by Shey Stahl
I call Britany, hoping to talk to Wyatt again, but he’s in bed and I realize it’s nearing midnight there again. I’m disappointed I keep missing the little guy. He’s two, and the most I get out of him on any given day is “Hi” and “Daddy,” and a bunch of indecipherable words he thinks everyone should know the meaning to, but it’s worth it to hear his voice.
Britany immediately senses something’s off as to why I’m calling so late for the second night in a row. “What’s up with you?” she asks, knowing me better than I know myself at times.
I fall back against the wall, slide down it, and sit facing the windows, moonlight streaming in through the glass. It glitters and reflects off a vase of flowers my aunt sent over to stage the home for sale.
I run the palms of my hands over my face and set a bottle of bourbon between my legs. “I don’t know, but I need out of this cursed fuckin’ town.”
“Only a few more days, right?”
“Yeah. I’m heading out Wednesday morning. Are Reid and Ty riding with me to Biloxi?”
I can hear her tossing toys in bins, the clank of plastic against wood and the ones that light up and sing. “Yep. Wyatt and I are coming too. We’ll head home after Nashville.”
Britany and Wyatt usually travel with us. Not only does Britany travel with Reid, but she likes to give Wyatt as much exposure to the world we grew up in, and time with me. The only time I get to see him is if he’s on the road with us.
I draw in a deep breath, wishing I wasn’t this way. “What’s wrong with me, B? This shit is fucked up.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not still thinking about that damn well and your supposed ‘curse’ are you?”
“No.” Lies. I unscrew the cap on the bourdon and take a drink, waiting for the burn. When it hits, my mind clears, if only for a moment. “This girl . . . she’s seventeen.”
“Grayer!” Britany shouts. I can hear her disappointment and the way her lips flatten into a frown. I can’t see it, of course, but I know her well enough to know this would be the look I’d be getting if I was sitting in front of her.
“I know!”
She pauses, momentarily. “Did you sleep with her?” There’s no jealousy to her tone. I don’t even think Britany’s capable of the emotion. She’s a rock, but inside, a look no one sees but me, she’s insecure, never jealous.
Dread snakes down my spine. “Not technically.” She knows what I mean.
“Grayer, you need to be careful.”
“I know that.” I groan, my head falling back against the wall. I take another drink, straight from the bottle. “There’s just somethin’ ’bout her. I can’t stop myself from wanting to protect her.”
She waits, and it sounds like she’s taking a drink. “Why does she need protecting?”
Because of the motherfuckers around here. A muscle tics in my jaw. Just thinking of Joel makes my blood boil.
“You’d protect anyone from anyone but you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a protector,” Britany says with a sigh. “But you never look out for you. You’re always concerned with making sure everyone’s taken care of but you.”
I push my hand through my hair. Another drink. “Don’t tell me that.” I set the bottle down, my actions slower than before.
“Why?”
“Because I want her . . . ,” I say with lightness.
“And she’s seventeen?”
“Yep,” I echo, my tone implying “but it’s not like that.” I try to think about what is drawing me to Maesyn. I can’t say it’s because she gave me head that first night without even questioning it. No, it’s not that. The pull to her is sexual, to an extent. It’s more than that and I feel slightly crazy for even thinking it.
Britany’s laughing. At me. As usual. It’s like I’m her goddamn entertainment half the time.
I’m screwed up. My hands shake when I reach for the bottle again. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you always want what you can’t have.”
I’m on the defense. “What’s the supposed to mean?”
“Dude, really?” I can picture her sending me a glare that screams, are you serious?
“What?”
“I was your friend. You couldn’t have me and then you seduced me until we slept together.”
“I don’t remember it happening that way.” Which is bullshit. I do. I’m not stupid. I knew Reid had a thing for Britany from the very beginning. I’d been the persistent one and wanted B first.
“Well, it did. Do I need to put Reid on the phone and he can knock some sense into you?”
