“Want a drink?” I asked over my shoulder as I headed to the wet bar to make another for myself.
“Vodka. Neat.”
As I poured the drinks, she meandered around the loft, slowing to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room. The click of her heels against the concrete floor drew my attention to her red stilettos. From the shoes, my gaze traveled farther north, up her long legs to lean hips and a nonexistent ass.
When did women buy into the lie that men wanted their women rail thin? What the hell were we supposed to hold on to in bed when there was nothing to grab? Where's the fun when your hand was larger than both ass cheeks?
Glancing over her shoulder, she caught my roaming eye and smiled. With each step closer, her sensual smirk grew. At my side, she flicked her bright blonde hair over her shoulder, drawing my gaze to the low dip of her dress.
“Like what you see?” The twinkle in her eye and soft laugh implied that she was used to men saying yes. After a short sip from her drink, her pink tongue swiped along her bright red lower lip to lap up the excess. “I've waited for you. Do you remember the amazing night we had together? Right here in this loft all those years ago?”
“No.” No lies. It'd been a while since rehab, but pretty sure the last thing a recovering addict needed was to revert back to lying.
“Ah, well it's a bit of a blur for me too, but I remember having fun. Remember you being the best I ever had and waking up the next morning needing more of you.” Her warm palm skimmed up the front of my dress shirt and curved around my neck to haul her body flush against mine.
“Listen....”
“Candice.”
“Right. Listen, Candice, I don't—”
“The rumors are that all the money left in Caleb's trust shifted to you.”
And there it was. Knew she was the type from the second the door opened. Just another socialite who was hunting her own sugar daddy. Little did she know her type wasn't mine. Not anymore.
Maybe it never was.
“Does that matter?” I retorted, then turned to look out the windows she was just admiring. I needed to get away from here. Maybe being at the ranch for a few days would be good, even if it would pull me away from the high-priced therapist I'd already contacted to help with my issue.
The sly smile and smirk she gave in return to my question said it all. “I've loved you since that night. Since all the nights we had together. I've missed you, wanted you to come home, and now you're here. It's fate. We're destined, don't you see that?”
I choked on the laugh threatening to erupt. This woman couldn't be serious.
“Listen, Candy—”
“Candice.”
“Right. Listen, it's been a long day. You should—”
The hand around my neck slid lower and cupped me outside my suit pants. “Well then, Bren, maybe you should be the one doing the relaxing. Come on, baby, let me help you.”
Taking the drink from my hand with her free one, she set it on the bar before guiding me to the couch. Standing toe-to-toe, she shoved her delicate hand against my chest, pushing me to the couch with a smile.
I'm no idiot. I knew where this was going. Also knew I should stop her since there was zero interest past this one night, but I wouldn’t. Because I was Brenton Graves. And a Graves never said no. It was my heritage. All I needed to complete this family tradition was glassy eyes, lines of coke on the glass coffee table, and a raging party in the background.
Clinking of metal against metal pierced through the loft as Carley... Cathy... whatever her name was unclasped my belt. Soft brushes of her lips against the planes of my stomach relit my earlier temper.
“You need to leave Cassidy.” I stood making her fall back to her ass. As I strode to the door, my raging hardon screamed I was an idiot for kicking a willing woman out of the loft.
“What?” she shrieked. “You can’t be serious.”
I swung the door open and gestured out toward the hall. “I am. Now Candy. Out.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she seethed as she stormed past and down the hall.
Only after the door slammed behind her did I respond. “I have no fucking clue.”
It was the truth.
Between my blackouts and now the sudden disinterest in a woman on her knees, something was fucked up in my mind.
Wish I knew what and how to fix it.
Chapter 2
Rebeka
MY SKIN HEATED TO AN uncomfortable level through the back of my T-shirt where it touched the hot metal of the truck door, but I didn't pay it any attention. The only thing I focused on was Ryder's words.
