by Nicole Snow
“I did!” she insists, her pitch turning into this jittery, adorable squeak. “Hanging up the swing and trying it out was fun too. I swear, I could lounge around on it all day.”
Damn her, maybe it was fun, but I have more reason now than ever to keep things platonic, simple, and easy. Far more reason than I’d had even years ago.
Then it was because she’d been so young, and so different, this high-class creature who felt downright otherworldly to an Oklahoma farm boy.
Now? It’s because I’m a danger to her.
My shit could hurt her, pull her in, and all over nothing she ever had anything to do with.
It ain’t fair.
With easy talk over the town and old times, I drive her home, walk her to the door, and flee like the dickens without touching her again, ignoring the hellfire pulse in my lips.
Trust me, it’s a major feat.
An achievement I have to be proud of, blue smurf balls and all, because the alternative is a whole lot more fucked up than torching bridges with my childhood best friend.
I won’t have an innocent, bright, vulnerable woman getting hurt on my conscience.
Not again.
Not after what that freak and his brother did the first time I crossed swords with the Pickett machine.
After a somewhat sleepless night—because if I’m not thinking about Tory Three Names, I’m helplessly dreaming about her—I head to the police station to see if Sheriff Wallace ever had a chance to run the plate number on that thug from Oklahoma.
I’d called him shortly after leaving Carolina’s and left the info with his secretary.
When I reach Main Street, though, I head west instead of east. I’m taking a short detour past Dean Coffey’s place.
It’d be helpful to have a list of places where his goats are being hired, just so I can check up on Tory.
She’s too frigging stubborn to call me herself.
I don’t even want to imagine what might’ve happened if I hadn’t called her at Carolina’s place when I did.
With a list, I can keep an eye on her without her knowing it.
That’ll be better for me, too. Keeping space. Not being up in her face for a few days.
A cold shower hadn’t eased the voodoo effect she has.
Neither did an angry, gut-wrenching wank this morning. The guilt I’m feeling now jacking off to her was almost worth the release that turned me inside out.
Hell.
But it doesn’t help one bit that we’re both grown-up, and she’s all woman.
When we were kids, the age gap was like the Grand Canyon. Now, she’s twenty-six, and being a few years older than her ain’t the issue holding me back from claiming that sweet ass.
Her life, her safety, is.
A far better reason to keep us apart than our age did years ago.
I find Dean sitting outside in his bathrobe with a shotgun and cleaning gear leaning beside his chair. He’s an eclectic guy, but that’s funny even for him.
I pull up and park right beside his mostly camo-painted Jeep.
Painting cars was another gig he’d tried out last year.
He’d quit just before finishing his own showcase vehicle. Go figure.
“Mornin’, Dean,” I say, climbing out of my truck.
“Faulk.” He gives a single head nod like he’s been expecting me.
His bushy blond hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed since his last cut, which was probably months ago, judging by the wilderness look.
“Going hunting?” I plant a foot on his bottom step and lean a hand on my knee.
“Nah.” He looks up and shakes his head. “Just been sitting out here since about two this morning, waiting around.”
I frown. That’s mighty strange even for Dean Coffey.
“What’s up? You in some trouble?” I ask.
“I caught something prowling around the goats last night,” he tells me, lifting a cup of coffee I’d bet my right leg is loaded up with Bailey’s.
“Coyotes, huh? Heard a few other folks had trouble with them lately over at the Bobcat.” No lie, they’re wily enough to come this close to people when wolves usually won’t.
“I wish. This animal had two legs and drove a Dodge.”
“Shit.” My spine stiffens. “What happened?”
“Well, I was in the middle of a big Bonanza marathon, having a few smokes when I heard a vehicle pull up. I figured it was just someone driving by, wanting to turn around, but then I heard a door close. Somebody was sneaking around on my turf.” He stands up, thankfully holding his robe shut. “Here, I’ll show ya.”