“No,” I groan. We’ve had this conversation. Reid is quietly controlled, speaking in sighs and nods. He’s mature. Had to be. He raised Ty and me after everything that went down with Selena. “I don’t need his big brother speech.” I change the subject. “I saw Dani tonight.”
Britany sighs, knowing what I’m doing. “How is she?”
“Still wild as ever. She’s stayin’ with Aunt Laurel and already bugging me about moving to Decatur when she graduates.”
The conversation finally moves away from me and back to why I’m here, the land, the sale, making sure Dani’s okay. It’s all this should be about but unfortunately, it’s not.
Bull riders use the term "into his hand" or "into my hand" to describe the scenario in which a bull is spinning in the same direction of a rider's riding hand.
Example: A right-handed bull rider on a bull that spins to the right is riding a bull "into his hand."
Haylee had a great plan when I called her this morning. I wanted to apologize to Grayer and let him know I’m not this girl he thinks I am. And sorry didn’t seem good enough. It wasn’t.
Haylee said a way to a man’s heart is food, and that I was good at. I know how to cook and could throw down a meal when needed.
My specialty? Macaroni and cheese. Not just any macaroni and cheese. I made it with barbecue sauce and Ritz crackers mixed with butter. Dee. Lish. Ous.
With The Judd’s as our background music, Morgan and Mom help me out because Mom loves to cook, and Morgan wants to do anything we’re doing. Mom’s taught me all her favorite recipes over the years and every recipe handed down through generations of her family. It’s what we’ve bonded over throughout the years and what I’ll miss when I leave. I will.
“Are you making enough for Grayer?” Mom asks when she notices how much cheese I’m grating. Morgan’s working on the Ritz crackers. Taking them from the sleeves, she places them in a bowl.
I stop midgrate. “Yeah.” I’m afraid to look at Mom. “Is that okay?”
She smiles. “I was hoping you would. He’s had a rough few months. He needs a good home-cooked meal.”
It takes me another fifteen minutes, only because I don’t want to appear too eager to know, and I ask, “Do you remember why the Easton brothers left town?” I whisper, not wanting Morgan to hear me. She’s still crushing the crackers in a bowl, one by one. I hate to tell her I usually use the blender, but whatever. It keeps her busy.
Mom frowns at my question and wipes her wet hands on the front of her apron. “I do. And I never believed those rumors.”
“You never believed her?”
“No. I’ve seen those boys around since they were in diapers. Sure, they were a little wild and loved to cause trouble, but they’re boys. They’d never do something like that, they were raised better than that.”
Mom’s right. You can be bad and you can be evil. There is a difference between the two. If you ask me, from what I’ve seen, Grayer is neither. He’s good and pure. I see it in his eyes and his need to protect me.
When Mom and I finish the macaroni and cheese, we make some creamed spinach, garlic bread, and peach cobbler for dessert. We sit down to eat around four when I begin to wonder if Grayer is going to show up at all, especially after last night and the fight with Joel. Maybe he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble of fixing the barn.
I’m in my room that night and I’m contemplating going to bed when I see his headlights come around the corner and the dust cloud that kicks up. It’s late, probably too late for him to be working out there, but Dad more than likely doesn’t care. He just wants the work done. He doesn’t care when it gets done.
When I see Grayer go inside the barn, I scurry down to the kitchen, careful not to wake my parents or Morgan and heat up a plate for him. I put the peach cobbler in a bowl with two scoops of ice cream and then place all that on a tray to take with me, praying he hasn’t eaten already and doesn’t tell me to get lost.
I step outside. It’s raining, the fresh smell of summer cut grass, lilacs, and wet dirt overwhelm me. I breathe in deeply as the rain pelts my face and I hear the distant thud of a hammer in the barn as I approach.
