by Alexa Davis
“Do you love me, Jackson?” she asked quietly.
I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. “How could you not know…” I took a deep breath. “Yes, Carina Jade Rivers, I love you.” I stared straight ahead, trying to not get us killed before I could introduce her to my parents.
“I love you too, if you care to know.”
I shook my head. “You show me that just about every minute of every day. I didn’t need to hear it. Guess I haven’t been doing a very good job.”
“Or, you’ve never been with someone for whom every relationship, ever, has been about what she can do for them.” She tapped the window with her finger. “I make it hard, sometimes, don’t I?”
“Yup. But, you’re a beautiful woman. I expect you have to be a little more cautious than I do.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, you’ll only be talked into leaving paradise for a dirty city full of liars and fakes. I could be really hurt.”
I didn’t have a response, so we didn’t talk the last half of the drive. What she said really bothered me, though. I’d already started to question whether I needed Stanford. How much of my choices had been based on being with her?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Carina
Jackson told me to watch as we started up the winding drive, and I stared out the window, looking for something amazing. I knew what he meant the moment I saw the big gate come into view, with the brand for Lago Colina Ranch under the giant letters. The gate was open; he said they rarely closed it, only if there was a need to keep escaped livestock from getting out to the road and hit. The gate was wood and stone, and the lettering had been burnt into the wood so it stood out black against the almost white-blue of the mountain sky.
I turned and gaped at him, then craned my neck to look out every side, as we drove further into the trees. When they opened back up, it was to a huge drive that led up to a home so massive I would’ve called it a mansion if weren’t such a classic country farmhouse. Jackson explained that at one time, every employee had been housed under the roof with the family, until the men asked to build their own space, away from the growing children they didn’t want adopting their bad habits.
As we pulled up to the stairs to the veranda that stretched the length of the front of the house, Rachel and Danny, and an older man and woman came down to meet us. The tiny woman had Jackson’s eyes, and the man had his shoulders, but even if they hadn’t looked like him, I would’ve known the keepers of the Lago Colina Ranch from their bearing alone.
“Carina, this is my mother, Hannah, and my father Franklin Hargrave. My Dad is the fourth generation of Hargraves to own this land, and take care of the wild mustangs that live here.” His mother hugged me, and his father nodded, but kept his distance. He was imposing and silent, but when Jackson was hugging his mother, he winked at me and offered me the ghost of a smile.
Jackson then introduced me to the lady who ran the house, Patty, and the horse master, Pete. I stopped being able to recall names after a dozen more ranch hands and cowpokes and I thought maybe a carpenter in there somewhere. I had never been so grateful to see someone I hardly knew as I was when Callie and George walked through the door with bottles of wine and sympathetic smiles.
Jackson finally put himself between me and the growing number of curious people coming in from the fields and led me to the back patio, a wide, roofed open space with a fireplace at one end, and the longest table I’d ever seen running nearly from end to end. Platters of food started being sent out the door, and the ranch hands all helped, moving with the ease of years as a team.
I lost track of the conversations going on around me as I struggled to empty my plate, and just nodded politely when is seemed someone was addressing me directly. It was as daunting as a convention floor, picking out a single conversation among the all the noises of ranch hands and brothers, but I could catch some teasing aimed at Jackson for his choice in girlfriends, and hoped that his mother and father weren’t catching the raunchiest parts.
Thankfully, dinner was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Several hands started picking up empty platters and plates, and carting them back into the door that I assumed led to the kitchen. Someone lit the fireplace and other brought out coolers of beer for people to grab as they sat down, or as most of the hands did, went to their cabins. Rachel pulled me over to the fire and introduced me to a girl my age, Verica, who had been sitting at the other end of the table at dinner with the man named Pete, who I remembered from introductions.
The females gathered around the fire and made fun of the men, telling me stories of how each had met their own Hargrave, a club of which Pete Call appeared to be an honorary member, as Verica chimed in with a blush, and how each had become part of the family. I was happy to sit and listen, and after a few minutes I stopped looking for Jackson, who had gone missing with his brothers about the same I’d sat with the girls.
They were an amazing family, and for maybe the hundredth time since the plane landed, I was jealous of the life that Jackson had wanted to run away from. I would have given anything to belong to this, and now, I couldn’t believe that he and I could stay together, because this kind of goodness didn’t happen in my life. There was no struggle to be accepted, no lies, and though I was sure there were a few perverts on the ranch, no predators.
I rubbed Slinky behind the ears as she sprawled across my lap and tried not to cry from sheer exhaustion and bone-deep loneliness. It was a relief to finally see Jackson coming toward me, but something he saw in my face made the smile disappear from his. It made me feel worse, and I carefully lifted Slinky off my lap and stood. I needed to find somewhere to be alone before I couldn’t hold in the tears any longer.
