by Nicole Snow
I feel the same way, brutally aware it’s never been like this with any other woman, and I show her with my hips.
She leans back, using my shoulders to help with leverage, meeting my every upward thrust with a downward plunge.
Her tits bounce harder, brushing my chin, my cheeks.
It’s fucking crazy. All of it. More than physical, all-consuming.
Mind, body, and soul wrapped up in a chick I’ve fake-engaged and decided to fuck like I truly plan on making my wife.
Where does the illusion end?
I still don’t know, especially with the friction coming perfect, phenomenal, hot as sin.
I know I’ve reached my limit when the pressure in my seething balls heightens, like a dam breaking under a deluge.
At that exact moment, her nails dig into my shoulders, and I hear her hitch.
Her pussy squeezes me so hard my eyes ache.
“Ridge, now, please!” she whimpers. “Coming!”
Holy fucking shit.
The best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life hits right then.
The floodgate opens, coursing wild lightning through my system. I pour myself into her, wondering if I burn right through the condom, balls pumping over and over again.
She screams, clutches me, comes herself into this sultry mess that’ll be burned into my brain until my dying day.
I know what that sounds like.
Ask me if I care.
We come together, so rampant, so off-the-hook, I forget what sex even means unless it involves this woman wrapped around me, drowning in pleasure, ruined the same way she’s annihilated me.
And it goes on forever.
Until I’m so spent it’s like I died and came back in waves of white-hot fire.
She’s slumped against me, slick with sweat, breathing so hard she shakes.
“Holy hell,” she mutters.
You’re telling me, I think to myself, somehow moving my neck to kiss her forehead.
I draw in a deep breath and unclench my teeth, leaning back.
Kissing the top of her head, I laugh.
“Good game, woman. Can’t wait for the rematch.”
I’m still thinking about the hottest fuckery of my life while we’re driving Jess’ truck into Dallas.
After swapping vehicles, I’ll be stopping at the drugstore. I have no clue how many condoms are left in the box in my bathroom, but the only acceptable answer is not enough.
Gravity defying sex aside, there’s another weight on my chest. I turn when we’re halfway there, waiting for her eyes to glance over.
“Grace, there’s something I need to tell you.” Giving her hand a squeeze, I say, “It wasn’t a suicide. My mother wasn’t in her right mind when she did it.”
“What?”
I bite my jaw, furious at the memories flooding back.
I’ve never told anyone this, but I need to tell her.
Someone else needs to know besides Tobin O’Hare.
Maybe it’ll help her feel protected and safe if we’re equals in secrets.
“Huh? You mean she didn’t—”
“Walk off the balcony?” I nod fiercely. “Yeah, she did, and there were drugs in her system. But she wasn’t some depressed drug fiend by the end of her life. Someone set her up.”
“What?” Grace gasps. “You mean she was murdered?”
That’s the way I look at it, anyway, even if the law doesn’t agree.
The piece of shit who drove her off a balcony at a luxury resort, who caused her to snap her neck, might as well have pointed a loaded gun at her and pulled the trigger.
“Her career had its ups and downs. Her life did, too. Age is a major player in Hollywood, especially for an actress. This industry chews women up and spits them out. Some folks can handle it. They keep acting right up to the end, until they’re not being cast in lead roles reserved for younger, prettier starlets. Some have the pull to land roles that fit their age. Others just fade away gracefully.”
I sigh, knowing this is one fucked up conversation I don’t want to have.
Another part of me needs it.
“My mom wasn’t willing to go easy into that good night. She wouldn’t accept being cast as an older, side character. She had surgeries, plenty of them, trying to fight the inevitable creep of age...but she still wasn’t landing the parts she thought she deserved.” My neck muscles tense.
“You don’t have to tell me this if you’re not comfortable,” Grace says quietly while patting my arm. “But if you are...I’m here. I’m listening.”
