Booted

by Pam Godwin

  I crave a bottle of whiskey and the escape it would give me.

  Her hand slides up my spine, gentle and supportive.

  I slowly release a breath. “There were five of them. Before I could blink, I was on my knees with my face in the urinal. Hands restrained my arms while more pulled down my pants. I knew if they fucked me, my status would be established, and it would happen again and again.”

  Her fingers curl around my shoulder, digging in.

  “A switch flipped,” I say. “The same kill switch that shut down my brain the night I shot Wyatt Longley. Instinct took over. The mindless, uncontrollable impulse to hunt, destroy, and claim victory over my enemies. It controlled me in that bathroom. I don’t know how I fought back. I was just one person, but I was someone else entirely, like a monster clawing its way up the food chain.”

  “You escaped.”

  Did I?

  My attackers limped away, but so did I. I’m still limping, still looking over my shoulder, still waking every night in a drenched puddle of torment.

  I’m a pussy for letting the experience haunt me. I survived. I’m free. But when I close my eyes, I’m right back in that bathroom, fighting for my life.

  The ravine, the abuse Conor suffered by my dad, the years I spent in prison, and John Holsten’s threat against Raina—these are my demons. They’re relentless and deeply embedded, howling at me day and night.

  I’m still trying to escape.

  Raina stirs at my side. “You have nightmares.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you sleep outside instead of in the room with me? Because I can sleep on the couch or—”

  “I missed the stars and hate the confinement of the house.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” She rests a hand against my cheek, turning me toward her. She cups my face and draws me closer, resting her brow against mine. “I hear you.”

  I grip her wrists, my thumbs roving across her silky skin, my entire body attuned to the pain in hers. “I hear you, too. I’m here if you want to talk—”

  “I told you what happened to me. I even had a good cry in your truck. Now I just need it to be over.”

  She pulls away and swings up into the saddle, her face angled toward the horizon and expression closed off.

  The woman jumps at the chance to pick apart my insides, but the instant I turn the spotlight on her, she powers off.

  Because she’s scared.

  She told me her past, but she refuses to share her feelings about it. Doing so would invite me in and expose her innermost weaknesses and fears. Keeping that part of her closed off protects her from the monsters that prey on vulnerability.

  Is that what I am to her? A monster? Maybe that’s how she perceives all men.

  I grasp her thigh, squeezing the muscle hard enough to earn a sexy glare.

  “Have you ever had a lover?” I inch my fingers upward, lingering on the crease of velvety skin where the cut-offs meet the bend of her leg.

  “Am I talking to Horny Lorne now?” She stares at my hand, her chest rising and falling. “You should wear changeable name tags, so I can follow along.”

  “Answer the question.” I slip under the denim, teasing hidden flesh.

  She’s so warm. So fucking soft. One touch and I’m instantly hard.

  “No.” She grabs my forearm and pushes, unable to budge me. “Sex is a job. Nothing more.” She leans down, her brown eyes hard and cold. “You want the best orgasm of your life? I’m your girl. But if you expect more than a fuck, look elsewhere.”

  My muscles tighten. My cock swells, and my chest expands with a deep, resolute breath. I leap into the saddle behind her and yank her tight against me.

  “Your words are garbage, but I hear what you’re really saying.” With my arms around her, I gather the reins and touch my lips to her ear. “Your body is mine for the taking. Your heart, I have to work for.”

  She stiffens. “No, I don’t want—”

  “Let me tell you something about me. If you were my girl, I’d make you feel like my world. Only then would I deserve to make you feel like my slut.”

  The next day, I end the training session early after a heated exchange with Lorne. I might’ve started the verbal sparring match, but dammit, he’s a moody, hackle-raising, fight-provoking egomaniac. Who also happens to be infuriatingly gorgeous when he’s mad.

  We ride back to the estate in a fume of mutual displeasure, rocking together in the saddle, with his arm barred across my waist. When we reach the back porch, I move to jump off, but his grip tightens, holding me against him.

  “Let go.” I shove at his bulging bicep, dismayed by the impenetrable strength in it.

  “You can push me away all you want. I’m just gonna pull harder.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Because I told him I wouldn’t give him more than sex. As if I could treat him like a job.

  I’m an idiot.

  My words kicked him right in his pride. Of course, he’s going to flex his mighty manliness and prove he’s the one who can bring me to my knees.

  But that’s not what set off the latest argument.

  While I was shooting at—and missing—the evasive coffee cans, he started pressing me about my sister, my mother’s drug addiction, and the abuse I endured with John Holsten. I don’t talk about those things. I don’t examine them. But he kept digging, probing, and watching me with those eyes.

  So I snapped and hit him with my temper. In Lorne fashion, he roared right back. And here we are.

  Twisting in the saddle, I meet his hard gaze. “We’re not good together.”

  “We haven’t killed each other.”

  “We fight constantly.”

  “We communicate at full volume.” He strokes a knuckle along my jaw.

  I shiver. “We push each other’s buttons.”

  “We challenge each other.” He cups my throat, holding, not squeezing.

  “I’m a prostitute.”

  Now he squeezes. “You had a job, one you will never go back to.”

