The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (+Wicked Bond [5])

by Sawyer Bennett

  He looks over his head and says, "Sure thing, Rand."

  "How'd you know I wanted a burger?" Cat asks. She knows I ordered the burger for her since I know she doesn't like chicken, which is strange because I thought everyone likes chicken. Still, it's a unique fact about her that's hard to forget.

  "Lucky guess," I say with a smirk. "So seriously... how was your second day of work?"

  "More of the same unpacking boxes, but Callie was there today and she started educating me on what the process will be like over the next year."

  "Sounds fun," I say with trademark snark.

  She smiles, but the light doesn't last long before her eyes turn serious. "Did he ever show?"

  She's talking about Kevin who had agreed to deliver the purported current and signed estate paperwork of Samuel Vaughn. I expected him or someone on his behalf to come to Westward Ink today and hand it off.

  Well, that's not true. I actually expected him not to bring it but at the least figured he'd call Cat with some bullshit excuse. Instead, there wasn't a peep from him all day.

  Cat knows this because she texted me about every hour for an update.

  Did he show?

  Do you have it?

  Where do you think he is?

  He's not going to show, right?

  I shake my head in the negative to her original question. "I ran by the apartment right after work to see if perhaps someone left it in my mailbox. No one ever came by the shop."

  "Fuck, he's an asshole," she mutters as she reaches for her beer. "Should have known he wouldn't follow through. My credit cards didn't get turned on either."

  "It's not because he's an asshole, Cat," I tell her, and she turns to blink at me in surprise. "It's because he doesn't have it. It doesn't exist."

  "You think?"

  "I more than think," I say confidently.

  I'd been thinking about it all day. If she was truly cut out of the will, there was no reason to keep a signed copy from her. Kevin Vaughn was bluffing to cut her out of his life with minimum fuss, and he was banking on the fact that she was going to be the pliant and subservient woman she was when Samuel was alive.

  "Should I call him?" she asks, her finger absently stroking up and down the glass wet with condensation.

  I shrug. "What's the point? He probably won't answer, and if he does, he'll give you a round of bullshit. The fact of the matter is, you have a copy of a valid trust agreement that leaves you money and a house. It's time to turn this over to an attorney and get this shit sorted."

  Cat raises her gaze to me, and she gives me a nod of agreement. "You're right. It's time and I've got the money from my jewelry I can use to hire an attorney now."

  "We'll call Bridger later and ask him if Jenna will handle it," I tell her as I lean sideways on my stool and bump my shoulder against hers. "I'm sure she'll give you a discount too."

  "Sounds good," she says, her voice sounding as relaxed and happy as I've ever heard it.

  "So, let's play 'What If'," I say as I turn on my stool to face her a bit. "What if you ultimately find out you get nothing from Samuel's estate?"

  Cat turns, her knees brushing against my thigh. She rests a forearm on the bar, the other on the back of my stool. "I guess I'd have to be a better roommate and start paying you rent, huh?"

  "You'd want to stay here?"

  "I think so," she says hesitantly. "I know exactly what's waiting for me in Vegas. I think I'd like to explore the opportunities here. And I will pay you rent as soon as I get my first paycheck."

  Hmmmmm... that tells me exactly shit.

  "You know you're not a roommate to me, right?" I tell her, deciding that maybe we need a little plain talk between us. "I've had roommates before and they were nothing like you. We're different. What we have between us is different."

  Her arm shifts and her hand goes from the back of my stool to brush against my shoulder. Her eyes stare at her hand as she strokes me, almost in confusion. "I'm not sure what we are."

  "Well, I think we're a little north of roommates, a little east of friendship, and probably a little south of fuck buddies."

  Her gaze slides from my shoulder to meet mine as her lips turn upward. "I'm lost."

  I laugh and slide my hand around the back of her neck, pulling her to me for a kiss. "I'm lost too. But I'm glad you're right here beside me now."