Barefoot and sleepy, I’m wearing my nightshirt, no bra—all part of my plan—and carrying the food with me. I open the barn door while trying to balance the tray on my knee. Quietly, I close it behind me, locking it. Stables line the sides of the barn, horses in for the night. Mac neighs when I pass by him, attempting to steal my tray. He knows what’s in there—the hint’s in his name, Mac. When he was a foal he used to only like macaroni noodles.
There’s music playing from a portable stereo on the floor, and hay and feed bags are scattered amongst tools along the roughed-up wood floor.
The loud thud of metal hitting metal brings my attention to Grayer to my left. His shirt is gone, and he’s got his cowboy hat on singing Randy Travis and stumbling around. He’s totally drunk!
I know the song he’s singing. I’ve heard it a lot as it’s one of my dad’s favorites. Leaning against the wall, I hold the tray close and try to be as quiet as I can, but Mac neighs louder, upset I haven’t given him the food.
When Grayer notices me standing in the barn barefoot, his whiskey-induced smile catches mine and he drops the hammer on the ground with a thud. His eyes rake over my body, wanting like they did that first night, and then he sees the food. His left hand rises and scratches the side of his scruffy jaw, his knuckles cracked and bloody. “What’s that?”
“Food. For you,” I say, shrugging.
“Smells good.” His hooded eyes make another pass over my body. His hat shadows his eyes slightly, but I can see the flush in his cheeks, pink as the morning sky from the liquor he’s consumed today.
Taking two steps toward me, he sits on a crate. I hand him the tray.
He looks up at me through long lashes, tipping up his hat with a knock of his hand to get a better look. “You made this for me?”
Oh God, those eyes, that smile, his face, he’s absolutely beautiful. Stop staring at him!
“Yeah,” I manage to say. “There’s more than one thing I’m good at, ya know.” I don’t know why I said that. Facepalm!
He smirks in a drunken sort of way. I’m not sure if he knows what I’m referencing, but I think he does. It appears he hasn’t eaten much if at all today as he stares at the food, but he hesitates.
“Go ahead, eat.”
With a nod, he digs in. I watch him eat and debate on whether or not to thank him for last night. Instead, I settle on music. “So you like Randy Travis?”
He laughs around the bite of macaroni and cheese and nods. “Yeah, I suppose.” He points his fork at the plate, looking up at me. “Is there barbecue sauce in this?”
Nervously, I nod. “I think it gives it a different twist to the traditional version. Is it okay?”
He makes even eating look hot.
He smirks. Okay, well his smirk it definitely sexier than him eating. “It’s really good.”
I’ve never seen a man eat that fast, but he eats it all in about five minutes and then finishes the beer he had with him. Then starts on the peach cobbler. “You make this too?”
“Yeah. I like to cook.” My eyes are focused on his mouth and the way he slides the spoon from his perfectly curved lips. “I never got to apologize for last night, and I’m sorry.” I clear my throat, easing over the awkwardness. “Joel is just . . . he’s an ass and doesn’t know when to quit.”
He straightens his back, his jaw tightening, but he says nothing. Just a grunt. Like he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Crap. I should shut up, but I’m incapable of it. “You didn’t have to stick up for me.”
Grayer’s jaw flexes, eyes blazing like they did the night before. He inhales, staring at the bowl in his hand, deeply, searching for more than words. “It was the right thing to do.”
He finishes the cobbler and sets the bowl down on the tray. He reaches for his beer. “Goddamn, you can cook.”
A slight smile curves his lips as his eyes warm. He sets the beer down on the floor and then stands, coming toward me as I lean against the side of the barn. His eyes slide to my face. My heart pounds as he nears, his warmth intoxicating. I’m curious if he’s going to tell me off again or thank me for the food.
“Girl, what’s up?” His sweet southern drawl is way more apparent when he’s drunk.
Girl, what’s up? I hold back my snort, just barely. He’s really drunk. And it’s sexy. So freaking sexy that I can’t help but stare at him and his bare chest. Boys around here don’t look like this. Sure they’re muscular, but it’s clear Grayer honed his body to perfection, and perfection is exactly what it is. “You here to torture me some more?”
