I take her hand, relieved that today will not be our last day together. As I lead her out of the breakroom and through the shop, we wind our way through racks of ski apparel, which is the most direct route to the door. Jake's behind the counter and throws us a wave.
I call out, "Later, man."
"This weekend," he reminds me with a pointed look.
I just nod. I'll have to call him later and explain this weekend isn't going to work as, apparently, I'm going to Vegas with this woman and we may or may not be breaking into a house that may or may not belong to her. Also that I may or may not be developing some feelings for a woman who may or may not be in my life for much longer.
Chapter 12
Cat
Although it was a nipple puckering forty-two degrees when we left Jackson at six this morning, I don't regret my decision to wear a loose, flowered skirt for the drive. This time of year in Jackson is amazing. The days are sunny and warm, but the nights get downright cold. The valley floor is thick with wildflowers just starting to fade but the alpine ones are peaking, which paint the mountains with color.
But we're headed south now and when I checked last night, Las Vegas was holding steady with temperatures in the eighties, so I know my choice of apparel is sufficient. Besides, when I kicked off my taupe-colored ballet flats and put my bare feet up on the dashboard of Rand's Suburban, I know he appreciated the way the skirt slid along my thighs and revealed my skin. I know this because his head immediately snapped my way for a moment. As he studied me, or rather my legs, his lips tipped upward. He didn't say anything, but he did place a warm palm on my knee and slide his hand along the same path my skirt took. He did this pushing inward slightly so the stroke of his skin against mine was along the inside of my thigh.
Sliding his hand slowly along, he pushed my skirt even further up legs until his hand was resting just inches from my panty line.
My heart felt like it was about to explode. I knew if he moved his hand just slightly, he'd feel the dampness of my underwear. Yes, I was horny for this man. He fucked me well last night, but it was only once, and then he proclaimed we needed to get to sleep because we had to get up early for the long drive ahead of us. With a man like Rand, I'm finding once just isn't enough.
But he did nothing more than squeeze my inner thigh with his large, warm hand and then pulled it away so it could rest casually again on the steering wheel. It took a good twenty minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal and for me to think coherently.
The rest of the trip is proving to be uneventful, however. We've been driving for almost eight hours with short stops to refuel and grab something to eat. I've offered to drive, but Rand's refused. Not sure if it's a macho, alpha thing, a gentlemanly thing, or maybe he just doesn't trust me with his vehicle, but I'm not averse to riding shotgun as long as he's not too tired.
It was my decision to drive versus fly, which is what Rand wanted to do. He felt the ten and a half hours it would take us to get there was a waste of time, and he's right about that. But my money's tight and it was cheaper to drive. I netted around $3300 from pawning my jewelry, which sucks since it was probably worth ten times that amount. But beggars can't be choosers, and I have to ration my money carefully. This meant I could budget money for gas to Las Vegas, but not plane tickets. Rand offered to buy the air fare, but I shut that conversation down quickly. I also reminded him that I didn't need him to go with me and that I was driving, and it was the end of the discussion. Except he did somehow convince me to take his Suburban rather than my small Mercedes, which would be more comfortable for Rand, and I felt that was a good compromise.
I smile over that word.
Compromise.
I've never been able to compromise with anyone before. It was flat out impossible with my mother, and with Samuel... well, there was no question I'd ever cross him.
But Rand has proven that he'll listen to me and give my wishes consideration. While I could tell he wasn't happy at all for me to be spending any of my meager money on this trip--and yes, he was incensed I only got $3300 for my jewelry--he also recognized it was important for me to be in control of how this was done.
I keep a running chatter of dialogue going so if nothing else we are semi-entertained. While I've intermittently put my feet up on the dashboard and other times curled them up under me in the big expanse of the Suburban's front passenger seat, Rand has remained a gentleman the entire time. I've kept the conversation light because we have some serious shit waiting for us in Vegas, which would be taking our attention soon enough.
