Something Reckless (Dirty Southern Secrets Book 3)

by J. L. Leslie

  “Kipton Holt here to check in.”

  I’ve already pre-registered for this event, the Hampton Classic, so it only takes a few minutes for me to be allowed in. I drive through the gate and head over to where I’ll spend the majority of my night waiting, the contents of my stomach already rumbling.

  After I park, I grab my gear out, carrying it with me to the nearest bathroom. I was here last night, scoping the place out like I normally do. I like to get a feel for the arena, touch the soil, and lean against the gate without being on a bull.

  I drop my bag onto the floor and lean over the sink, taking a deep breath. I know it’s going to happen; it always does. It hits me in only a minute, and I grab the small garbage can on the floor, retching. When I’m finished, I wash up and take my bag outside so I can get ready to draw my bull. Chances are, I’ll be back in the bathroom before it’s my turn to ride.

  “You still throwing up before a ride?” Stuart Packard asks, tossing me a lazy grin. “Thought you’d be over your nerves by now.”

  “If you ain’t nervous getting on the back of a bull, something is seriously wrong with you.”

  He laughs. “Nothing makes me nervous,” he states proudly. “Except maybe that hot little reporter who was in Tennessee. Yeah, she makes me nervous. Never seen a woman drink me under the table like that before.”

  I grunt. “Yeah.”

  “You two seemed to know each other. Didn’t I see you leave together?”

  “We live in the same town.”

  “Damn, what are you waiting for then?” he asks, and before I can respond, we’re summoned to the arena to draw for our bull.

  Since this isn’t a championship event, this part isn’t a big fuss. We all go out in a line and draw a number from a bucket. That number is associated with a bull. The announcer reveals that bull’s name. It’s the same with any of these events.

  Some riders get pissed when they think they don’t draw a good bull or are terrified when they draw one they aren’t prepared to ride. Sure, the bull does play into the score, but I depend more on my capabilities as a rider.

  I reach into the bucket and draw my lucky number seven. Hot damn. I fight back a smile. I have always had good rides when I draw number seven.

  “Kipton Holt has drawn Oakwood!” the announcer calls out, and my stomach knots.

  Oakwood? What are the fucking odds that I draw a bull named after Brynn? Guess seven isn’t my lucky number, after all.

  32

  Brynn

  I stay in my car as long as I possibly can. When I do get out, I stay busy interviewing the other riders and avoiding Kipton. It isn’t that difficult to do, considering I haven’t seen him. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s even competing when I see him emerge from the bathroom. He takes his cowboy hat off and wipes his brow with his sleeve. The only time I ever see him wearing a hat is when he’s at an event.

  His dark gaze shifts to me, making eye contact, and just as quickly, he looks away as though that split second had zero effect on him. It affected me, damn it. My knees became weak, my pulse racing. Damn him.

  I turn back and finish my interview, struggling to even remember the cowboy’s name. I wish him luck, and he saunters off.

  Knowing the event is about to start, I make my way to the stands. No use in lingering around when clearly Kipton is avoiding me the way I’m avoiding him.

  I stop by the concession stand and grab a hot dog, nachos, and coke. This is probably the reason I have a pudgy stomach, not the fact that I carried a kid. I find a spot on the bleachers and get comfortable. The bull riding is always last. Ropers go first, then bronc riders, then the bulls. Save the best for last.

  By the time the bull riding division begins, I have finished off my food, and I’m nervously waiting to see Kipton ride. I send up a little prayer for his safety when I hear that he’ll be going next.

  The rider before him, Stuart, does well. It’s probably his best of the season so far. I make a mental note to interview him afterward. He has no qualms about talking to reporters from what I can tell, and he did interview well last time.

  “Up next is Kipton Holt, ranked number sixty-one in the world, and he’s riding Oakwood!”

  I cough at the bull’s name, laughing a little. Is that a good sign or a bad omen? I look toward the chute, and I can see him being lowered onto the bull. The moment he gives the nod of approval, the gate flings open, and he’s out.

