is joyful.

  “Oh, you stop it,” she chides, the distinctive sound of her beating something within a bowl coming over the line. The woman can never sit still.

  “Whatcha making?” I ask, my stomach rumbling with the thought of my mom’s home cooking.

  “A birthday cake for Rebecca,” she says, and I can imagine her now… her phone pressed between her shoulder and ear while she rests her big blue ceramic bowl against her stomach, perhaps whipping batter with a wire beater. She never uses an electric mixer, always preferring her own elbow grease instead.

  “Her birthday’s not until next weekend,” I point out.

  “Oh, I know,” she huffs into the phone. “But she’s a little princess and wanted a birthday cake today, so I capitulated.”

  I laugh deeply because that’s so like my little niece. She’s my sister Jennifer’s daughter and is five going on thirty-five. Jennifer had her when she was just nineteen. It was an unplanned pregnancy with her high school sweetheart, but they’ve made it work. They live in the big farmhouse with my mom and dad, along with my twin brothers Jeff and Kurt, who are seniors in high school. Jennifer’s husband works the farm with my dad.

  “So, how are you?” my mom asks in an airy voice. We talk a few times a week when I’m not away on an operation. They’re not overly long conversations, but they are quality.

  “I’m good,” I say as I sit up, throwing my feet up on the coffee table. “Was watching some old movie on TV. Just relaxing today.”

  “When are you going out on your next job?” she asks. The tiny tinge of worry in her voice is something she can never hide.

  She doesn’t know the exact details of my work, but she knows that some of it is quite dangerous. I could never lie to her about that, but it’s something she’s become slightly used to since I used to be a SEAL.

  “I’ve got a concert security detail in a few weeks. Some pop princess I’ve never even heard of.”

  “Well, if you’d quit listening to that head-banging metal music, you might know,” she says pertly.

  “Yeah, Mom. I hear you. Broaden my horizons and all that. How’s Dad doing?”

  “He’s fine,” she says with a huff. “Went back to work too early if you ask me. Just got the soybean crop planted, and, of course, he did most of it himself with Chad’s help.”

  Chad is Jennifer’s husband. My dad had a hernia repair a few weeks ago, but I’m not surprised he’s out on the tractor. When the planting has to happen, it has to happen because it’s usually boxed in by spring storms. The window to get the seed into the ground is narrow.

  “I’m sure he’s fine.” It’s true. My dad is one tough son of a bitch, and one of the hardest-working men I know. A real salt-of-the-earth type of guy.

  “Listen, honey,” my mom says into the phone. “Jennifer’s standing here. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” I say, but my mom is already handing the phone off. Jennifer’s voice comes through clearly.

  “Hey, Bobo,” she says sweetly.

  I get a pang of longing for home from her use of my childhood nickname. I can’t quite remember if Bobo is short for Bodie or brother from when she’d been just starting to talk as a baby, but she still calls me that to this day.

  “What’s up, Jenny Sue?” I tease, knowing she hates me to call her that. She’s always preferred the more dignified Jennifer.

  “I’ve got news,” she says in a half-squeal, half-breathy sigh, totally ignoring my use of that horrid name.

  “What?” I ask, amused by the mental image of her practically hopping in place to tell me something.

  “I’m pregnant,” she shrieks into the phone and I wince, pulling my cell away for a moment before putting it back to my ear. Her and my mom are laughing excitedly in the background. “Chad and I are pregnant. Three months. Baby will be here right before Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s awesome, sis.” My heart expands at the thought of adding a new niece or nephew to my crew of potential kids I can spoil. “So was this planned?”

  “It was,” she gushes with pride. “We didn’t want to wait too much longer. We wanted Rebecca and the next kid to be fairly close in age.”

  For a moment, my knees go weak when I realize I could be having a kid within just a few months of Jennifer. My son or daughter would have cousins the same age, and they’d be as close as siblings I’d bet.r />
  But I give my head a hard shake. I refuse to think about that because there’s no sense wondering about “what if” until I know what Rachel wants to do.

  “Will you be coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas?” Jennifer asks.