“I want to.” For real. I want her to know the truth. “There was this guy...a studio executive. A real nasty scum-fuck. It was barely a secret he’d coerced more than one poor woman into his bed with the promise of rocketing their careers into the stratosphere. I don’t even know how my mother got mixed up with him, but she did. He swore he’d make her a star again for a price.”
She can figure out the rest.
Even after all of these years, I can’t stand picturing that hog of a man with my mom.
That rotting toad who was after a piece of the famous, beloved Judy Barnet to satisfy some demon part of his ego.
He wanted her money and her body.
I shake my head at the rage that starts foaming in my gut.
“It was a movie she was personally financing. They’d gone up to Lake Tahoe, this fancy ski lodge, to start filming.”
“Yeah, I read that’s where it happened,” she says quietly, her eyes glued to me.
“I’d read the script. She wasn’t going to be able to pull it off. The role was for a much younger woman, barely out of college. That freak knew it, too. He just needed the money, the financing, and her. He wanted his shit to get filmed with her backing and he also wanted...I think you know what the fuck else he was after.”
She closes her eyes for a long blink.
Can’t blame her for picturing the same horror I do every day of my life.
“Do you think he...did he push her?” Grace asks.
“Whether he physically did it or just gave her the drugs...same difference. She wasn’t in her right mind. Hell, maybe she even came to her senses and regretted everything.” I suck in a raw breath. “Of course, I couldn’t prove squat. He said she’d hurt herself, twisted her back on the ski lift. That’s why he got her the prescription. She’d taken too much and mixed it with wine. People had seen her in the restaurant that night. Drunk. Stoned. Whatever she’d been, she was stumbling all over the place, crashing into things. That’s why there were reports she’d fallen, that she’d jumped. Committed suicide due to the pain, the chronic depression she was in.”
“Ridge, I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracks.
I shrug. “Don’t bother. Not for me. Linus Hammond made the movie, started filming within days of Mom’s funeral with a new, younger actress. It was a minor hit. Not a blockbuster, but he made good money on it. Especially considering it hadn’t cost him anything.” I huff out a breath to finish the tale. “I ran into him not long after the movie debuted. We were in the men’s room at a large fundraiser for disaster relief after a tsunami in Indonesia. Told him I knew the truth. That I should sue him for every damn penny. He dared me. I flew off the chain, broke his nose in the bathroom, left him bleeding on the floor. Hammond never pressed charges because he knew I would sue him for sure then...or kill him.”
I bite my tongue.
I could’ve killed him that night, beaten him to a pulp on the men’s room floor, and been arrested.
It might’ve saved me the savage guilt of what came next. The last chapter of this sinister, fucked up tale I can’t bring myself to say.
What would she think if she knew I planned a murder?
“Weird, I didn’t see anything about that in those articles,” she says softly.
“You wouldn’t. It was kept hush-hush, salvaging his pride,” I tell her, my eyes locked on the road, burning me from the inside out.
“What happened then? Where is he now
? Still making movies?” she asks softly.
“I left Hollywood a few years later. Bought the ranch and decided to never look back. As for Hammond...he’s dead. Someone shot him in his penthouse when he was already practically a vegetable. A father of one of the underage girls he’d coerced into sleeping with him to become a star.”
“Wow.” Grace lowers her eyes, swiping a hand over her face. “Maybe he deserved it?”
“Maybe,” I agree.
She’s quiet for a moment, this frigid silence between us before she speaks again. “Is that why you’re so willing to help us? Does this remind you of that?”
When I saw Jackknife Pete touch her that first night, it was definitely a trigger, but it’s changed since then. It’s become more than angry instinct.
And helping Grace can’t fully rub away the blackness on my soul.
Not after what I did to that fuck, even if I can’t say I regret it.
I shake my head, answering her question.
“No? Then why?” She’s looking at me like I hung the moon and the stars, even if she doesn’t understand why.
“Because I like you, Grace. And I like your old man. I’d like to believe everybody deserves a second chance, whatever their mistakes.”