  I hold my breath as I watch him. The bull is a damn beast, jumping high into the air and twisting its body around before hitting the ground only to repeat the motion. Kipton hangs on, his form good, and when I hear the buzzer, I release my breath.

  Kipton is flung to the ground, and he’s slow to get up, the crowd yelling as Oakwood charges toward him.

  “Get up!” I scream, and he scrambles to his feet and to the safety of the fence. He gives the crowd a cocky wave and then climbs over, disappearing.

  I rush down from the bleachers, flashing my media badge to get back to where he is. I find him with his elbows propped on the side of his truck, head down. I can’t tell if he’s all right or if he’s hurt, and I fear the latter.

  “Kipton! Kipton! Are you okay?” I ask, coming to his side.

  He lifts his head, and I can see dried blood crusting the edge of his hat. I move to lift it off and examine his wound, but he flinches away from me. Hurt, I drop my hand to my side.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I was worried.”

  “Why would you be worried about me?” he questions, his tone accusatory as he steps away from his truck. “What happened between us was reckless and careless, and you’ve made it clear that you fucking regret every single second of it!”

  “Yes, it was reckless, and it was careless!” I agree. “And maybe I don’t know how I feel about it, but I don’t regret it! I only regret that it cost us what we had! I hate that we lost that!”

  Kipton moves toward me. “We don’t have to lose it.”

  A whimper escapes my mouth as he descends his head down. His kiss is soft at first, his lips moving over mine sensually before dipping his tongue into my mouth. The second our tongues touch, we’re consumed. It ignites this primal need inside us both, and we can’t fight it. Can’t ignore it.

  He places his hand underneath my thigh and hooks it over his hip, grinding against me and moving his other hand beneath my dress. I gasp when he rubs his fingers over my panties, brushing them against my pussy.

  “Kipton, I need to tell you something.”

  “Save it for later,” he says, slipping his fingers inside my panties.

  “We’re outside. At the rodeo,” I say breathlessly.

  He smirks and pushes two fingers inside me. “I know.”

  I grip his shoulders, letting him finger fuck me until my legs are shaking, then I unbuckle his jeans and pull out his dick, stroking my hands up and down. He lifts me, and when he lowers me down, he impales me on him. All thoughts of telling him about John are far from my mind.

  Steadying me against his truck, he fucks me fast and hard, the sound of the crowd applauding in the background.

  33

  Kipton

  When I go back to the arena for the standings, I’m walking on cloud fucking nine. I can’t wipe the silly grin off my face, and it isn’t because I pulled off the top spot for the event. It isn’t because I know that’ll increase my rankings. It isn’t even because of what happened in the parking lot with Brynn.

  My gaze flickers over to the stands, and Brynn stands there clapping and cheering. What I do might terrify the shit out of her, but she’s genuinely happy for me. That’s why I’m on cloud nine.

  I pose for a few photos, but I’m ready to get the hell out of here, and I don’t have any intention of leaving alone. I find Brynn interviewing Stuart, who had a great ride tonight, and I let her do her job.

  I send her a text telling her what hotel I’m staying at. I put the ball in her court, and I pray to God she comes. A fast fuck against my tr
uck can’t be our last moment together.

  Still, an hour passes, and she doesn’t show. I peel off my filthy clothes and get into the shower. The wound on my head is sensitive, and I can honestly say I don’t even know how I got it. Maybe Oakwood’s horns got me somehow. Hazard of being a bull rider.

  I get out and towel off, ignoring the cuts and bruises on my torso. More hazards of being a bull rider.

  I wrap the towel around my waist and saunter into my room, flicking on the television to avoid the silence. I barely hear the tap on my door. I look through the peephole, and she’s there.

  I open the door and step back, allowing her inside. She has the nervous, unsure look about her again. When her gaze falls on my chest, her lips part in surprise, her hand rising. She touches some of my bruises, her eyes turning glassy.

