Because whatever else I am—pretty, funny, quick with my hands, and quicker with my mouth—I’m not a man to build a life around.
Or build a kid around.
So yeah, maybe this is all I’m good for. It’s what Carl Banister’s wife told me after she took what wasn’t hers and what I wasn’t ready to give when I was only fifteen.
A night in a barn. A moment someone might remember fondly. A giver of orgasms.
But nothing more.
11
DYLAN
The storm rolls in just after midnight.
It isn’t loud at first, barely a rumble, distant and slow, like something hulking dragging its weight across the sky. I feel it before I hear it. In my chest, like the thud of an extra beat, in the ache behind my eyes, and the dampness creeping through the window in my room.
I’m already dressed when the first crack of thunder shakes the house.
Boots on.
Jacket slung over one shoulder.
The barn camera blinked out ten minutes ago, caused by a power surge or the wind. Now, I have to check.
I head downstairs, careful on the old steps, but when I reach the kitchen, I discover I’m not the only one who’s been disturbed by the weather.
Grace is standing in front of the dark window with a glass in one hand and a fixed expression like she’s keeping watch on the world while it sleeps. Her hair is mussed from her pillow, her pajamas too silky and lacy for this rusticranch house filled with weathered, overworked cowboys. She turns when I enter, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her without her signature scarlet lipstick. She looks younger and sweeter like this. Less ready to cut a man down with a few clever words.
Maybe I’ve gotten her all wrong. The others seem to like her, including my kids, but I’ve been wary of women since Nora left me high and dry, and now all I see in their faces is the mask that conceals their untrustworthiness.
“You’re going out?” Her voice is husky, and she takes another sip of water.
I wait, keeping my gaze away from her breasts, which I’m certain will be barely concealed by the thin baby-blue fabric. “Need to check the barn. Cameras down. One of the foals has been off lately.” I take a step closer to the door. “Don’t like the idea of her alone in all this.”
She hesitates. Then says, “Can I come?”
I pause, surprised she’d offer.
“It’s pouring.”
“I’m not made of sugar.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“You’re not dressed for the outdoors.”
She strides to the mudroom and pulls on Cody’s long winter jacket and a pair of boots that are huge enough to make her look like a clown. The sleeves hang so low that they conceal her hands, and when she tries to walk in the boots, it’s comedic. My lips twitch, which is a surprise. It’s been a while.
Grace follows me before I can stop her and takes the torch I hand her.
The rain is steady but not punishing, the kind that soaks you through if you stay still too long. Thunder grumbles again, low and rough across the open sky. I hold the door for her, and she gives me a tight nod, like we’re stepping into battle together.
Her bare legs catch the lightning flash as we cross the yard, and something about the sight of her, loose and alivein this storm, makes my chest feel a little too full.
In the barn, the air is warmer. Grace runs her fingers through her soaked hair, which curls around her wind-pink cheeks.
The horses whinny as we enter, unsettled but thankfully not panicked. I check the stalls out of habit because routine keeps my hands busy when my thoughts want to drift to places I don’t let them.
