Page 137 of The Convict Gets His Girl

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. Chase could feel Gunner studying him, could sense the complicated mix of emotions radiating from the older man. It wasn't just about the driving. It had never been just about the driving.

Moonlight glinted off the car's dashboard, illuminating the phone still clutched in Chase's hand. A reminder of family. Of second chances. Of the thin line between redemption and repeated mistakes.

Gunner rubbed a hand down his face, the gesture heavy with exhaustion and regret. "That night, I smelled alcohol on you, and I knew you'd been drinking."

Chase tilted his head. "I didn't drink before I left the house. I went to the bunkhouse and played poker to hustle a few bucks from the ranch hands. A drink spilled."

Gunner's eyes widened. "So you didn't drink and drive on the way to town?"

Chase shook his head. "No, I didn't. But I did drink once I got to Andre's. I always waited an hour to drive home after my last drink too, and I only ever had two beers in one night."

Silence settled between them, then Gunner said, "I knew you were tutoring him, and I knew it wasn't going to end well."

Chase felt the familiar tension rise in his chest. "I was trying to make money for college," he said quietly. The desperation of those days rushed back—every extra dollar counted, every opportunity a potential lifeline. "Andre started offering something different. Not just cash."

"Alcohol," Gunner said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"And pot," Chase admitted, his voice low. The shame burned hot in his cheeks. "He stopped paying in money and started paying with those."

Gunner's eyes softened, just a fraction. The disappointment Chase had always feared wasn't there—not anymore. Something else had replaced it. Understanding, maybe. Or something closer to compassion.

"I was just trying to get out of Crimson Creek and join Jewel," Chase continued, the words spilling out like a confession.

"You loved her even then, didn't you?" Gunner asked, although it sounded less like a question than a statement.

Chase ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Fuck, yes, I love her. I always have, and I'm sorry for betraying Hunter back then, for disappointing you, for everything."

The night pressed around them, thick with unresolved history and the delicate threads of redemption.

Gunner shook his head, the headlights casting sharp shadows across his face. "That's not true," he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "I was never disappointed in you, Chase. I was disappointed in myself. I could've saved you. If I'd just driven you to town that night, if I'd paid more attention?—"

A sudden burst of light interrupted him as Destini's text illuminated the car's dark interior, the screen casting a blue-white glow across Chase's face. The moment fractured, past giving way to present.

There're people outside the barn. I think they're looking for us.

Chase explained quickly, his words urgent. "It's Destini. She's at a bonfire party. Things are getting out of hand—older teens, alcohol, kids passing around more than just joints."

"That's why you're driving without a license and flying like a bat out of hell?" Gunner asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Chase could see the conflict playing out in his eyes.

"Yes, and I'm not going to let her make the same mistakes I did," Chase said, a fierce protectiveness rising in his voice. He looked directly at Gunner, challenge and vulnerability mixing in equal measure. "If you have to arrest me for driving without a license, fine. But at least go pick her up from that party and take her home."

The weight of second chances hung between them—unresolved, fragile, but alive.

Gunner sighed and said, "I'll follow you there."

The flashing lights turned off as they pulled back onto the road. His brother hadn't said if he'd be arrested or not, but he'd pass that bridge when he came to it. Chase gripped the phone as they approached the bonfire site.

ChapterFifty

The field looked like a scattered crime scene—abandoned red cups, trampled grass, wisps of smoke rising from behind the barn. They parked next to a few vehicles in front, lights hitting the barn wall.

Gunner moved with practiced efficiency, his flashlight sweeping the ground. Evidence bags appeared like magic from his jacket—a half-crushed beer can, a baggie with suspicious green contents. His movements were deliberate, professional, but Chase noticed the calculated way Gunner's gaze seemed to look everywhere but directly at the contraband.

He sent a text to Destini as he jumped out of the car and rushed to the open barn door.

I'm here.

"Destini?" he called into the dark interior, Gunner's flashlight swinging through the barn behind him.

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