  “Kipton…” her voice trails as a tear falls down her cheek. I thumb it away and bring her to me, holding her.

  “It’s okay,” I assure her. “I’m okay.”

  I kiss the top of her head, stroking her hair. She cries against my chest, and I know it can’t be from seeing me banged up. A few cuts and bruises wouldn’t elicit this response.

  “Brynn, talk to me.”

  “I shouldn’t have come,” she says, pulling away from me. “But I couldn’t stay away. Everyone is finally accepting me again and look at what I’m doing. On top of that, I need to tell ‒”

  “If you’re worried about my family not accepting this, I’ll talk to them. I really don’t think it’ll be an issue.”

  “And Kaler ‒”

  “Kaler married your best fucking friend, so while I respect my brother and will talk with him, I’m not asking for his damn permission.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not that. Kaler finally trusts me with Willow. I’m supposed to be putting Willow first, making her a priority, and I’m being selfish as usual. I told you I don’t have my shit together, and I wasn’t lying about that.”

  “You’re a great mom to Willow. Why can’t you see that you deserve to be happy, too?”

  “I am not this person you believe me to be!” she argues. “I was an awful wife to Kaler and horrible mother to Willow! It took me years to admit that! Years! Now, I’m going to wreck your life, too! Ruin all your plans, and you deserve better!”

  “Damn it, Brynn, I am in love with you,” I confess. “I have loved you since high school. I loved you when you walked down the aisle to marry my brother. I loved you when you had his child. I can’t stand back and watch anymore. I love you.”

  I wipe away her tears, leaning down and kissing her cheeks. I’m desperate for her to say something, anything. For her to tell me she loves me or doesn’t, for that matter. Instead, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine.

  That’s all the confirmation I need.

  34

  Brynn

  The towel Kipton is holding drops to the floor. He takes his time undressing me, his lips never leaving mine.

  Damn it, Brynn, I am in love with you.

  I should stop this, stop him. Him loving me doesn’t change the fact that I can’t give him what he deserves. What I know he wants, needs. He’s the best man I know, and I’m going to break his heart. Shatter his world.

  I have loved you since high school.

  Kipton lies me down on the bed, climbing over me and settling between my legs. Every connection of our skin is heated, afire. Something has changed between us with his confession. This isn’t a drunken night or morning after. This isn’t a frantic fuck. This is more.

  “I should’ve asked earlier, but is this all right?” he questions, his dick sliding between my silken folds.

  I know he’s referring to the fact that he isn’t wearing a condom. Biting back a confession of my own, I simply nod, and he glides inside me.

  I loved you when you walked down the aisle to marry my brother.

  He begins to move, pumping into me slowly, and I can see his restraint. He wants to go slow, wants to savor this. I reach up and cup his face, my fingers trailing over his lips. He watches me in awe, pure adoration on his gorgeous face. I don’t recall ever having anyone look at me like this. I’ll miss that look the most.

  I loved you when you had his child.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  I can’t pinpoint the moment it happened. Can’t look back and say the exact date. Maybe it was when I called after I left town and he picked up. Maybe I fell for him back in high school all those times I cried on his shoulder after my fights with Kaler. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Sometimes love isn’t enough, no matter how badly we want to believe it is.

  I love you.

  I cry as he makes love to me. My tears silent and getting lost somewhere between the pillow and his shoulder. I scream out when I come, my body trembling beneath him. And I swallow his confession of love as he finds his release inside me.

  We lay there afterward, my head resting in the crook of his arm and my leg lazily thrown over his waist. His fingers gently play with my hair, causing me to doze in and out of sleep.

  “Promise me we’ll figure this out, Brynn,” he says quietly.

  I close my eyes; my response lost as I drift off. When I wake up, I have no idea what time it is. The sun hasn’t risen, and the hotel room is dark save for the glimmer of light coming from the bathroom.