“You're kidding me,” I breathed into the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder, where sweat immediately made the screen slippery.
“Nope. The rumor mill says the whole family will be in town for it. Three days, Beka. Three. Did you hear that part?” Ryder asked. Sympathy and concern poured through each word. “What will it be, face him or hide?”
“I won't hide from him again,” I grumbled. “I missed my chance to confront him at Caleb's—”
“Dr. Harding,” called the man I'd completely forgotten was around.
“Shit. Have to run. I'll call you later.” I ended the call, slipped the phone into the back pocket of my Wranglers, and forced a broad smile as I turned to face my client. With the hem of my Texas A&M T-shirt, I wiped the sweat from my upper lip as he jogged closer.
So over this day.
So over yesterday.
And the day before that.
Who was I kidding, I was just over this. Too bad I still had a shit ton of student loans to pay back before I could even think about choosing another career.
“Hey,” the man exhaled loudly at my side. “Thanks for coming by and checking on Stella. I know it was a last-minute call, but I was worried about my girl. It's her first.”
“And yours?” I asked with an arched brow. Newbies, so overprotective.
The young man pulled his Stetson down low over his brow and grumbled, “That obvious?”
With a comforting pat on his shoulder, I tossed my supply bag into the bed of the old Ford. “She'll be fine. Just let nature take its course. If she seems in pain or can't deliver on her own, then call me and I'll come back out. But from checking her just now, I'd say you're waiting for another two to three weeks.”
His groan of frustration grated my already frayed nerves. The day started twelve hours ago, and in this heat, I had zero patience left.
Looking to the barn, he shrugged. “Women. Always running on your own schedule, am I right?”
The earlier smile fell from my lips and turned to a scowl. “I'd say it’s more about the proper gestation period needed for a healthy colt. We want the babe in there to cook a little longer so he or she comes out healthy. Agree?”
Chastised, he hung his head and gave a slight nod.
Not waiting any longer to get out of there, I swung open the driver side door and hauled myself onto the bench seat. Immediately my already sweaty ass and thighs suctioned to my jeans as the heat from the fake leather seeped in. Hell, it was too hot for June. What did we do to deserve this early heat wave?
If it weren't a complete blasphemy for a Daughter of the Republic to curse the state of Texas, I'd be wishing the whole state would go to hell. Even though it felt like we were already there.
Add in that I chose not to fix the air conditioning this winter as I’d promised myself I would, and my shitty day just went from awful to... well, shitty.
At a four-way stop, I banged my forehead against the hard steering wheel. Why didn't I ever make things easy for myself?
Each bump along the unlit county road elicited a creative string of curse words. It was pitch black past the dim headlights due to the zero streetlights around, making every turn treacherous. I should have left over an hour ago, but that didn't happen. And they call women chatty. In the past year I’d been out of school, I'd met more lonely, isolated ranchers wanting
to talk my ear off for hours than any woman in Midland.
That could be me though.
My unladylike talk and sailor's mouth didn't win any points with the self-important women my age around here. Which sucked because once you got past my somewhat gruff exterior, I was a girly girl. Beneath these dirty, horse-shit-covered boots and sweat-soaked socks, my toes were perfectly manicured and painted a deep purple to match my nails. I devoured blog after blog of beauty products and had a month’s salary worth of face shit beneath the bathroom sink. I loved Hallmark Channel movies and enjoyed a good glass of white wine with an even better conversation. And of course, like any proper lady, I enjoyed a man who treated me like a lady in public but spanked my ass behind closed doors.
See, girly girl.
The glowing city lights of Midland shimmered in the distance, easing a bit of tension from my shoulders. It’d been home for over a few years now, but it still felt foreign turning toward it instead of heading the forty minutes west to my childhood home.
After graduating from Texas A&M, I took the first large animal vet job offered, and it just happened to be here. I didn't mind, because I loved West Texas. The sunsets on a clear day could still take my breath away, and the rough hands of a rancher or sunspots on an older woman's face were worn with pride instead of shame.