"What about your family?" I ask him because we've been talking about the friends he's made over the years doing competitive skiing and how they became like a family because he was traveling so much.
Rand smiles while maintaining his concentration on the road. We're on I-15 south with nothing but flat desert valley with shadowy mountains in the distances to look at. Sometimes, the monotony of the landscape can almost be hypnotizing, and not in a good way.
"My parents are still back in Vermont where I was raised in a little unincorporated village called Quechee. My dad is a full-time novelist--true crime stuff--and my mom teaches middle school."
"No siblings?" I ask.
"Nope. Only child, and as such, I may have been doted on," he says with a grin as he watches the interstate before him.
My heart squeezes in what I think might be a very brief moment of actual jealousy. In those few words... in that smile he has on his face right now, you can see the genuine love for his parents.
"Sounds nice," I murmur as I glance out the passenger window at the desert landscape whizzing by.
"It was," he says pointedly and with no shame for having an amazing family. I turn to look at him to find him staring at me, just briefly before turning his head back to the road. "My parents are great. They sacrificed a lot by sending me to Carrabassett Valley. Not only in the money it cost, but also because it essentially took their only son out of their lives. It was hard on them to let me pursue my dreams. We only got to see each other occasionally, mostly on holidays, even though my parents only lived about four hours away. But between school and training, there was never any free time."
"They sound amazing." Go away, jealousy. Rand is the type of man who deserves great parents.
"The most amazing," he agrees. "When I started competing on a serious level, my dad started to travel with me because his job can really be done from anywhere. This, of course, took him away from my mom. So it wasn't a conventional family relationship, but it worked for us."
"Why live so far away from them?" I ask with curiosity.
Rand shrugs. "I don't know. I love Vermont. Its beauty rivals Wyoming. Ton of skiing, my family's there. Maybe one day, I'll gravitate back that way, but for now, I have the freedom to travel and live where I want to. I guess until I figure out what I really want to do, I'm fine in Jackson."
I wonder what it would be like to have that type of freedom. And I'm not just talking about financial freedom, as that's clearly part of Rand's ability to do what he wants. But to actually just take your time and figure out what you want in life. To have no pressures or worries hanging over your head.
To not have to constantly weigh pros and cons of every action you take, or to be forced into something just because your very livelihood would depend on it. Another flare of jealousy burns within my chest for a moment, but I squash it. Rand's earned his right to have that type of life.
I haven't.
Not yet, anyway.
"What about you?" he asks, and it takes a moment for the question to permeate. I turn slowly to look at him--that stunning profile of his--and I wish desperately he didn't have his sunglasses on because I know that low afternoon desert sun would make his green eyes shimmer like spun glass, and he'd become an even more romantic hero than I was already building him up to be in my mind.
"What about me?" I ask hesitantly, although I know deep in my gut what he's inquiring about.
"Your fa
mily. What's your story?"
My gaze slides back out to the desert as we fly down the interstate. I've never felt a special affinity to Nevada, even though I was born and raised here. Right now, the shades of brown from the hard-packed dirt to the creosote brush feels a lot like my life. Dull, cruddy, and depressing.
I contrast those colors to the palette of Rand's life and where he lives. Vivid greens, cool blues, and sparkling whites.
"I have no clue about my father," I say as I bring my hands to my lap where I twirl my fingers together. "My mom wouldn't tell me anything about him other than he was an asshole. She didn't even put his name on the birth certificate."
"What?" Rand says in astonishment. "She didn't think you'd have the right to judge that yourself?"
"Guess not," I say glumly. I never knew what to think of the man who gave his sperm to my mom.
"Do you believe her?" he asks. It surprises me he would question my mother's character without knowing anything about her. But I suspect Rand is making some preconceived judgments based on what little he knows about me, and let's face it... he wouldn't be wrong to question her motives. I question them all the time.
"Probably not," I admit softly, still staring at my hands. "My mother wasn't a very motherly figure. It's hard to trust what she says."
