by Nicole Helm
She did the same thing too. Moved right up to him and placed her hands on his shoulders like they belonged there.
This time though, he knew. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t joking. She was...probably projecting. Better to irritate him, to come on to him and make him angry, than think about the reality of her life.
Which almost made him feel sorry for her. Almost.
If her hands felt good there, if his system screamed in anticipation, he didn’t have to—and in fact wouldn’t—react.
But she didn’t just leave her hands on his shoulders, she slid them up his neck, locking her fingers behind it. She molded her body to his, and it was that same blazing heat as when he’d backed her up against the truck.
Why did all this make his body tighten when he knew better. Knew better. “It’s just attraction.” He had to say it out loud. He had to hear the words himself. Because there was only one tiny little thread of reason holding him back.
She widened her eyes, all fake innocence. “Gee. I thought it was chaste, attraction-less, pure-hearted happily-ever-after.”
He puffed out a breath and reached behind him to pull her arms from around his neck.
She didn’t let herself be pulled. In fact, she sort of rolled against him and for a second he was frozen, holding her arms, pressed to her, blood roaring in his head.
What would be the harm?
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Brady,” she said, her voice soft. “Consider it a distraction under stress. You’re not exactly unmoved.”
That at least poked holes in the haze of attraction and want, because it was a lie. Because he heard a hint of desperation she was trying so hard to hide. “You think it’d be that easy?” He laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly nice laugh. “How naive are you?”
She looked a bit like he’d slapped her, and while that gave him a stab of pain, she had to understand what she was saying. And he had to be kind of a jerk so she’d stop...doing this. “Did you forget about that kiss at New Year’s Eve, Cecilia?”
“No.”
“It didn’t mean anything, so it never occurred to you to think about it again?”
“Brady, I—”
“You kissed me and any attraction that prompted it evaporated. You didn’t want to anymore.” He gestured to the small space between them. Derisively. “Clearly. It all went away.”
She blinked at him, some of that sexy certainty slipping off her face. “That was just a kiss.”
“And what you’re suggesting is just sex.” He unwound her arms from around his neck and she finally released him. “If a kiss lingered, what would sex do?”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” she said stubbornly.
“Doesn’t it? You’ve actually slept with someone and all feelings and attraction immediately disappeared?”
Her eyebrows drew together like she was trying to make sense of a foreign language. “Of course.”
“Of course? Cecilia, you must have had some spectacularly bad sex.” Which was not an easy thing to think when she was still so close. Clearly...missing out.
She bristled. “You have no idea what kind of sex life I’ve had.”
“No. And I don’t want to.” Not in a million years did he want to imagine what kind of morons she’d been with. “But sex changes things. It’s nakedness and intimacy, and that’s fine if you’re casual friends or you pick someone up at a bar. It’s fine if you think you’re going to date and see if you’re compatible. It’s not fine if you’re practically family.”
“Because you decreed the laws and rules of what’s fine and what’s not?”
She was the most frustrating woman in the world. He had no idea why that made him want to put his hands on her face, to show her—long, slow, and thoroughly—what a real kiss would do.
Luckily he was distracted from the impulse by the alarm going off on his phone. “I need to change my bandage,” he said stiffly, and grabbed his bag and walked into the bathroom, hoping he could leave all that behind him.
* * *
CECILIA DIDN’T PARTICULARLY enjoy being chastised, or other people being right, but there was something about the way Brady had handled her that made her feel both—chastised and very, very wrong.
She wanted to pout over it, but the predominant feeling—nearly eclipsing the ever-present worry that she couldn’t keep Mak safe—was a heavy sadness.
She sat down on the bed and rested her chin in her hands. He wasn’t wrong exactly. It was nice to throw herself at him, argue with him, because it didn’t leave much room for worry. She could turn that off, and God she was desperate to turn that constant, exhausting anxiety off.
There were other ways to argue with Brady. Not such easy ones, but she didn’t have to throw herself at him. Especially when he so easily countered all her moves.
You must have had some spectacularly bad sex.
She scowled. What did Brady know? He was uptight and repressed. Sure, he was hot. And that brief moment he’d returned the New Year’s Eve kiss had been something like electric, but there was no way Brady wasn’t just stern vanilla.
Then I think you’re attracted to stern vanilla.
She heard a muttered swear from the bathroom and leaned sideways to see through the crack in the door.
Brady was clearly struggling with removing and bandaging his wound himself. Stubborn mule.
She got to her feet and marched for the tiny bathroom. She inched the door the rest of the way open. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Let me help you.”
He scowled at her in the mirror over the sink. “I can do it on my own.”
“Not well.” She stalked over to him and tugged the alcohol wipe out of his hand. She set to tending the wound, ignoring the fact he was shirtless. She was mad at him, and she wasn’t going to soak in the sight of pure muscle on display. She was above that. “It looks better.” She coughed. “Your wound.”
“Antibiotics must have worked this time,” he said in that robotic Brady voice that made her want to scream.