It was crazy that I ended up here, so close to home, considering I went seven hours away to College Station to put as much distance between me and the memories as possible. Away from the looks and stares of every person who thought they knew me and the real story. Even all these years later, if you listened to the gossips in town, you'd learn of the young, naïve country girl who foolishly fell for a man she'd never have a shot at keeping. They were correct about one piece. I did fall for him. Fell hard. Fifteen-year-old girls only fall one way—desperately, all-consuming, devastatingly in love.
Unfortunately for me, it was Brenton Graves who I fell for, the older bad boy who everyone assumed was a lost cause. But they didn't see the real him or know our full story. They weren't a part of the buildup to who we were together—friends to confidants to lovers to.... Everyone assumed they knew the details of our final night together, but they didn't; they only believed the lies they had heard. Only Ryder knew the play-by-play of that awful night, and I guess Brenton. Not that I'd know for sure, considering the last time I saw or spoke to him, I was screaming in pain while he lay unconscious in the driver seat.
Holding the wheel with my knee, I swiped both sweaty palms down my already damp jeans and cursed at the windshield.
Am I really considering going to the funeral for a shot at closure?
Haven't I moved on? I’m thirty years old, dammit.
Okay, a sad thirty-year-old who couldn't move on and maybe still thought about her first love, her first relationship, first lover nearly every other day.
“You're pathetic, Beka. Seriously pathetic. Grow a set and move on,” I said to myself through the roaring, dust-filled wind pouring through the open windows as I sped down the smooth highway.
AFTER A LENGTHY, WELL-deserved shower, I fell face-first onto the bed with an exhausted groan. Like the rest of my body, the throbbing soles of my feet seemed to sigh. Being a veterinarian wasn't at all what I expected. Long hours, late nights, and very—and I mean very—little pay. The small practice that hired me after graduation decided to haze me into the group by giving me the unwanted cases and clients, which seemed to be most of them.
The chirp of an incoming message had me fake sobbing into the comforter. Damn me for leaving the stupid phone in the other room. The soles of my feet revolted, sending bolts of pain up my legs with each timid step. A new pair of boots were necessary, but those would have to go on the “want” list, not the “need” list. Both of which were growing.
Even though undergrad had been paid for by the asshat I was dreading to face in three days, graduate school was fucking expensive, leaving me with a healthy bill at the end. Add student loans to my other daily expenses, and I fell deeper into the red with each passing month. I could get by if I moved back home, but there was no way in hell that would happen.
And that wasn't an empty threat. I'd rather live on the streets than back with Daddy.
I fell onto a stool, catching myself before toppling over backward, and swiped the phone open.
Ryder: I think you should go. So does Kyle.
Ryder: You need closure, and this might be your last shot to get it.
My heart dropped to my stomach. Last shot?
Me: Why do you say that?
Me: And you talked to Kyle about what I should do?
Ryder: He is my fiancé and your other best friend, so yeah. Plus things are boring around here. This little development of Brenton coming back to town has everyone talking.
Ryder: And by everyone, I mean every eligible woman eager to get a glimpse of him.
Ryder: You know that ranch will go to Old Man Graves’s bastard son. As soon as his name is on that deed, that place will be up for sale, which means no more Graves family ranch. No more chances of you running into him when visiting your dad.
Ryder: Think about it. It's been ten years. Get your last word in before it’s too late.
Me: Thirteen years. But who's counting?
Ryder: You're killing me. Closure. It does wonders.
Ryder: And you need it, love.
Shit, she was right. Of course she was. It was only the topic of every late-night, drunken conversation since we were teens. Since the day she’d climbed into my hospital bed and held me while I sobbed on her shoulder.
Me: Enough about him. How are things?
Ryder: Things are good. Wedding plans are going well. Now back to him.
Me: What would I even say to him?