“Hey, hey, good-lookin’ how about we go inside for a little bit?” Jackson asked quietly as he grabbed my hand and led me inside. The hoots and jeers from his brothers were enough to break the dam, and scalding tears poured down my face as I tried to hide it from him.
He took me upstairs and led me into a room. I could tell even through the blur of my tears that it was his bedroom, for no other reason than the wall of computers and monitors. Even feeling like my world was falling apart, it made me chuckle to see the tens of thousands of dollars in computer and gaming equipment in the rustic bedroom.
He sat with me on the bed and held me without saying a word until the tears had run dry and I had wiped my face and nose on his t-shirt. He laughed and stripped it off over his head, and handed it to me to finish the job.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked into my hair, as I tried to staunch the flow of crying-induced snot with his Hollander tee.
“I’m lonely.” I felt stupid saying it out loud, but that was the crux of it all.
“But you’re always connected, always talking to people.”
“Yup. Faceless, sometimes nameless people online. I love my online friends. But I’m so damned jealous of your family, I can hardly stand it.” I sniffed and pulled away from him so I could see his face. “Your family would’ve loved my grandma. She was good people.”
“I knew that without you saying anything. She raised you to be who you are.” He went silent and played with my fingers, but I could tell he was thinking. “So, you started to cry, because you have to leave here?”
Hearing him say it out loud made me feel even more stupid for feeling it. “Basically, yes. But, if your family asks, tell them I’m bipolar or something. It might be less humiliating.”
He laughed and shoved me back onto the bed, lying down beside me and sliding his hand up under my shirt to cup my breast. I looked sideways at him and he laughed. The tone of it made gooseflesh raise up on my arms.
“Carina, you never have to be sad about leaving again. No matter where we go, or what we do, we’re going to do it together. That means that you’re home now. Anytime you need the ranch, or to ride a horse, or talk to a mom, or a sister, they are here. That’s what it means to be a Hargrave. You don’t have to marry me after three months of knowing me to be fa
mily. I promise I will never leave you stranded and alone. Forever or not. We’re in this together.”
“You would drop everything and bring me here to visit? Anytime?”
“I would put you on a plane for a girls’ lunch, if that was what it took for you to have a good day.”
“I can put myself on a plane.”
“But now, you don’t have to. You have someone to drop you off, pick you up, keep Stiles company, or carry him onto the plane to come with us.” He massaged my breast through my bra and jiggled it to make me smile. “I know you’re independent and amazing on your own. But I promise you, you never have to feel lonely again.”
I leaned in and kissed him, and his hand slid around to my back to pull me in close as he parted my lips with his tongue. I’d been with guys before, and never thought I’d be able to fall in love, when all I needed was a man. One who was willing to come to me, who was unlike anyone else I had ever known, unique and creative and amazing. A man who could hack computers in a cowboy hat, or build me wings that took me to heights I couldn’t reach alone. Nothing in this world was more unique and amazing to me than the man who loved me enough that I had no choice to love him back. My California cowboy.
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STINGRAY BILLIONAIRE
By Alexa Davis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Alexa Davis
Chapter One
Rory’s Treasures
Ellie
“The Louis XV-style double-mirrored armoire is your best bet if you’re looking to impress your guests, and you’ll have more than enough room to store your knick-knacks in the display area,” I tell Mrs. Taber as she’s glancing through the furniture section of the shop.
Welcome to Rory’s Treasures.
It would be a thrift store if they created thrift stores for the sole purpose of supporting the owner’s unwillingness to pick up a marketable skill. This shop is Troy’s dream.
Troy Kramer is my boss and the owner/founder of Rory’s Treasures. To this day, I don’t know who Rory is. Every time I ask, Troy’s only answer is, “He’s the guy I named the shop after,” and then he’ll lock himself in the office the rest of the day.
That’s why I’m here on the floor when I should be up near the register. Of course, when there’s only one customer, that customer tends to grow in importance fast.
“This was owned by Louis XV?” Mrs. Taber asks.
Every time I talk about this armoire, I get the same question. Troy’s been telling me just to say yes so we can get the thing out of here.
“No,” I answer. “It’s in a style named for him, but don’t let that discourage you. From what I hear, these pieces are highly prized.” Of course, Troy’s the one I heard that from, so who knows?
“Yeah,” she says, opening one of the doors to the armoire. She says, “I think I saw one in Wal-Mart a while ago.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say.
She glances up at me.
Here is my problem: Honesty’s great, but correcting people is said to be impolite. I’ve read How to Win Friends and Influence People. I fall asleep to it at night. Still, old Dale Carnegie hasn’t quite convinced me about everything.
“I could have sworn,” Mrs. Taber says.
“You may have seen a reproduction or something done in the style, but it’s not authentic,” I tell her. “This armoire comes with a certificate of authenticity.”