Instead she finished disinfecting the area. “That’s good.”
“It is.”
She rolled her eyes at the inane conversation. She pulled the new bandages out of the box on the rusty sink, then pointed to the bed. “Oh, go sit down.”
He grunted, but did as he was told. She followed, noting that the beautifully muscled torso and arms both had their share of scars. “Where’d you get all those?” she asked, positioning herself in between his legs so she could get close enough to adhere the bandage on both the front of his shoulder and the back.
He didn’t answer her, merely shrugged as she smoothed the bandage over the slow-to-heal gunshot wound. His skin was surprisingly soft there, her hand looking particularly dark against the expanse of pale skin that rarely saw the sun.
Brady wasn’t a shirtless guy, so his shoulder was all white marble, aside from the bandage she’d adhered herself.
She was standing between his legs and something...took over. It wasn’t wanting to poke at him; it wasn’t even that flare of attraction. This was something softer and different than she was used to and she didn’t know how to fight off the urge to run her fingers through his hair.
He looked up at her, something flickering in his stoic gaze. It wasn’t anger like usual. Or even annoyance at her. There was something deeper there. Her heart twisted and she suddenly wanted...
She wasn’t sure. Not to throw herself at him or annoy him or try to start a fight. She didn’t even want to act on that flare of attraction. She wanted...she didn’t know. Just that it was deeper. Like he’d be some kind of salve to a wound.
“I get it. This is scary. You’re scared for Mak,” he said, his voice grave. Weighted, like he really did understand. “You’re worried about your friend. It’d be nice to just chuck it all out the window for an hour or so. But it would
change things. Things we can’t afford to let change. It would mean something, whether either of us wanted it to.”
She stared at him. He was right. It was terrible and true, and so completely right. And there was this part of her she didn’t recognize that, for one second, wanted that change.
“Cecilia.”
“Shh.”
She cupped his face with her hands, and she ignored...everything she usually listened to. She did something without purpose, without certainty. She pressed her mouth to his, and it was almost timid. Not like she had on New Year’s Eve—bold and a little drunk and mostly just determined. This was born of something else altogether. Seeking out that solace, or an understanding, that had always evaded her.
No one understood her. Not really. Not her family, not her friends, certainly not any ex-boyfriends. They thought she was tough and fearless.
But Brady had said she was scared for Mak, and she’d be damned if that wasn’t the truth.
So, she kissed him with a softness she’d never found inside of herself.
He kissed her back. Not in that second of shock and reaction, but actual response. As if it was her gentleness that unlocked all his concerns and denials. And though she was standing, holding his face, there was no doubt that he took control of the kiss.
Kept it soft, kept it warm. Kept it like a connection, like a comfort.
She felt vulnerable, like her heart was soft. Like he wasn’t just right, but had only scratched the surface when he’d said things would change.
It was fine enough to be attracted to Brady, to think sleeping with him would just solve that. It was something else for her to feel...this big thing.
She dropped her hands from his face and took two big steps back and away. “You’re right. This is a bad idea. I’ll stop.” She had to gulp in some air to calm her shaky limbs, her even shakier heart.
He looked at her and the gaze was inscrutable. His words had no inflection whatsoever. “Well. Good, then.”
The stoic way he delivered those words stung, even if they shouldn’t. She was reeling—turned inside out, and he was a robot. “Fantastic.”
And it was. She wasn’t going to get involved with Brady Wyatt. After that kiss...she was willing to finally admit that if they acted on anything, involved was just what they’d be.
There was no way that was ever going to work. Not knowing that she’d sacrifice everything to keep Mak away from Elijah.
No, she had to listen to Brady for once and let this whole thing go. Because sliding in headfirst was a disaster waiting to happen.
Chapter Eleven
Even when it was his turn to sleep, Brady didn’t do a very good job of it. Between the musty smell of the bed, the slightly sticky feel of the sheets, and the whirr of the pitiful air conditioner, there just wasn’t much in the way of comfort.
Then there was his own...state. After Cecilia had kissed him on New Year’s Eve, and even after yesterday morning with the truck, he’d been able to redirect the pang of attraction into indignant anger. A righteous certainty that she was wrong and he was in the right.
After last night’s kiss, full of gentleness and something bigger than even he’d imagined, he didn’t have that anger. Didn’t have much of anything except confusion. And a baffling sense of loss.
Which didn’t make any sense whatsoever, so he pushed the feeling and the nagging ache away and focused on the task at hand. It was always how he got through life. Why should this be any different?
They moved to the next motel on the west side of the county with limited conversation and absolutely no interference. Another night in another crappy motel with no one finding them passed in the same uncomfortable, grimy way. Another check-in with the Wyatt and Knight ranches to find nothing had really happened.
“I don’t like it,” Cecilia muttered, driving the truck north to another seedy motel in the neighboring county. They’d agreed she would drive when it was her turn to check into the motel and vice versa. “It shouldn’t take this long to peg one of us. And the fact they’re not going after the ranches... Something isn’t right.”