Ryder: What we've practiced every day since you left the hospital. Every night since we were kids. You got this. Kyle and I will be there too. You'll have backup.
Ryder: You can do it. But you have to be there to get the last word.
The phone fell to the cheap laminate counter with a thunk. I buried my face in my hands and groaned.
Fine. I'd go. I'd go looking smoking hot, give Brenton Graves a piece of my mind for what he did, and then walk away with closure and a sliver of my self-respect back.
Closure.
I stared at the kitchen cabinets and mentally flipped through my wardrobe. Now came the difficult decision. What in the hell did one wear to a funeral where they were attempting to make the ex-boyfriend jealous?
Hmm. Decisions, decisions.
A STEADY STREAM OF local ranchers and their wives weaved in and out of the main house, offering their condolences more to the staff than Old Man Graves’ actual family. I scanned each person who passed with a held breath, and each time it wasn't Brenton, disappointment tripped my thundering heart.
He was there somewhere. During the funeral, I caught a quick glimpse of the back of his head, and a side profile when he hugged someone after the service, but that was it. Now standing in the kitchen with the ranch staff, there wasn't a clear line of sight into the formal living room where Brenton and his dad received the mourners.
“Was his dad smiling during the service?” I whispered to Kyle over my shoulder, my eyes glued to the swinging door in case Brenton magically appeared. “He's such an asswipe.”
“I heard he's already reached out to potential buyers about the place. Old Man Graves isn't officially buried yet and that shitty excuse for a human is looking for the next paycheck.”
“I don't get how Brenton would let that happen.” I shifted back to let a caterer pass with a tray full of finger foods. “This place has been in their family for generations. Surely he'll do something to stop it.”
“Why in the hell do you give that bastard more credit than he deserves?” At the anger in Kyle’s harsh tone, I turned to face him. “Do you not remember what happened? How he deserted you? I sure fucking do.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to watch the door once again. “I r
emember. Kind of hard to forget something like that.”
“You look smoking hot,” Ryder said and wedged between Kyle and me. “Love that dress on you.”
Looking down, I shoved my hands into the side pockets of the black A-line dress and smiled. “Thanks. It has pockets.”
“But seriously, cowboy boots?”
Bumping her hip with mine, I smiled down at my tiny friend, who was shaking her head at my boots. “I like this look. And my other shoes weren't funeral appropriate.”
“There’s appropriate funeral footwear?” Kyle chimed in behind us.
“Yes,” Ryder and I said in unison.
“Have you seen him yet?” Ryder asked, rising to her tiptoes to look over a group of tall cowboys gathering in front of us. “I only got a glimpse at the gravesite,” she whispered as she leaned close. “But I heard two girls talking in the bathroom, and they both said he's still freakishly hot.”
I cut my narrowed eyes down to hers.
“Sorry,” she grumbled. “It's now or never. Let's go find him.”
Gripping my hand in hers, she yanked me toward the door, but instead of going willingly, I dug my heels into the tile floor. A large hand smacked between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward with so much force that I almost stumbled into an older man. I glared back, ready to flick Kyle the bird, but found him smirking at his boots.
Damn those two.
But I loved them.
Fine. It was time to get this done. I'd have my say, let Brenton see what he left behind, and get my ass back to Midland where a half gallon of chocolate chip Blue Bell waited for me. And three bottles of wine. And a bag of Hershey Kisses.
In the expansive formal living area, a few neighbors mingled while sipping their coffee and munching on the provided food, which wasn't half bad. Ryder guided us through the crowd, weaving and shoving toward the target.
All too soon we were there, right in front of the man who starred in my dreams of murder as well as my lusty fantasies.
I couldn't move. Brenton's bright green eyes locked me in a trance just like they always had. By my side, Ryder spoke words I should’ve understood but didn't. All I could do was stare at the gorgeous man who stared right back.
Memories of Us: A Second Chance, Amnesia Romance Novel Page 2