  Kipton’s breathing is even in his sleep, his arm possessively around my waist. I allow myself a few minutes of simply staring at him. Memorizing the curve of his jaw. The length of his eyelashes. The small scar on his chin.

  Then, I ease away from him, careful not to wake him. I get dressed quietly, using what little light I have to find my things. I reach the door and look back. He’s still sleeping; his gloriously naked body stretched over the bed.

  I have this moment of arguing with myself on whether what I’m doing is right or wrong. The consequences course through my mind. If I thought I lost him before, I definitely will this time.

  But one day he’ll understand. One day he will thank me. Thank me for not tying him down to a woman who can’t give him everything. Who can’t give him a child.

  35

  Kipton

  I knew she was gone the moment my body stirred awake. The spot where she’d lain was no longer warm, the coldness of the sheets a reminder of where she had been. Of where we’d made love.

  I sit up on the edge of the bed, running a hand over my short, brown locks. The realization that Brynn was running, running from me, hit me like a freight train. She was probably halfway back to Chapelwood by now. Probably already convinced herself that last night was the last time. That, for whatever reason, we can’t be together.

  Fuck that. I’ll never get enough of her. Not now that I know what it’s like to be with her. Now that I know the feel of her body. Now that I know the sound of her love. I am not giving up. Yet, I know it’s not a conversation to be held over the phone. She can lie to me over the phone, push me further away. In person, she won’t be able to hide, and I plan on seeing her in a week.

  I glance over at the clock, knowing if she were still here, I’d find a way to squeeze in another session before meeting with my sponsor. Now, I have no reason to be late. I take a quick shower and get dressed, heading down to the hotel restaurant for the meeting.

  I don’t regret signing that contract, not one bit. Getting a sponsor like Wrangler has been a godsend. I’m no longer shelling out my own money for entry fees. As long as I place in the top ten, and my rank continues to climb, my sponsor handles the fees. All of my gear is now Wrangler gear. Even my ass is clad in Wrangler jeans. Anything to keep them happy.

  “I’m meeting someone,” I inform the hostess. “Kipton Holt.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Holt.”

  I follow her to a table for two beside a window. A blonde woman is already seated, her pinstripe pantsuit a sharp contrast from my blue tee, jeans, and boots. I suppose I should’ve packed some of my church clothes.

  She smiles up a
t me and extends her hand. “Mr. Holt, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Laura Peake. We spoke on the phone.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” I shake her hand and take a seat across from her. She sips her glass of water while I peruse the menu.

  “You’ve been doing extremely well, Mr. Holt. Your score of ninety-six at yesterday’s event ranked you in the top fifty. Wrangler feels confident that you’re only going to continue to climb.”

  “That’s the plan,” I reply, putting down the menu when the waiter approaches. I allow Laura to order first. “I’ll have the deluxe breakfast with double bacon and sausage, eggs scrambled, add cheese to the grits and hash browns, and strawberry jelly for the toast.”

  The waiter nods, and Laura chuckles. “I suppose cowboys have a voracious appetite.”

  “We do.”

  She smiles and bends over, taking out a folder from her bag on the floor. She pulls out a sheet with names, numbers, and graphs. Another paper is a PBR schedule.

  “I’m going to get right to the chase here. Wrangler wants you competing in larger events. We understand you’re already pre-registered for the North Charleston Invitational on the twenty-ninth. We would prefer that you compete in the Caterpillar Classic in Missouri that weekend. It’s a three-day event with more exposure. ”

  “My family is supposed to come to South Carolina.”

  “I see,” she replies. “Then the following weekend, we ask that you compete in the Bangor Classic, another three-day event. We want to see your ranking rise rapidly, and the only way to ensure that happens is to compete more.”

  “I can’t cancel South Carolina.” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. Sure, my family is coming, but hopefully Brynn will be there too, and I need to talk to her. Need to see her.