Page 85 of Mercenary
I’m sorry, Kylie. I’ll find a way. I will.
But in the meantime, now what?
I bow my head and trudge back down the dirt driveway. My tears—tasting of salt, sweat and damn-you-Oklahoma dirt—amplifying each laborious step.
When I reach the ranch house, it’s clear I’m royally screwed.
He’s waiting for me, his big body sprawled out in a wicker chair, his legs spread wide, a half bottle of Jack perched on his thigh. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a familiar ornery scowl.
“It’s going to be a scorcher,” Mama used to say on brutally hot days like this. Yet the weather can’t compete with the man waiting for me on the porch. A hot scorcher of a man to look at in his underdressed state. All tight muscle and taut abs. But that’s not the heat I’m concerned about. That kind of heat I can handle. It’s the chill coming off of him that has me drawing to a standstill. He’s not a man you fuck with. He’s not a man you disobey, drug, or escape. Yet despite who he is and what he’s done, he’s really my only hope.
And in that moment, the truth hurts me more than the burn mark on my palm.
“Sit.” He nods his chin toward the vacant wicker chair beside him.
Without a word, I approach, drop my bag, and sit down, my back stiff and straight with my feet planted firmly on the porch floorboards to prevent the chair from rocking backward. That’s what I choose to focus on, my struggle not to give in to the damned chair while I stare at my feet, at my toes that I can barely manage to wiggle with hope.
“Give me your hand.”
I don’t look at him. Don’t want to see the harsh line of his beautiful lips pulled tight. I offer him my hand. He flips it over palm side up, then a second later, drops it.
“The other one.”
I angle my body toward him in the damn chair, which sends me flying back into the seat. Quick as a blink, he snatches my wrist and flips my hand palm up.
“Damn it,” he murmurs, tracing the pink marks lightly with his thumb.
I drag my eyes away from what he’s doing to my hand to look at him. “Let me go.”
“No.” He releases my hand without a word and, without breaking eye contact, takes another long drink.
I inhale, then exhale. Deep calming yoga breaths I learned in gym class. No. I have to stay calm. Get a grip. Think. Let him tie one on, get good and plastered, liquid courage for dealing with what’s to come. As a matter of fact . . . As soon as he settles the bottle on his thigh, I snatch it out of his grasp. Holding it high, I down a large swig. Fire races down my throat and sends me into a coughing fit. My tears return, liquor-induced this time around.
“Again,” I hear him say.
I drink slowly this time. Little sips. The Jack burns a molten path directly to my stomach. A few minutes pass before the liquor takes hold of me, numbing and dumbing my already dulled senses.
“Feeling better?” he murmurs. The silky timber in his tone sends a different kind of fire shooting inside of me.
I stick my chin up a notch, refusing to dignify his question with an answer. “Hold the bottle against your palm. The coolness of the glass will soothe the burn.”
“You can drop the act. You’re not the man I believed you to be.”
He tenses beside me, as if my words hit home. But any lingering allusions I have about him go up in smoke when he speaks. “Did she warn you about me?”
“You didn’t come up during our brief conversation.”
He laughs . . . laughs. “You know how I can tell you’re lying, Madelyn? You tilt your head to the right. A slight movement, but a telltale sign.”
I immediately straighten my head.
“You must have asked her a million questions. What did she say about us?”
Us. He means their organization, not them as a couple.
“She basically warned me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Good advice.”