He walks down the steps, and I follow him to the barn where I recognize several goats in their corral, including Hellboy with his typical wicked flash of teeth that looks too much like a grin.
“What’d your intruder look like?” I ask, wishing like hell I didn’t have to.
“Don’t know. It was too dark, but I got a footprint. Over here, in the mud by the water spigot. It leaks a lot, and the bastard stepped right in it the second I fired a warning shot in the air. He took off, running for his truck.”
I nod, trying not to let the tension turning me into a statue show.
Most places I’ve lived, a gunshot in the middle of the night would get reported to the sheriff, but here in Dallas, the neighbors deal with coyotes and the rare cougar after their livestock regularly.
“You said he was driving a Dodge?”
“Yep, I’m sure of it.” Dean sniffs loudly and spits into the corner. “Probably some desperate puke looking for something to steal for drug money. Those sorta bandits come and go like the wind, didn’t bother reporting it to the sheriff.”
“What did the Dodge look like?” I ask, pressing him harder.
He turns his head slowly, stroking his chin. “Hm, dunno. It was parked on the other side of the barn and took off in that direction. Think it was missing some paint.”
“And you’re sure it was a Dodge?”
“Didn’t need to see it, man. I heard it. Cummins engines have a rattle like no other when they’re wearing down. I’d say it was a mid-nineties model, maybe. Rusted and banged up. Typical goddamn meth mobile.”
Dammit.
Exactly what I feared.
He just described Marvin’s truck. That asshole didn’t heed my warning and scram like I told him.
Instead, he’s following up, tracing the Rent-A-Goat name on the trailer back to Tory and her uncle.
“You got my number?” I ask, catching Dean’s eye.
He flashes me a bewildered look. “Huh? Yeah, I think...is there a reason I ought to keep you on speed dial? Still got your eye on my niece?”
He chuckles and I pinch my jaw.
This town. Seems like I’m never gonna stop catching shit from the many, many people wanting Tory and me to be a thing.
“Listen, don’t tell anybody, but Grady says he’s seen some oddball characters creeping around Dallas lately,” I tell him, not dropping the hint it involves me.
“What? Like that funny business a year back before Ridge and Grace tied the knot? When he told us to keep an eye out for reporters and it turned out to be some mobster jackasses and his goons?” Dean scratches his cheek, stubby fingers raking stubble loudly in the silence.
“Not quite like that but...yeah, keep your eyes peeled. And if you won’t call Sheriff Wallace, call me if this snooping ever happens again.”
For a second, he’s frozen. Then he looks from side to side quickly as a big, goofy, entirely Dean grin eats up his face.
“Ah, wait. Is this some PI thing? Or even bigger, Faulk?” He leans in, still grinning like he’s holding onto this wild secret. “I heard you used to be a Fed, dude. Is that what this is?”
Oh, hell.
Here we go.
I hold up a finger to my lips, shushing him, deciding if he’s already made up his mind off the town gossip machine, it could work to my advantage.
As long as he cooperates, can’t say I care
if he thinks I’m a flyin’ purple people eater.
“Dean. Just call me, okay? I can’t say more,” I mutter low, leaning toward his ear. “It’s classified.”
“Oh, man. Shit. I...will do, Faulk! You can count on me.” He looks at me again, so giddy he’s almost bouncing.
If only the rest of this were just as easy as getting Dean Coffey baited and worked up.
I have to follow up on that Marvin asshole today, before he comes prowling around this place or anybody else with Coffey in their name.
7
Goat It Together (Tory)
Why the hell did I answer my phone again?
Just why?
I hadn’t said a word to Mother about working for Uncle Dean. I know neither he nor Granny would’ve mentioned it, so I’m wondering how Dad knows all about it.
But somehow, he’s heard, and he’s pissed. That’s for sure.
I mean, as low-key, passive-aggressive worried-pissed as Dad can get.