17
No Dreams Too Small (Grace)
I sit quietly as Ridge signs the paperwork for the new pickup he’s just purchased.
A royal-blue one, four-wheel drive, but not a dually.
Jess said because today is Saturday, his mechanic isn’t in, and won’t be able to have the brake lines replaced on the other one until early next week. He’d told Ridge that he could just keep his pickup as a loaner, but Ridge said no.
He’d just buy another one, a backup.
I’m floored by how easily he picks up a brand-new vehicle. Though I realize fifty grand must be like change under the sofa for a billionaire.
I don’t even know if he’ll keep it long term. He’s clearly doing this to avoid getting Jess sucked in deeper.
My mind isn’t focused on Ridge’s new truck, or his shiny black Centurion credit card that I thought I’d only ever see in movies.
I’m stuck on everything he told me on the way to town. About his mother and that hideous man. And about how much him relaying all of that tells me about him.
His life has been complicated, yet despite his woes, he’s grounded, so sure of himself.
Unlike me.
I’ve never been totally confident in anything, living on thin ice with a group of killers haunting me for my whole adult life.
“Do you use Alicia Mills for insurance?” Jess asks.
“I do,” Ridge says, handing over the papers he’d signed.
“I’ll let her know you bought a new truck, to add it to your insurance,” Jess says, glancing at me. “She’s my sister-in-law. I’ll be seeing her at my house for lunch real soon.” He glances at the clock.
I nod.
“Have you two had a bite yet?” he asks.
“No,” Ridge answers, taking my hand. “Or breakfast for that matter. We’re heading to the café now.”
“Come to my house instead.” Grinning, he continues. “Please? My wife was jealous that she wasn’t at the bar to see the show you put on. I’d earn more in brownie points by bringing you two home for lunch than I ever made in commission off selling you the new truck.”
Ridge laughs and glances at me.
I smile, nodding. I think I’m starting to see the benefits of small-town living.
Everyone treats you like you’re family, extended branches spiraling out of the same big tree.
“You sure we wouldn’t be imposing?” Ridge asks, tilting his head.
“Absolutely not. Amy is gonna be thrilled!” Jess stands. “Follow me. It’s only a few blocks.”
“It’s okay with you, isn’t it?” Ridge asks once we’re in his new truck.
I take a deep whiff of new car smell, basking in the fresh, pure scent.
“I’m cool with it if you are.”
“We don’t have to go if you’re worried it’ll—”
“It’s fine, Ridge. Seriously.” I smile, reaching over to thread my fingers through his.
This is all part of his grand plan.
Become part of the community ASAP so if Clay’s men show up, we’ll hear about it, and they’ll have to hear about us being happily engaged. Ridge claims extra eyes and ears are nothing but an asset in this situation.
I’m trusting he’s right.
Besides, from what I’ve gathered about what went down in Dallas between North Earhart Oil and its old rival, the people here have developed a hawkish sense for freaky, suspicious people.
If it hadn’t been for Jess spotting those goons and speaking up...
I shudder to think how it might’ve turned out. Far less happy than our night actually did.
He may very well have saved our lives.
We arrive at the Berland home a few minutes later.
It’s a cute pastel-blue two-story home that looks well taken care of, right down to the freshly painted porch and the little wooden raccoon statue giving a welcoming wave. Amy, Jess’ wife, is a brunette with an infectious smile, and definitely in the hostess-with-the-mostest category.
So is Alicia Mills, her sister. Alicia’s husband, Tyler, is there, too. A bearded man who I remember seeing at the bar last night.
I grin at Ridge when lunch consists of a heaping pan of tater tot hotdish, pasta salad, bread, and apple pie with vanilla ice cream and caramel drizzled on the top for dessert.
Growing up in Wisconsin, I’m no stranger to Midwestern fare and its carb overload, but I can’t even remember the last time I had a good home-cooked meal.