"More," Rand orders, not in an autocrat type of way, but rather in a way that says he's not going to let me chintz on the gory details of my life. He's demanding to know my demons, because as he said, how can he slay them if he doesn't know what they are? "I promise I won't judge."
My head snaps up and swings to stare at him with my mouth slightly open. "I know you'd never judge me," I say vehemently. Not once in the entire time I've known Rand--whether it was while he was watching me get fucked by other men or while he was absorbing the wretched details of my relationship with Samuel--has he ever looked upon me with anything other than intrigue, lust, curiosity, respect, and most recently, with care.
"Then lay it on me," he urges softly as he takes a moment to turn his attention from the road to give me an encouraging smile.
I take a deep breath, pull my bare feet up from the floorboard, and put them on the dash again. I notice briefly it's time for a pedicure as the polish is starting to chip, then just as quickly remember I can't afford those anymore. I actually pull my skirt to my knees and hold the edges there with my hands.
"I'll give you a classic example of my childhood," I say after exhaling. "One night, I woke up really hungry--I was eight, I think. I was hungry because Mom sent me to bed without dinner. She said it was because I was a pain in her ass, but I think it was because she hadn't bothered to go grocery shopping. But I knew there was probably something I could get out of the cupboards, so I got out of bed and made my way down the narrow hall of our little desert trailer to the kitchen. The kitchen actually stood between the hallway and the living room, and I saw my mom in there with a guy--just some random dude, which was par for the course. They were sitting on the couch, smoking a joint together. There was a pizza on the coffee table. Mostly eaten, but there were two slices left. She saw me and asked what I wanted. I told her I was hungry and asked for some of the pizza. She told me tough shit and to get back to bed. She said it was hers, and she'd need it for the munchies that were sure to come on after they finished smoking their joint. Then they both started laughing hysterically."
"Unbelievable," Rand growls from low in his throat.
"My mother is irresponsible and selfish. She had absolutely no business having a kid. She didn't even care when I left home at seventeen. I know this because I came back after a few days to get more of my stuff and she was there. Didn't even ask where I'd been. Only wanted to know if I had any money, because I'd been working since I was fifteen, to make sure I at least had food."
"Was she on hard drugs or something?" Rand asks in wonder, because that would be a good explanation for her lack of care.
"Nope. I mean, yeah, she smoked some pot every once in a while, but she held a steady job. Worked as a secretary at an auto body shop. She had friends. She'd see a lot of different men, but she didn't really parade them in front of me. I think she was embarrassed she had a kid."
"What a fucking bitch," Rand mutters.
"It's funny," I say in reflection. "I left home when I was seventeen, didn't finish high school, and ended up on the streets for a bit. And still... it was better than what I had. I never had someone care for me before, and that didn't change whether I was in her house or sleeping on some strange dude's couch in exchange for a blow job. The difference is that when I was with her, I still always expected she'd care a little. As much as she let me down, over and over again, I always still expected it of her. And that means I was repetitively hurt when I didn't get it. At least on the streets, I had no expectations that anyone could smash."
Rand's hand comes out, and he takes mine. He pulls it across the cab, making me lean a little toward him, and gives a soft kiss to the inside of my wrist. "Your mom sounds like a vile person. I'm thinking one of the best things you ever did was leaving when you were young. You're in a much better place now that you're rid of her."
I give a cold, bitter laugh, and shake my head. "I'm not rid of her. That woman became a leech on me once I married Samuel."
"Come again?" he asks with a head tilt.
"She saw in the society pages that I got married. Not two days later, she's at our house, asking for money."
"Did you give it to her?" Rand asks.
"Yeah, I did," I admit to him, but without shame.
"Why?"
"Because it made me feel superior to her. Is that bad?"
Rand gives a chuckle and squeezes my hand. "You were already superior to her, Cat. That money didn't prove anything."
I squeeze his hand back. "Maybe not, but I couldn't say no. She was my mom, after all."