  My heart stops, then pounds, stalling my breaths and eating up his words.

  I know this isn’t a game to him. Not to either of us. He’s thinking and saying and doing what feels right. But what’s right for him isn’t right for me.

  I don’t do relationships. I have too many ugly, deep-seeded issues, and the big one is out there somewhere, biding his time until he can catch me and make my insides a thousand times uglier.

  “I spent two years in John Holsten’s bed.” I pull Lorne’s hand from my throat, and he allows it. “Don’t tell me that doesn’t bother you.”

  “I hate it, because you weren’t there willingly. You hated it. But I have never brought it up or used it against you. He has nothing to do with this.”

  “This,” I echo.

  “Us.”

  I’ve never been part of an us. It sounds foreign to my ears, and I don’t trust it. “The moment I said you couldn’t have my heart, you decided you wanted it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t not say it.” My nerve endings tremble and tingle. “Why are we even discussing this? We’ve only known each other for a week.”

  “A week in which we’ve spent nearly every second together.” He dismounts the horse and helps me down. “Outside of my family, I’ve never had this much interaction with another person. I never wanted to.” He cups the back of my head and puts his face in mine. “I like this, and I want to see where it’s going.”

  My pulse hammers, and I grip the front of his shirt. His lips are so close, and his warm masculine scent assails my senses as I waffle between pushing him away and pulling him in.

  The wind, the silence, my gut—all of it whispers to pull, to give him a chance. But I’m nervous. Scared enough to flee. My gaze drifts toward the house.

  He removes his touch and steps out of my reach. The look on his face isn’t disappointment, frustration, or any expression he
’s ever shown me. The looseness around his mouth and softness in his eyes convey patience and understanding.

  I’m beginning to think he really does hear me.

  “Jake’s in the office today.” He nods at the house.

  Whenever I’m cleaning or preparing meals, someone’s always nearby, either inside the estate or watching from outside. I hate that they have to babysit me, but I also appreciate it. Between Lorne’s training and having a safe place to live, he’s given me more stability than I’ve ever known.

  “I’m going to take Captain back to the stable.” He runs a hand across the dappled flank of his horse. “Then I’ll be on the front porch, working out.”

  He exercises every day without weights or machines. Or clothes. Stripped down to his briefs, always outside, he conditions his body with crunches, squats, chin lifts, and whatever else he learned to do in a six by eight cell.

  In fact, he only goes inside to eat and shower. His massive suite sits unfurnished, unpainted, and lonely. I don’t sleep well in there, and I doubt he sleeps any better on the ground.

  He needs to move in and make this place his home again.

  With a hand resting on his belt buckle and his other hanging at his side, he idly strokes his thumb along the scar on his palm.

  Sunlight hits his face at just the right angle to illuminate a faint scattering of freckles across his nose. His sister is covered in them, thanks to their Irish blood, but his freckles didn’t appear until the last couple of days. His skin is darker, too. Healthier.

  The fresh air and glow of summer suits him.

  “Go inside, Raina, before I forgo the workout for a different kind of exercise.”

  My mouth parts on a faltering breath, and a jolt of warmth quakes through me. I’ve been attracted to him since day one, but that shallow sentiment is evolving into unchartered territory. I feel greedy for him, possessive, and utterly confused.

  Thirty minutes ago, I wanted to break his dick on my boot. Now, I’m imagining it in ways I’ve never craved a man.

  I turn toward the house and enter through the mudroom.

  Distance from him is smart, even if the ache in my gut doesn’t agree.

  I slide off my boots, and my attention falls to the trail of dirt that leads to the interior door. My molars slam together as I follow the mess into the kitchen, where it tracks back and forth and around the table.

  “Raina?” Jake bellows from another room.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  As the sound of his footsteps retreat, an idea hits me, and I run after him.

  The office sits off the foyer. When I reach the open doorway, I poke my head in.

  Jake sits at a huge wooden desk, surrounded by paperwork and computer monitors. He’s the finance brain of the cattle operation, but that’s not where his attention resides at the moment.

  He stares at a large screen filled with a dozen live camera feeds from various locations on the property. Some of them display Conor’s clinic. The view of her exam room shows her kneeling beside a blurry dog-sized animal.

  “Is that a goat?” I ask.

  He glances over his shoulder at me and returns to the screen. “Yeah.” After a moment, he sighs and pushes away from the desk, seemingly with great reluctance. “I could stare at her all day. Conor, not the goat.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. I just wanted to see if you had a marker and something to write on.”

  His stern gaze sweeps over the messy office. “For what?”

  “A sign.”

  A dark eyebrow lifts. Then he ambles over to the closet and removes an old poster of Chris Stapleton. “Use the back of this.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t know.” He hands me a sharpie from the desk drawer. “I haven’t seen your sign yet.”

  With a grin, I stretch out the poster on the floor and write.

  Attention Ranchers.

  Take off your clothes.

  And prepare for disappointment. It’s not what you think.

  If you track in dirt, your next meal will be your last.

  I cap the marker and peer up at Jake.

  He bursts into laughter. “Are you hanging that in the mudroom?”

  “Yup.”

  I thank him for his help and head out to take my first stance in this family.