  “Absolutely,” I tell her with confidence. “I’ve got nothing scheduled right now, but I’ll make sure to keep one of those holidays open so I can put on my uncle boots.”

  “Awesome, Bobo,” she sighs into the phone, and I miss my sister greatly in this moment.

  Fuck… I miss my entire family, but that’s always been the way it is. When I decided to leave home for the military, having to be separated from those I loved most was my big sacrifice.

  “Miss you, kiddo,” I tell her gruffly.

  “Miss you back,” she says, and then adds, “Hold on. Mom wants to talk to you again.”

  There’s a slight pause, and my mom is back on the line. “Hey, honey. So you’ll come for Thanksgiving or Christmas?”

  “Promise,” I assure her, since I have the ability to decline any operation or detail presented to me. I didn’t make it home last year for either holiday, so I’m going this year.

  “Well, we miss you,” she says.

  Another pang of longing for home hits me. It’s something I know will never go away. “Miss you, too, Mom,” I mutter into the phone, my voice a little hoarse with emotion. “Tell Dad I said hello.”

  “Will do,” she says softly, and I can even imagine a slight mist in her eyes. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” I say and then disconnect the call.

  Tapping my phone against my chin, I contemplate the holidays. Maybe I should go for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. I just need to let Kynan know soon so he can make sure to have my absence covered. In fact, I could take several weeks off and just stay there the entire time. I make good bank with The Jameson Group, and I can easily afford not to work for a month or two.

  A soft knocking on my door startles me, and I turn to look at it. It’s solid wood with three small panes of glass set at a diagonal, but I can’t see who it is.

  I walk around my couch to the door. When I get nearer to the glass, I can see Rachel standing on my front porch.

  An electric zap of adrenaline hits me, because I know she’s here to tell me something important. It’s something that’s going to change my life, one way or the other.

  When she told me she was pregnant last night, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation when I said I wanted that kid. Even after a night of sleep and ruminating about it incessantly, that feeling hasn’t changed. It would be hell to make it work, but I’d fucking do it.

  I take a deep breath, let it out in a rush, and then open the door. She’d been looking out toward the road and spins around to face me. “Hey,” she says as if she’s surprised to see me standing in my own house. I chalk that up to nervousness.

  “Hey,” I say and then step back, sweeping with my arm to silently invite her in.

  She crosses the threshold, her eyes roaming the small interior of my house. “You really live out in the boonies, don’t you?” she asks as she turns to face me.

  “Not a city boy,” I tell her. “Like the quiet and solitude.”

  Which is why I bought this little Pueblo-style ranch house that sits without another neighbor in sight. Nothing but scrubby desert as far as the eye can see with the Spring Mountains in the distance.

  “Because you were raised on a farm?” she asks.

  “Yeah, probably,” I say with a shrug, never having given it much thought. I just know I prefer open spaces and natural scenery to concrete, glass, and steel. I like the sound of bugs at night versus honking cars.

  Rachel doesn’t have a purse, and nervously jangles her car keys in her hand. She looks around my living room again, craning her neck a bit to see past the half wall that separates it from my kitchen. My house is barely twelve-hundred square feet with only two bedrooms, but it’s enough for me. I’m saving my money for something bigger and better one day. I always thought that meant when I was ready to settle down and start a family, but my life got a little messy in the last twenty-four hours, so who knows what the fuck it means now.

  “Do you want something to drink?” I ask, and her head snaps back to me.

  She gives a hard shake of her head. “No, I’m good.”

  “Want to sit down?” I motion her to the couch.

  Rachel tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s worn it loose and shaggy today, doesn’t have a speck of makeup on. Personally, it’s when she’s prettiest in my opinion.

  With a tight smile, she walks over to the couch, sitting stiffly on the edge of the cushion. Her back is straight, head held confidently high. I think it’s an act because she still nervously jangles her keys.

  I take a seat on the other end of the couch, angling my body to her and planting my elbows on my thighs, which causes me to lean slightly into her space. I don’t say a word, only look at her with what I imagine is unmitigated hope. At least, that’s what the emotions swirling through my body indicate.

  Please don’t crush me, Rachel.