"Amazing," Rand murmurs as we fly down the highway. "That you would still have any empathy for a woman who treated you so badly throughout your life. I think that makes you absolutely and perfectly amazing."
"Or stupid," I mutter, and Rand laughs.
"Maybe a little foolish, but never stupid," he offers.
"I'll take that," I tell him with a grin. "Of course, she called the minute she heard Samuel had died. I'm sure she saw that in the paper. I figured I'd be hearing something from her, asking about my inheritance, and that's exactly why she called. You'd be proud. I put her off and told her I didn't have time to deal with her. Ironic it wasn't but a week later and I was all but homeless. Good thing she's not asking for money now, huh?"
"Yeah, well, you better not give her one dime of that money you got for your jewelry. You earned that the hardest of ways and that's for your future, not hers."
"Agreed," I say as I see a looming sign growing closer.
Las Vegas - 56 Miles.
Almost there.
And then I'll hopefully find out what my future really holds.
Chapter 13
Rand
"Big step up from my little trailer in the desert, huh?" Cat says on a low whisper as we stand before the front portico of one of the biggest houses I've ever seen in my life.
The house Cat shared with Samuel is monstrous. She had told me it was eleven-thousand square feet. To be that big, it comes in three chunks with a main center section and two wings that flank at a slight angle inward. Done in taupe stucco, brown brick, and red tile, it fits into the desert scenery well.
It's nine AM. We decided that if we were going to enter the house, we were going to do it as if she belonged there. Without really knowing what Samuel's will truly says, it's more than plausible that Cat has every right to be here. We thought it would look far less suspicious if done in the bright light of day.
Thus, we got to the hotel yesterday afternoon, a lower class, budget hotel Cat chose that sat on the outskirts of Vegas. Since she was insisting on paying, I had to let her choose. Rest assured, if it was in my hands, we'd be at the Bellagio, but I'm honoring her nee
d to do some of this on her own. It's important to her pride.
"Ready to do this?" I ask as we stand side by side on the bottom step. Before us stands double doors made of solid wood, and either her key will work or it won't. Same for the security code.
"Ready as I'll ever be," she says firmly, and then reaches out with her hand to take mine. It feels natural. It makes me remember how much I missed being part of a unit.
Together, we walk up the steps.
Cat told me on the way here that Samuel bought this house about twenty years ago after his first wife died. Because she was the love of his life, he couldn't bear to stay in the family home where they raised their two sons. Since he moved in, Cat had been his fourth wife, the other two before her outliving their usefulness after they reached the age of twenty-eight. Cat told me she wondered if Samuel did to them what he did to her.
I didn't offer an opinion because I think we both know he did.
When we reach the front door, Cat releases her hold on me and digs into her purse slung crossways over her chest and resting at her hip. She pulls out a set of keys, flips through them, and chooses a gold-colored one that doesn't look much different from the others.
With a deep breath, she reaches out and slides the key in. Twisting her wrist, she lets out a huge sigh of relief when the lock turns. She looks at me, her lips peeling into a wide grin and her eyes sparkling with excitement. I smile back at her, relieved of course that her key still works, but knowing deep down that it doesn't mean shit. She may have still been cut out of Samuel's will, but the locks just haven't been changed yet.
Cat pushes the door open, and we both step into a cavernous foyer aglow with natural light from the huge, arched window above the door. A beep from the security panel beside the door catches my attention, and I watch as Cat puts in the code. It shuts the alarm off, and we both let out an audible sigh of relief.
The house is sparsely decorated--minimalistic. It would be easy to say that was so because Samuel was a bachelor for a long time and didn't care what his house looked like, but I'm going to guess it's because Samuel didn't get much pleasure out of life and didn't care what his house looked like. From what I know about the asshole, he derived pleasure from watching his wife be degraded, so I doubt fancy artwork and priceless knick-knacks would do much for him.
The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (+Wicked Bond [5]) Page 56