  The sign goes on the wall with a dirty clothes hamper beneath it. I set out clean shorts on the shelving unit and clear the bottom shelves to store dirty boots. Then I start mopping.

  That night, dinner simmers on the stove as I flit around the kitchen, preparing the salad, buttering the bread, and setting the table.

  With the volume turned up on the stereo in the living room, I sing along with my favorite song, Gun Power and Lead by Miranda Lambert. The brash lyrics grab me where my heart lives. I belt them, loud and out of tune, in an ode to John Holsten, Lorne Cassidy, and any other man who underestimates me.

  When the song ends, everything’s ready, and I stand at the sink with a flutter in my chest.

  They’ll arrive any minute and gather around the table, laughing and arguing and sharing stories about their day. I look forward to it with an unfamiliar tug of affection.

  More than that, I feel dizzy with anticipation of seeing Lorne.

  I had plenty to do this afternoon, none of which included seeking him out. But I wanted to.

  Maybe I should get my head examined, because I miss his moody ass.

  The outside door to the mudroom opens and closes, followed by multiple footsteps. Then silence.

  I move to the stove as Jarret strides in, wearing a t-shirt and boxer briefs. No dusty jeans or mud-caked boots.

  A smile stretches my cheeks. “I set out shorts.”

  “I tried to tell him.” Maybe walks in, clad in the cotton shorts I left for her. “By the way…” She wraps an arm around my shoulders and leans in. “You’re kind of badass.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I laugh, warming at her compliment.

  On my other side, Jarret reaches around me and lifts the lid on the pot.

  “No, you don’t.” I grab the wooden spoon and swat his arm with it. “Go clean up. We’re eating in ten.”

  “Your stomach can wait.” Maybe hugs Jarret from behind and kisses his spine. “Because you’re going to take a shower with me.”

  That gets him moving.

  As they step out of the kitchen, Conor pads in, barefoot and donning a pair of Jake’s gym shorts.

  “I love the sign.” She smiles at me with tired eyes. “It’s about time someone spanked some respect into those boys.”

  “Spanking will be a challenge with the oldest one. He’s difficult.”

  “And distant,” she says quietly. “I’m trying to give him space and time and… I don’t know what he needs.”

  “It’s only been a week. He’ll come around.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Pulling in a breath, she stands straighter. “Thank you for cooking and keeping things clean. This is…” She waves a hand at the set table. “We’ve never had anything like this. Never had someone taking care of us, you know. It’s nice.” She cocks her head. “How are you doing? Is Lorne…?”

  Pissing me off? Driving me crazy? Twisting me up? Making me want things I shouldn’t want?

  Yeah. All of it.

  “He’s a good instructor,” I say.

  She sucks on her lip, scrutinizing me. “There’s more you’re not saying, but I’ll let it go. For now. I need to go clean up.”

  When she leaves the kitchen, the restless flutter in my chest returns. A flutter that’s reserved for Lorne and the confrontation that always awaits us.

  I grin as the sound of boots enter the mudroom. A moment later, the kitchen door opens behind me.

  My eyes remain fixed on the stove while the rest of my body beats and warms with the hard throb of my pulse.

  The pads of his approaching footsteps indicate no shoes. He stops at my back and presses in, with his hands on my hips and his nose in my
hair. “Smells delicious.”

  A thrill races up my spine. “Chicken and dumplings.”

  “That smells good, too.”

  I suck in a breath, bringing the addictive scent of him into my lungs. No man should smell that sensational, especially after a workout in the summer heat.

  His chest feels like a steel press against my back as the long length of his body edges closer, harder around mine.

  In my head, I see every indention, carved ridge, and muscular curve of his physique. In reality, I’ve seen all of him in the buff. Except his cock, which is currently swelling against my ass.

  I’m wearing one of the outfits he bought me. A green cotton slip dress that stops above my knees. The fabric is so thin the heat from his skin spreads across mine.

  Is he wearing any clothes? My mouth dries as I reach back and touch his waist.

  Warm, tight skin.

  I slide my hand lower, tracing the shredded grooves of abs and hips. When my fingers meet the dense, round, bare curve of his butt, I spin to face him. “Why are you naked?”

  The assertive glimmer in his eyes dares me to look down and investigate the extent of his nudity. I don’t.

  “The sign…” He hitches a thumb in the direction of the mudroom, his lips curving into a half-grin.

  Have mercy, that dimple.

  “Since when do you follow orders?” I prop a fist on my hip.

  “When it puts that flush in your cheeks.”

  He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, his mouth slightly open and bathing my face in Lorne-scented allure. Then he pivots and strolls toward the living room, giving me a jaw-dropping view of the remarkable beauty chiseled into his Adonis body.

  Heat soars through my veins, cooking me from the inside out. Perspiration forms on my brow, and my breath trembles past my lips.

  He can’t just walk around like that. It’s criminal.

  “Your sister!” I shout after him.

  He lifts off his hat and holds it at his side as he vanishes around the corner.

  I turn to the sink and pat a wet towel across my face.

  He’s such a tease. What would he do if I chased him? I could walk into his room, wrap a hand around his cock, and own him in two seconds flat.