I huff out a breath, holding the phone away from my ear as he tells me he’s booking a plane ticket for my return home and he’ll text me the information later.
Of course, he also insists that I can’t miss the summer dance show this weekend.
Don’t I know how much they’re expecting me?
Don’t I know how many big players will be swarming like bees?
Don’t I know what it could do for my career?
All lines Mother would give him.
I’m sure she’s right behind him, whispering in his ear because she knows I’ll take it more seriously coming from him with his sharp, ever-so-diplomatic delivery.
But when he yammers on about how reckless, irresponsible, and stupid Uncle Dean has always been...
I wish that was Mother.
“He’s your brother, Dad, and he’s a good guy,” I say, having heard enough. “I’m happy helping him out. The Rent-A-Goats are actually profitable, believe it or not, and definitely one of his better ideas. I’m not coming home. Not yet.”
“Tory, I don’t think you’re understanding the significance,” he tells me, his tone flat. “The mayor and half the city council will be there for Mr. Delong, plus a large chunk of the local Fortune 500. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you to—”
“Do what? Grovel?” I snap. “Dad, if Jean-Paul Delong wants me there so bad, he can call me up himself. Don’t do his dirty work or Mother’s.”
He sputters, temporarily at a loss for words.
“Tory, please. I understand your personal reasons with him, but not for walking away from what you love and crash-landing in Dallas all summer. It’s not doing you a bit of good, just causing trouble. They’re such a nosy bunch out there. Nobody ever thinks things through, and you’re...”
I hold the phone away as he proceeds to rattle off reasons why I should fly home ASAP, and also why it’s such an atrocity I’m playing in the mud in this little Podunk town.
I don’t hear half of it. My thoughts have shifted to Quinn.
Mother would have an absolute cow—an elephant!—if she knew about him coming to my rescue, not once, but twice.
At least I know they’ve got spies among the locals, feeding them tidbits. Or else just well-meaning folks who just don’t know when to shut it.
Whoever told them about me working for Uncle Dean could’ve also mentioned my dinner with Quinn last night. But I guess the fact that Dad hasn’t brought it up yet means I’m temporarily safe from best friend ’dating’ drama.
“Dad,” I interrupt his rant while he’s dumping reason number thirteen why I need to think of my future. “I have to go. Granny and I have plans today. Love you, bye.”
I hang up before he can chew me out.
Spoiler: we don’t have plans. None that I know of, anyway, which could change any second with Granny.
But honestly? I like how she rolls. I adore spontaneity.
I enjoy the fun I’ve had since coming here, without stressing about my blown-out knee or my chasm of a future or my asshole ex who also just so happens to be my key back into the dance scene.
Sigh.
I’m over being told what to do twenty-four seven. That’s been the story of my life long before Madeline decided to literally kick me in another direction.
That’s what I’d told Quinn last night, too, in my own way.
Mother has always wanted everything to be perfect. Especially me. Her only golden child.
I’m tired now.
So sick and tired of trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. Namely my parents’.
They want me dancing again as soon as possible. They also wanted me to marry Jean-Paul at one point.
A possibility that makes me violently retch and reach for my glass of water.
Mother was pushing Jean-Paul for years, even back when I was actually interested in him.
He was older, cultured, moneyed, and fit.
She steered me into dating him, and she’d been hoping to hear about a ring up until I caught him with Madeline. Even after I told Mother, I think she still holds out hope we’ll reconcile, climb up a rainbow, and live happily ever after.
For all I know it’s the real reason why she wants me home so bad, and why she’s twisted Dad into calling and trying to talk “sense” to me.
Whatever.
I’ll go back eventually. I have to. Dancing is my life, after all, and even if I’m too messed up to ever be on a stage, I’d love to find another job in the industry.
But I don’t have to kiss and make up with Jean-Paul.
I don’t have to beg.
I damn sure don’t have to meet him again—unless it’s to deliver the resounding slap to the face the cheating prick deserves.