  "Me too," she admits, and that makes me smile. I release my hold on her neck, turning to grab my beer as she says, "But you know I'm afraid to believe in this, right? You know I've never had a relationship before. I have no clue what to do, no clue if I'm any good at anything. I'm afraid you're expecting something of me I can't give, and that one day, you're going to wake up and realize I'm really not someone you'd want to give the time of day to and that your hero talents are wasted on me."

  A dull, cramping sensation starts in the center of my chest and squeezes tighter as I absorb her words... take in the solemnity of her gaze upon me. God, she's fucked in the head and I can't imagine being so lost and unaware of your own potential.

  "Cat," I say as I ignore my beer and turn fully to her. My hands go to her knees but before I can say anything further, my phone rings in my back pocket, and it startles me for a moment. I would normally ignore it because this is a fucking serious issue we need to discuss, but I asked Pish to call me if someone dropped the will off after I left. I give a squeeze to her knees and a hold a finger up. "Just a minute."

  I fish in the back pocket of my jeans and pull the phone out, looking at the number. It's not from Westward Ink, but it's not one I recognize either. I have a moment of indecision if I should answer or ignore, but then choose to connect the call in case it's perhaps one of the other artists at the shop calling me on a cell phone I don't have programmed in my contacts. I don't know all of them well enough to call them friends.

  "Hello," I say into phone after bringing it to my ear.

  "Is this Rand Bishop?" A young woman... definitely not someone from the shop.

  "It is."

  "This is Amy Felgar, a patient care rep at St. John's Medical Center. Tarryn Stoker is apparently being admitted and her nurse asked me to call you."

  My stomach drops so hard and fast that I feel nauseated. "Is she okay?"

  She doesn't answer right away, and I can hear some clacking on a computer. "I'm sorry, I don't have much info in the system. They might not have it all entered, but it does say she's being scheduled for surgery."

  No clue what my face looks like, but I feel Cat's hand on my thigh with the weight of warm assurance. I look at her, and she returns a worried stare. "I'm on my way."

  Hanging up, I put the phone back in my pocket and stand up from the stool. "Tarryn's had some sort of accident. Getting ready to go into surgery. She asked them to call me so it must be pretty serious."

  "Yeah... okay," Cat says immediately as I open my wallet up and take some money out. I lay it on the bar so she can pay for the tab. Her eyes glance to the money, and then flick back to me. "I'll bring your food home. Call me once you know something."

  "I will," I murmur as I lean in to brush my lips against her temple. "And I'm sorry... this was bad timing. We'll continue the talk when I get back to the apartment."

  "It's fine," she reassures me with an understanding smile. "I hope she's okay."

  "Me too." I absolutely hate leaving Cat right now, especially on the heels of her revealing the terribly low opinion she has of herself. She needs affirmation of her strengths, not to have me abandon her. But shit... it's not like I can't not go to the hospital. If anything happened to Tarryn and I didn't go, I'd never forgive myself for being so callous.

  So I have to go.

  Another kiss, this time on Cat's lips, and I leave the Snake River Brewery.

  The drive to St. John's takes no more than fifteen minutes as it sits only about ten blocks east and I manage to catch almost every green light. It's a small medical facility but given the amount of ski injuries in this area, they've got an excellent
trauma unit.

  It takes no time at all to park and make my way back to the surgical suite that the front receptionist directs me to. A nurse greets me at the door and leads me back to a curtained room where I find Tarryn. My eyes quickly roam over her, taking in pale skin but no other outward signs of injury other than an elevated leg wrapped in a temporary splint and bandages.

  "What happened?" I ask as I walk up to the side of the bed opposite the IV pole that she's hooked to.

  "Stupid really," she says as she reaches a hand toward mine. I take it and give a supportive squeeze. "I was stepping off the sidewalk, crossing right there at Cache and Pearl, and I just stepped down wrong. Ankle buckled and snapped."

  "You're kidding?" I say in disbelief that something so simple could cause a break that needs surgery. Rotten fucking luck.