I try not to think too hard about the fact that the certificates of authenticity all showed up on the same day. I try even harder not to think about the fact that it was the day after I asked Troy why we didn’t have any for our genuine antiques. The signatures on each certificate do look surprisingly similar.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m just looking for an armoire, though. Do I need something ‘authentic?’?”
I know what I’m supposed to say; Troy’s been over it a thousand times like the problem is I just didn’t hear him.
“You don’t need something authentic, no,” I answer. “Modern, less expensive armoires will look just as beautiful and work just as well. That said, this is a real conversation piece.”
When there’s no plausible deniability, there’s no plausible reason to deny the truth.
“In that case, I think I’ll just keep looking,” she says.
“Ellie!” Troy’s voice comes from the office.
I don’t know how it is that he always knows, but he does.
Leaving Mrs. Taber, I make my way to the office doorway, saying, “Yeah?”
“You did it again, didn’t you?” he asks.
I shrug and widen my eyes to puppy-dog-levels, saying, “Did what?”
He lets out a long sigh, and for the first time, I’m noticing that there’s a line of flattened hair on the top of his head, going from ear to ear. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to sell that stupid thing?”
“You have microphones around the store so you can listen to what I’m telling customers, don’t you?” I ask.
Tactfulness has never been my strong suit.
“How many times am I going to have to go over this?” he asks. “Yes, the customer needs the armoire. You can’t find anything like it anywhere. I’m surprised we got one here.”
“Now, just so I’m clear,” I say, “Louis XV originally commissioned the armoire, but there was a problem with Amazon’s shipping service, and so it got sent to his friend, The Duke of Troy, to sell in his shop in the middle of nowhere, right?”
“People don’t come in for antiques because they’re cheap; they come here because they can’t find this stuff anywhere else,” Troy says.
I look behind me at the barren store. Mrs. Taber must have gone after I left her.
“Troy, people don’t come in here,” I tell him.
He’s leaning forward as if he’s expecting me to say more on the topic, but my point finally starts sinking in. “So your contention is that because we don’t get a lot of customers, it’s okay if we lose the few we do get?”
He’s running his fingers through his hair with little, flicking motions, trying to add body to the depressed line of hair where his headphones were. It occurs to me he might not have been spying. Could be he was just looking at porn.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell him. “I just don’t think we should try to push expensive stuff on people we know can’t afford it.”
“How do you know she couldn’t afford it?” Troy asks.
“First off,” I tell him, “the armoire is almost two grand. Second,” I continue, “I know Mrs. Taber. She was my third-grade teacher. Troy, I know you want to think we live in some large town where everybody doesn’t already know everything about everybody else, but—”
The bell above the shop’s door rings.
“Why don’t you get out there and see if we can sell something today,” he says. “That’s how businesses stay open: they sell things.”
I roll my eyes, saying, “Oh, now you tell me.”
“If you’re not going to bother with what I’ve asked you to do on the sales floor, maybe it’d be best if you just sit up front or do some dusting or something,” he says. “Or are you going to have trouble ringing this guy up if he wants to buy something?”
With a sigh, I slink from the office doorway. I wonder who I’m going to strong-arm next.
The shop’s not all questionable antiques. Pretty much anything you’d imagine would be in a thrift store, pawn shop, or antique emporium is in this shop.
The problem in this town, Mulholland, is that it’s so small, everyone has a job, but it’s hardly ever a job
they would have wanted. When people here reach the age of eighteen, they either move away, or they fill out a form with the local job broker, Grant. That’s what I did.
I’m still not sure if Grant is the man’s first or last name, but I do know that he’s as good as HR for every shop, store, and company in Mulholland. Nobody gets a job without his approval because there aren’t any jobs to be had.
I guess he’s the only one who knows where to put people where they’ll do the least amount of damage.
When someone like me does the stupid thing and decides to stick around Mulholland after graduating high school, Grant’s got to look for somewhere to put them. So, here I am.
If I didn’t live in the village proper, I wouldn’t have been able to get anything in town at all. I guess I should feel lucky or proud or something, but Troy and I have never seen eye-to-eye when it comes to sales or business strategy or advertising or ethics.
I don’t know that we’ve ever agreed on anything, now that I think about it.
Grabbing the feather duster Naomi, my sister, got me on my eighteenth birthday as a gag gift, I set about prettying up the shop. I’m not going to lie to this guy, and Troy’s going to get after me again if I go up to the man and start telling him the truth, so I just keep my distance.
After a while, though, I come to about where the man is standing, only the next aisle over, and I can’t help but say something. “Are you looking for anything particular today, or just browsing?” I ask.
“Actually,” the man says, keeping his back to me, “I was hoping you could help me.”
Oh dear. “Sure,” I answer. “What is it that you’re looking for?”
“I’m looking for a few things,” he says. “First, I wanted to see if you had anything Fabergé.”
I hate it when this happens. It’s only ever happened a couple of times since I’ve been here, but this guy seems like someone with an interest in actual antiques.