  Rachel gives me another smile, this one a little pained. Her eyes go down to the keys. As if she’s just realizing she’s making noise with them, she grips them tighter in her palm.

  “Um… I went and talked to Kynan a little bit ago, and got his advice,” she says before slowly raising her face to mine. Her eyes are determined with an underlying layer of fear deep inside. “And… I’ll carry the baby. Please don’t think badly of me, but I don’t want to raise it. I’m not ready for that.”

  There’s no stopping the huge gush of pent-up air inside of me, my lungs burning from the force of it.

  “Thank you, Rachel,” I say with so much gratitude. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this thankful for anything in my life. I’m swamped with utter fear now, yet I’m grateful to have it. “And no… I’d never think badly of you for that type of personal decision.”

  She nods, her expression guarded. “I’m not sure how to make this all work. I mean… there will be legalities later, and well, the pregnancy and how it will affect my work.”

  “I’d like to be involved in the pregnancy,” I blurt. It’s not something I allowed myself to think about last night and today, but now that there’s actually going to be a baby continuing to grow in her, one who is made up of me, I want to experience every little fucking thing.

  To my surprise, Rachel’s body tightens, her voice coming out a little frosty. “And what do you mean by that?”

  I blink, suddenly confused as to what that means. I give a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. Um… doctor’s visits, maybe? And if you were to need anything, I hope you’d ask me.”

  To my surprise, Rachel gives a tiny bark of laughter followed by a nervous snicker. She holds a hand up. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what in the hell I’m doing. I guess I had images of you wanting to rub my belly constantly or sing songs to it or something.”

  Her remark causes a genuine laugh to erupt from me. We’re both nervous and totally out of our depths.

  “I promise not to do that,” I tell her, but then quickly amend. “Unless you want me to.”

  She’s the one to shrug this time. “I have no clue what I want. Maybe late-night ice cream runs?”

  We share a look, and it’s one I recognize. We’ve shared it before. It’s the look of one teammate to another that says, “I got your back.”

  Impulsively, I reach out and snag her empty hand, giving it a very short squeeze. “We’ll get through this.”

  Rachel lets out a shaky breath with another tiny laugh. “I know. I know we will.”

  “Rachel,” I say, my voice going an octave deeper because of how much I mean it. “Really… thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d decided otherwise.”

  “Knowing you, Wright,” she says with a pointed look as she pulls her hand away from mine. “You would have kidnapped me and kept me hostage until I’d given birth.”

&
nbsp; She’s wrong about that because I’d never force her to do something she didn’t want to. I would have just dealt with the loss, because what else could I have done?

  Pushing up from the couch rather abruptly, Rachel looks down at me. “Look… I have to get going, but Doc McCullough is going to get me set up with an OB/GYN this week. I’ll let you know when the appointment is.”

  I stand up and follow her to the door. “Yeah, sure… okay. That would be great.”

  Rachel doesn’t respond, just opens my front door. She starts to step through, but then hesitates as if struck by something. She turns to look back at me.

  “How are you going to do this on your own?” she asks me hesitantly.

  “I have no fucking clue,” I tell her truthfully. “My gut instinct is to head back home to Nebraska with baby in tow. I can’t continue this line of work and raise a kid.”

  Rachel just stares, as if my answer doesn’t make sense to her.

  So I ask her a question of my own, “You never want kids?”

  Her eyes turn a little wistful. “I always thought I would if the timing was right. But I’m at a stage in my career right now where the timing is very wrong for me.”

  I nod in understanding. Rachel is very good at what she does. Part of the reason for that is because she “loves” what she does. I mean really loves her work. It’s all she has in life, and it’s her priority.

  This disappoints me more than I care to admit, because if Rachel would just potentially be open to the idea of co-parenting with me, we could both continue to work at The Jameson Group. We’d never go on missions or details with each other again, but we could share in the responsibility of raising a child together and keep our careers.

  Maybe she’ll change her mind down the road.

  Maybe she won’t.

  The only thing I know for sure is that I’m going to be a father in approximately seven and a half months.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rachel

  My skin is itching. Prickles course up and down my spine. I’m unsettled. Ready to explode.