  "I knew I could count on you to come," she says as she looks up at me with an adoring smile as the nurse walks into the cubicle room and hangs something else up on the IV stand.

  "How soon before she goes back?" I ask the nurse.

  "It won't be tonight. Probably first thing in the morning, around six or so," the nurse says briskly. "They want to make sure all the alcohol is out of her system, and the X-rays show the break is fairly clean and stable."

  "I was out with Laney and Gayle for some cocktails," Tarryn says with a laugh. "You know how it goes."

  "Did that have anything to do with why you fell?" I ask.

  She shrugs and moves a thumb over the top of my hand to stroke it. "I don't know. I doubt it. I really just stepped down wrong off the curb."

  The nurse writes something in her chart and then walks out of the curtained area. I pull my hand from Tarryn's and try to ignore the hurt look on your face. "Why did you have them call me?"

  "Well, because I'm having surgery. Who else would I call?" she responds seriously, as if this was the most common sense thing in the world. Despite the fact we've been broken up for four years.

  "Oh, I don't know," I say sarcastically. "How about your roommate and best friend Laney? Or your next best friend Gayle? You know, the girls who were with you when this happened and who you spend almost every day with."

  Tarryn still doesn't get it. She waves an impatient hand at me. "Laney will be back. She was going to go handle a few things first, pack me a bag and stuff. She'll be back later. But I knew you'd want to be here too."

  Taking a deep breath as the anger rises, I try to remember that she's lying in a hospital bed with a broken ankle and facing surgery. I try to retain a measure of sympathy, but I still can't help it when I say, "Tarryn... I don't want to be here. We are not together. There shouldn't be any expectation on your part that I would be here. Now, while I care for you because of things we've shared in the past, we don't have anything past a casual friendship. And when you do stuff like this, you're making it harder on me to want to even maintain that."

  She blinks at me several times, eyes wide with surprise. As if this is the first time she's heard this line from me. But it's not. It's just the first time she's heard it while lying in a hospital with a broken ankle and facing surgery. The other time was when she got a flat tire and called me to change it. Or when she got drunk on her birthday and called me at midnight to come out and celebrate with her. Or let's not forget the time she found mouse droppings under her sink and called me to come over and set traps.

  "Tarryn," I say gently as I squat beside the bed and put my hand on her shoulder. "It is over with us. Totally over, and I think to make the boundaries clearer, I really need you to just stop reaching out to me."

  "No communication whatsoever?" she whispers after a hard swallow.

  I don't want to hurt her, but I still say it anyway. "None. I'll stay here with you until Laney gets here, but then that's it, Tarryn."

  "I don't understand how you couldn't want to continue our friendship," she says in a small voice.

  "Because you want more than that," I tell her simply. "Despite you just calling it a friendship, you want more."

  "And you don't?" she asks with her head tilted. "Not ever?"

  How can she keep such hope alive? Maybe because I still did stupid shit like change her tire or set her mousetraps, although I didn't go celebrate her birthday with her. I was pissed she woke me up on a work night. Still, I'm just as much at fault because I would usually drop what I was doing to help her out when she called. I was a sap that way. While I'd always make it clear to her I was doing these things out of friendship, I can see why she'd have continued hope. It's because I was still always there for her.

  But as I just told her, that all has to stop.

  "There's someone else," I tell her softly, and I watch her face fall. "And I really want it to work, so my focus and attention is going to be there. One-hundred percent. In fact, it should be there right now, and that's why I'm leaving as soon as Laney gets here."

  Her eyes mist up and she closes them against the sting and my stare, but she gives me a small nod of acknowledgment.

  I hope it's also of acceptance, but only time will tell.

  Now all I have to do is wait for Laney to show up, so I can get back to Cat and we can continue our conversation. It's time for her to start realizing the potential of what she has within, as well as what we have between us.

  Chapter 20

  Cat

  I pull my Mercedes curbside in front of Jake and Lorelei's house, just on the other side of their small driveway. Rand will park his Suburban on the adjacent side, with us leaving plenty of room for their cars when they get home. The house is dark except for the porch light and the driveway is currently empty.