Clint Black’s “Like the Rain” comes on the stereo and I ask, “Are you drunk, Grayer?” I watch him come closer, taking the two steps to press his sweaty bare chest into me. My eyes dart to his eyes, then his chest. I notice a scar on his shoulder; it’s a deep one, still purple as if it’s fairly new. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Noticing my reaction, a gruff laugh comes from him. His touch is subtle at first, high on my hips, but it’s enough to entice even the smallest of reactions from my heart. I can’t stop it from flying. As soon as he touches me, I’m undone. He makes flawed seem perfect and unattainable at the same time. My hands tremble at the thought of being with him. And when he touches me, it’s all electricity and needles, the tingling sensation that you get deep in your bones knowing this is the touch you’ve been waiting for your entire life. I’d sell my soul for this touch, aching for his heated embrace, like the bright burning wood of a bonfire, lit, and longing for a breeze to ignite me.
His eyes slowly drink me in, drifting over my face and lingering lower. “So?” He tips his hat up and then takes my face in his palms, sharing my breath and making me taste his words. “Why do you care if I’m drunk . . . Maesyn?”
Oh lord. “I’m pretty sure in your current state I could just take advantage of you right now,” I tease, the gentlest of smiles touching my lips.
“Go ahead.” He grins, bunching the fabric of my nightshirt in his fists, like any second he might rip it off me. I pray he does. “If you’re up for the challenge.” Stepping forward, he pushes us against the side door to the tack room. It catches me off guard. It’s different from our last encounter in here. His hands are on my hips, my back meeting worn wood that’s captured thousands of memories in this barn. He hunches forward, sliding his hands from my hips down my thighs and picks me up. I wrap my legs around his waist, squeezing, and my hands go to his shoulders, curling around his neck. I knock his hat off next, in case he wants to kiss me.
The thin fabric of my panties leaves nothing to my imagination when I come in contact with the ridges in his belt buckle pressed against me. Our eyes collide and a zing of electricity shoots through me. My heart somersaults. “Go ahead, take advantage of me,” he whispers, inches from my face.
He gives me that country-boy grin, shifting his weight forward again to give me a little more. Heat spreads throughout my body. Damn, that’s nice. I resist the urge to toss my head back and moan.
Looking at him, I know he will mind if I take advantage of him. He most certainly will. There are parts
of him holding back and he’s not going to let go that easily.
Moonlight filters into the barn and I’m content on never moving from his arms. Leaning forward, his lips meet mine. And then he’s kissing me, giving me what I need as his mouth moves over mine. It’s what he wants, but knows he shouldn’t have. It’s tentative at first, gently parted lips and a slow, gradual build before his tongue sweeps over the seam of my lips. He tastes like peaches and beer, sweet and sinful all in one.
His kiss is alive, sweet and savoring, like sweet tea on a hot day, never quite enough, but just enough to satisfy the tongue once he gives me that taste. It’s not enough because I want so much more. I never want it to end.
When he parts his mouth from mine, I inhale in a much-needed breath, my head buzzing with excitement. Grayer moves his mouth to my neck, kissing up and down the curve, sending shivers through my entire body. This . . . his kiss, his touch, it’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced in my life. The way his mouth commands mine, his breathing, his calloused hands . . . all of it.
It’s slow and it’s meant to be as he kisses over my sun-kissed and salty skin, heating it to degrees the sun could never reach. Holding me against the side of the barn, Grayer’s already in control here, more in control than I am at the moment. There’s a sense of strength only he has, but it’s also the alcohol, driving him forward. It’s the only way he’s forgetting the age difference.
“I feel bad for you,” I whisper when he’s staring at me, maybe deciding what happens next.
“Why?” His eyes find mine, and they seem honest, pure to the heart. He may be trouble, but this bad boy has a good heart, and it’s evident from these looks he’s giving me.
“Because in the morning, when you’re not drunk, you’re not going to remember any of this.”