Page 24 of Untamed
I raise my eyebrows. “Fighting what?”
“For things.”
Who the hell is this kid? “Like?”
She looks at me blankly. “Things.”
Christ. She’s as persistent as her sister. I stare down at her, irritation twitching my jaw. “What do you want?” I ask, because,obviously, where’s this going? “I got shit to do.”
“I’m Morgan.” She reaches for my hand and shakes it. “And a boy stole my bike. I need you to go get it back for me.”
“What boy?” I ask, but don’t actually care. I drop my hand from hers and step back from the barn.
She does the same, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Not that it really matters who, but he’s the neighbor boy.” Now she’s the one getting irritated. “Will you go get it? I’ll bring you some lemonade.”
A laugh bubbles in my chest but doesn’t make it past my lips. This kid’s a piece of work. “I don’t like lemonade.”
Her face falls in disappointment, tears surfacing in her eyes. “Oh.”
It’s not my problem. It’s not my business. I’ve got my own shit to deal with.
Here’s the thing. I don’t have a lot of experience with crying females. Britany never cries. Dani? Does she even produce tears? Empathy isn’t my strong point. I make a concentrated effort to avoid situations like this. But this little version of Maesyn . . . fuck if she doesn’t get to me and the need to help her takes over.
“How about limeade? You got limes?”
Her face turns eager. “We do. My sissy loves it.”
Goddamn it. I sigh, already knowing I’m going to regret this. “Where exactly is your bike?”
And that’s how I go from avoiding one sister to defending the other. I’m not exactly off to a good start. For my own sanity, I need to get this barn fixed up and get the fuck out of town immediately.
“Next door. In Saylor’s garage.”
Dragging my hand through my hair, I gesture with my other hand toward the driveway. “All right, let’s go. Then you owe me some limeade.”
We walk over there together. She never shuts up, rambling on about pigs who like marshmallows and a baby bull calf named Lemon Lou who sleeps in her room sometimes. Not always.
At this kid’s garage, here’s the moment I wonder if coming over here was a mistake. The kid, who Morgan told me was Saylor, stares at me with flat, emotionless eyes I find unsettling for a child. They’re almost clear. Strangest fuckin’ thing ever.
I don’t say anything. Not at first. Not until Morgan nudges me. “Tell him I want my bike back,” she whispers, keeping her eyes on him like she’s afraid to turn her back on him.
“Are you Grayer Easton? I know you. You’re like a bull rider.”
I ignore him. “Give her back her bike.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do something.”
I look over at the kid with scary eyes. “Why are you taking kids’ bikes?”
He snorts, scowling, and his clear eyes seem even more wicked. “Is that what she told you? That I took her bike for no reason?”
“Yeah . . .” I glance at Morgan, who, guess what, isn’t looking at me any longer. “Why did you take the bike?”
“She said I couldn’t talk to any other girls. I told her she’s crazy. So she kicked me in the balls and took my boots. So I took her bike.”
Can you take a wild guess as to what shoes this little half-pint with attitude is wearing?