My palm itches at the thought.
Then I flump back against the chair, wondering what I’m doing.
Maybe my parents have no right to pull strings on my life, but they aren’t wrong to wonder. I can’t even answer the question myself.
Goat wrangling is fine for a few weeks, but it’s not something I want to do for the rest of my life. Neither is living in Dallas, even if it is a charming small-town break from my bad luck city.
“Are you off the phone?”
I get up and open my bedroom door, peering out. I can’t see Granny, but her voice carries through the house like nobody’s business.
“Now I am,” I call back, raising my voice to reach her.
“Oh, good. Get your crap together and let’s go,” she calls, jiggling her keys loudly on their chain.
“Huh? Go where?”
“Shopping, dear! Don’t tell me you just woke up?”
I smile, shaking my head. She’s already ten steps ahead of me as usual. With a quick stretch, I grab my purse and leave the bedroom, finding her waiting impatiently in the kitchen.
“What now, Gran? I thought we had plenty of food here.”
“I need to get out and stretch my legs. You need a new outfit for the rodeo. Imagine that,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Rodeo?” I echo.
“Yep.” She opens the door to the garage. “The big one’s coming to the county fairgrounds this weekend. You’ll love it.”
Will I? I rub my eyes, seriously wondering if this is some fragmented dream.
Nope. Just typical stir-crazy Granny.
“Hey, wait.” I follow her into the garage and shut the door. “I never said I’m going to the rodeo.”
“What? You mean to tell me Quinn didn’t ask you last night?”
Oh my God.
My face wants to melt right off under her appalled gaze, and I swipe a hand over it.
“No. Don’t even think he’s going himself,” I say with a shrug. “He’s a busy guy.”
“Oh, hush, no one’s too busy to miss the biggest shindig all summer.” She hands me a bike helmet. “He will. Just you wait and see. And you’ll be ready to make that boy see stars.”
“I’ll say no is what I think you mean.”
Helmet on, she laughs
at my hilarious not-joke while opening the garage.
“What’s so funny?” I put on my helmet, angrily adjusting it. “We’re friends, Gran. Nothing more, and last I checked, we’re not joined at the hip either. We both have lives.”
“Such a shame. You ask me, you could use less complainin’ and more kissin’ with the Faulkner boy. Now close the door behind us, dear.”
Holy hell.
I pretend I didn’t hear that as I follow her order. She pushes the bike out of the garage before I shut the door and climbs on, waiting. Once the door shuts, I get on behind her.
“So, I heard from Dad,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “My parents want me home soon. It’s the summer show, the big one where our group showcases new techniques for all our big donors, apparently.”
“And you told them no like a sensible young lady. Wonderful, Tory, I’m proud of you for that.”
I snicker into my hand.
“Jeez, Gran, were you listening through my door?”
I’m not even offended.
It’s Granny.
“Oh, these old ears just hear whatever they want to sometimes. And I didn’t want to interrupt, just in case you were yakking with someone important.” Flashing a wicked grin at me over her shoulder, she says, “Okay, now, ready? On three!”
With a sigh, I put my feet on the pedals.
That’s how we get the bike going.
On her count of three, we both start pedaling. It’s taken practice for us to get the timing just right, but we’re quite the experts now.
As soon as the bike lurches forward, we zoom down the driveway together, the wheels completely stable beneath us.
“Rodeo or not, I don’t need new clothes,” I tell her firmly as we bike up the street.
“Yes, you do, you little whiner. You’ve had enough fun wearing my old outfits because your Chicago wardrobe didn’t come with anything fit for Dallas.” Head down, she pedals onward, pumping her tanned legs, the spitting image of a bicycle pro. “I’m thinking a white shirt...with fringes and rhinestones. It’d suit you good,” she says, huffing for oxygen between words.
“Fringes and rhinestones? Seriously, who do I look like? I’m not a country western singer.”