  I manage to juggle the takeout containers--which are still quite hot since I had them just package our food up to go rather than eat mine there--along with my purse and keys as I get out of my car and hit the lock button. The driveway is lit up by two sconce lights on either side of the double car garage, but the side of the house is fairly dark as I walk toward the stairway that will lead up to the apartment. I know there's a motion sensor that will turn on a security light there as soon as I reach the end of the driveway and veer off on the small path to the side, so I have no hesitation as I walk toward the house.

  Just as I step onto the cement pavers that lead to the wooden staircase, two things hit me at once.

  The light isn't working because it doesn't come on, and something is rushing at me in the dark.

  I don't have time to scream. Hell, I don't even have time to comprehend I should be fearful.

  Instead, something barrels into me, catching at my shoulder and driving me up underneath the staircase and into the side of the house where I slam hard into the wall. My purse and the food goes flying, as do the keys in my hand.

  Before I can even take in a breath, which is difficult since it was just knocked out of me, a large, sweaty hand clamps over my mouth, while a beefy arm wraps around my chest. I immediately smell stale beer, cigarettes, and what might possibly be hot dogs, along with the unmistakable scent of motor oil.

  I try to take in air but the hand over my mouth is partially obstructing my nose, making it difficult. I'm seized with panic that I might suffocate and can't control my body as it starts to flail.

  "You better calm the fuck down, bitch," the man snarls in my ear and his mouth is so close, I can feel the brush of a beard against my skin and the spittle that hits my cheek. To reiterate his point, the arm falls away from my chest, only to come back moments later with a switchblade held expertly in his hands. While I can't see much, he has me turned toward the street, so the glow from the garage sconces causes the blade to glimmer. I can't help the small moan of terror that slips free.

  Before I can even try to think of something to save myself, he's spinning me fast, shoving me backward into the wall. My head slams into it with a jarring thud that rattles me, but not enough I don't feel the press of the blade against the base of my throat. It's so dark that I can't make out a damn thing other than the outline of his form.

  "Orders we
re clear," he mumbles, and it almost sounds slurred. "But no reason I can't have a little fun."

  Orders? Fun?

  Before I can figure it all out, his free hand comes to my blouse, paws at the opening at the top of my chest and manages to get a few fingers lodged in so he can rip it open. Buttons go flying as the white camisole I wear underneath is revealed to the cool night air. It is then I realize what the hell he means by fun.

  My body starts to react again, and my hands go to his wrist that holds the knife to my throat as I scream, "No."

  Kicking a leg out, I catch him in the shin, and he curses at me before pressing the blade harder against me. I feel the skin open up, and it stings terribly.

  "I will cut your motherfucking throat wide open if you don't quiet the fuck up and hold still," he yells at me, completely oblivious that he's making as much noise as I am right now. The alcohol fumes coming off him and the way his words come out less than clear leads me to believe he's definitely drunk or close to it.

  Drunk or not, he's incredibly strong and he's cut into the bottom of my neck, so my body goes absolutely still.

  "That's better," he praises, then his hand starts pawing at the bottom of my camisole again, trying to inch his way up underneath of it. I take in a deep breath through my nose, trying to think of a way to fight back without getting my throat slit open.

  Maybe a knee to his nuts? Surely that will hurt him bad enough he won't be able to control the knife.

  Another scream to distract him?

  His rough fingers touch my stomach, and panic starts to seize me again. I can't help it. My hands try to push him away from me, thinking a sliced throat would be better than experiencing the "fun" he wants to have.

  My body locks tight and I try to figure out exactly where his crotch might be in the gloom, intent to launch my kick, when light suddenly floods the driveway and the side of the house, illuminating my attacker.

  Dark, greasy hair that comes down to his shoulders and parts in the middle. A long, wiry beard. Dirty face smudged with oil and sweat. The light surprises him and his eyes flare wide as they turn toward the source, which I know is a car that's just pulled into the driveway.