“I would’ve stepped it up a notch if I knew we were having company,” Amy says, eyeballing Ridge. “I mean, the famous kind.”
“Lady, you did all right. Can’t say I miss the food back home that much outside the occasional California burrito craving.” Ridge winks at her and she almost dies.
“Smells amazing,” I say. “I love hotdish.”
“It grows on a man,” Ridge says. “I’ve had it at the diner a few times now.”
“Amy’s is ten times better,” Jess tells us, smiling as he takes a seat.
“I’m excited you could join us. Honestly, you seem so...normal. Uh, sorry!” Amy swallows loudly, her brown eyes sparkling. “I’ve just never met a real live actor before. Jess said somebody famous moved to Dallas, but he wouldn’t tell me who. When he came home last night and told me what happened at the bar, I nearly beat him to a pulp with the pillow!”
“Sure did,” Jess says, wrapping an arm around his wife. “And I didn’t call because you were having a girls’ night out, sipping wine and binge-watching that Queen Elizabeth show.”
“We could’ve watched that later if we knew!” Amy and Alicia both say at the same time.
Everyone laughs, then Amy explains, “Our son and daughter are at the in-laws’ house for the weekend. The new season just came out this week.” Looking at me, she asks, “So I hear you’re a fancy-schmancy interior designer? You must’ve worked on some jaw-dropping homes.”
“Oh, I just got started, actually. And I’m from Milwaukee, not L.A. It’s what I went to school for,” I say, nervously downplaying my skills. Definitely not wanting anyone to think I’m the savant Ridge made me sound like last night.
“I love this old house,” Amy says, glancing around her kitchen. “That’s one thing about small towns, everybody’s place is just a little unique, whether it’s a fifty-year-old ranch or a brand-new duplex.”
“I love variety, too,” I tell her, trying not to gush over piping hot bites of cheesy potato goodness. “The repurposing, turning odds and ends into reusables or decorative items. It gives a place character.”
“Me, too, but I’m terrible at it.” Amy points at the kitchen through the open archway separating the dining room. “See that old desk? I’d love to make that spot into a real coffee bar.”
There’s a drip machine and cups sitting on it. As usual, I can instantly visualize something grander.
A rustic touch and a few additions like new cups, a grinder, and a French Press could make it come alive without much work.
“It’s a cute spot,” I tell her. “Tons of potential.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “It’s been like that for a year. I’ve tried, but nothing works.”
“She also has a tailgate sitting on the back porch that she wants to turn into a bench, and a steering wheel and hub caps, and—”
“Shhh,” Amy tells Jess teasingly, her eyes wide as she presses a finger to her lips. “You’re making me sound like a junk collector, honey.”
“Then you’re talking to the right person,” Ridge says, nodding toward me. “Grace turns junk into gold. I’ve seen what she does with a few random boxes of farm stuff from storage.”
I smile politely at him, but my mind is still on the coffee bar.
Oof.
That’s what happens when I get a vision. It won’t go away until I do something about it.
“What kind of tailgate?” I ask Amy.
“Oh, it’s an old one off my dad’s old pickup. Same vehicle I learned to drive a gazillion years ago. So did Alicia here. When Dad was parting it out, I took the tailgate, steering wheel, and hubcaps. Figured I’d make a little memory out of them someday.”
“You and me both! I got the license plates, the hood, and the front grill,” Alicia chimes in with a cheery smile. “Sisters to the end.”
More friendly, easy laughter, and the conversation rolls along as we eat, Ridge already reaching for seconds. But even as I listen, my eyes keep glancing back toward that old desk.
When the meal is over and I’m so full I might need Ridge to carry me home, Jess asks him if he has time for a quick beer, saying the dealership is only open until noon on Saturdays.
Ridge looks at me.
“Sure, we’re in no hurry to get back,” I say. “I’ll help with the dishes.”
“No, you won’t.” Amy gives me a dead-serious look. “Company doesn’t lift a finger in this house.”