“If he’s really been watching Ace, taking hints from Ace, he knows patience is Ace’s greatest strength. Regardless, if they’re not poking at the ranch, Mak is safe.”
Cecilia slid him a look before returning her gaze to the road. “What do you know about Elijah that you haven’t told me?”
“Nothing.” If only because know was a tricky word when it came to Elijah Jones. He kept his expression carefully blank, ignored the need to shift in discomfort.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
Brady shrugged and didn’t elaborate. Cecilia kept driving.
The tension between them wasn’t gone, but it had certainly shifted. Before it had been almost antagonistic and definitely argumentative. This was flat and...almost timid. Like they were suddenly tiptoeing around a bomb that might detonate.
He supposed, in a way, they were.
When Cecilia reached Frisco, a tiny town north of Valiant County, she did what they’d been doing this whole time. Found a deserted place to park the truck a block or so from the motel. In this case it was a roadside park surrounded by trees.
But she didn’t immediately slide out of the truck to start her trek to the motel. She turned in the seat to face him, her expression grave.
“I need you to tell me whatever you know or think you might know. You keeping secrets about Elijah doesn’t do anyone any good.”
“I don’t know anything, Cecilia. Anything I could say would be...supposition. Inference. Not fact.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “I want those things from you. I think we need it all out in the open. I’ve told you everything I know about his relationship with Layla. Every time I’ve had an interaction with him on the rez or heard someone else relate one. You know my side. You’re here, and I don’t know your side. Just that you arrested him a long time ago and he’s ‘poked’ at you ever since.”
She wasn’t wrong, much as he hated to admit it. Fact of the matter was, when Elijah was poking at him but never bothering his brothers, it didn’t matter. But that wasn’t going to last, and if he’d kept this secret...
He didn’t want it out in the open. Was always waiting for his worst fears to be disproven. But maybe he had played into Ace’s hands the whole time.
He could ease into it. Lead Cecilia to her own conclusions, but because it was Cecilia, he knew he could just...blurt it out. She’d take it, work through it, and make her own opinion. He didn’t have to lead her anywhere.
Still, the words stuck in his throat. He’d never vocalized his worst thoughts. Never wanted to. But he needed to do it—to keep Mak, and Cecilia, safe as he could.
She reached forward, rested her hand on his knee. Everything about her was earnest and almost...pleading. Which wasn’t Cecilia at all.
The words tumbled out. “I think Ace might be Elijah’s father.”
“What?” Cecilia screeched. “How? Why? When? What?”
“Which of those questions do you actually want me to answer?” he replied dryly.
“Brady. Holy... Oh my God. Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know,” he returned, frustrated with things he couldn’t fully name. “There’s something about...” She was right, he reminded himself again. Knowing everything gave them ammunition. It gave them armor. Ace had made a habit of keeping secrets and using them against people.
Brady wouldn’t be like his father. Wouldn’t let this potential secret, no matter how far-fetched, be the thing that felled him or Cecilia.
That didn’t make it easy to explain the gut feeling he had. “Maybe he’s not. But there’s more to their relationship than a random Sons member taking a shine to our psycho in chief. Elijah would say things, when he’d goad me into arresting him. ‘We’re more alike than you think.’ Lots
of pointed remarks about my brothers. It just started to make me think...there’s more there. Maybe it’s not a father-son relationship, but there’s more there. I can’t imagine a man like Ace was faithful to my mother, especially toward the end when she was just getting pregnant to keep him from killing her.”
“Did he kill her?” Cecilia asked, and her tone was simple. Straightforward. There wasn’t that layer of pity he was so used to.
Which made it impossible to avoid, even if he hated this line of conversation. “Can’t prove it.”
“But you think he did,” she insisted in that same even tone.
Brady shrugged jerkily. “Thinking it doesn’t matter. Not when it comes to Ace and the Sons. Elijah being one of Ace’s. We need fact.”
Cecilia was quiet for a few humming moments. “I don’t know about that,” she said after a while. “If Elijah was Ace’s son, don’t you think we’d know?”
“Why would we?”
“Elijah wouldn’t keep that a secret. He’d want everyone to know he was the president’s son. He would have already taken over, I’d think.”
“Unless Ace wanted him to keep it a secret.” Brady shifted in his seat, wishing he’d kept his big mouth shut. “Like I said, Ace’s best weapon is his ability to be patient. If he wanted to use Elijah when it would do the most damage... I’m just saying, there’s a reason to keep it quiet. And it makes sense why he only ever hinted at the truth with me—why he focused on me. If he’d messed with all my brothers, wouldn’t we put it together? But just one of us he could goad without the clues lining up.”
“He’s lived on the rez as long as I can remember.”
It was suddenly too much. This was why he’d never brought it up with his brothers. It didn’t matter when there was no way to know for sure. When it probably wasn’t true. “I don’t want to argue the validity, Cecilia. I’m just saying, that’s my theory. One I don’t even fully believe but you convinced me to tell you.”