Page 62 of Wanting Wentworth

“I’ll head on back to the bunkhouse, Mrs. Barrett,” Damien says politely. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ll be there all night.” He flicks me a quick look in the rearview while Abbey charges up the porch steps. He won’t be in the bunkhouse. He'll more than likely be at Northpoint,

“Thank you, Damien,” My mother says, giving him a warm smile. “Are you sure you won’t stay for supper?”

“I appreciate the offer but I’ve got some work to catch up on.” Another quick look in my direction before he opens his own car door. “Besides, Randy makes chili every Sunday,” he tells her, mentioning one of the senior hands we employ on the ranch. “He’d be hurt if I missed it.” Touching the tip of his finger to the brim of his cowboy hat, Damien gives her a polite smile and an evening, ma’am before he points himself in the direction of the outbuildings and starts walking.

“He’s a sweet boy,” my mother says wistfully, almost to herself. “He reminds me of him.”

Him is Luke.

I know because I feel the same way.

Before I can agree, my mother is out of the car and on her way to the house, leaving me alone. Extricating myself from the back of the car slowly, I wait for the excited squeals and chatter from my sister over what is surely a gift for her. Rounding the back of the car, I open my mouth to announce that I’m heading inside to start supper when Abbey lets out a sound that is more confused than excited.

“It’s for you.”

Looking up, I see her standing at the top of the porch steps, large white box cradled in her arms.

For a second I have no idea who she’s talking to. Finally, I shake my head. “Me?” I look at my mom. “I didn’t order anything—I swear.” I don’t have money. I don’t have a credit card or even access to one. Ordering something for myself would be next to impossible and despite her earlier question, she knows it.

Mounting the porch steps, I take the box from Abbey’s arms. It’s heavy. Sitting, I balance it on my knees before looking up at my mother. “It’s probably an engagement gift from Brock.” He used to do that when we were together. Send me things—gifts—especially after a fight or after doing or saying something hurtful. His way of controlling me. Conditioning me to accept his abuse.

“Of course.” My mother gives me a smile while she latches a hand around Abbey’s arm. “Let’s give your sister some privacy, sweetheart.”

Abbey looks at her like she’s crazy. “But—”

“Inside.” My mom tightens her grip and starts to drag a protesting Abbey across the porch, toward the front door. “You can help me get supper started.”

Abbey’s still protesting when my mother shoves her through the open front door and shuts it between us, leaving me alone again.

Struggling with the packing tape, it takes me a few minutes to get it open but when I finally lift the lid on the box, I let out an audible gasp because I know right away who it’s from and I know it’s not Brock.

It’s a laptop.

By the looks of it, an expensive one—much larger and heavier than the broken one still sitting in my backpack.

Pulling it from its styrofoam housing, I open it. Sitting on top of its sleek keyboard is a notecard. Flipping it open, I recognize his handwriting right away.

Come back –

Went

THIRTY-FIVE

Wentworth

IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS.

I tell myself that Kait owes me nothing.

That she doesn’t belong to me.

That there’s nothing I can offer to help her out of the situation she’s in. That, as a matter of fact, everything I have to offer will only make things worse.

That she’s getting married for fuck’s sake and what I’m asking from her, what I want from her, will make me no better than my own father.

I keep telling myself that, over and over, but it doesn’t matter because it’s been two days since I asked Kait to come back, gave her that fucking red notebook full of emotional word vomit and she hasn’t been back and I can’t stop thinking about her. Every time I close my eyes, I see her like she’s right in front of me. Sitting at the kitchen counter, surrounded by notebooks, earbuds shoved into her ears while she stares at the laptop screen in front of her. Staring down at me with that cock-hardening mix of frustration and lust when she found me sleeping on the couch after a long night of work. Looking up at me through her thick, dark lashes while she drags the flat of her tongue across my tattooed chest. Her eyes, wide and dark, latched onto my mouth while I worked the buttons of her dress loose, her breath catching in her throat, every time my fingers brushed against her skin.

Between seeing her every time I close my eyes and talking myself out of walking down the mountain to bang on her front door, I do the only thing that’s ever helped. The only thing that keeps me sane.

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