Stripped Down (18 page)

One of the things I love about J.J. is his no bullshit approach to life. He plays hard and he drives even faster than he rides on the rodeo circuit, but he has no filter. He doesn’t lie and he never dresses shit up. Admitting that he’s right about what happened between me and Angel, however, means letting him in more than I like. It means being vulnerable, and I don’t do vulnerable.

“It takes two,” I remind him, taking a tiny step forward. He lets go of my shirt.

“He shouldn’t have fucked you. You’re family.”

But I’m not. Not legally, and not really in any other sense of the word. I was more like a long-term house guest that Mendoza Senior couldn’t wait to unload. “My momma hooked up with your father. Six months of doing the horizontal mambo while the rest of us pretended nothing was going on doesn’t make me family. They didn’t get married. Your dad didn’t adopt me.”

His dad had spent most of his time pretending I didn’t exist. It was easier for him that way, because men like him didn’t marry women like my mom, but my presence was a constant reminder that sex had consequences.

He nods. Slowly. “Did he rock your world this afternoon?”

I can feel the blush heating up my face, damn it. I thought I’d left my blushing days behind me. “You really want a blow-by-blow account of your brother’s moves?”

J.J. holds up a hand. “The executive summary works for me.”

“It was…” I have to stop and think of the right word. Angel got off. I got off. I don’t know if we’re even going to do it again, although we’re both dancing around the R-word. Relationship. I guess we have that already, and now it’s up to us to make it a good one. “It was everything.”

“Everything, huh?” A slow smile creases J.J.’s face. “And you think he’s gonna let you just walk away?”

I wave a hand at him and step inside the RV. “My life, my rules.”

Having completed my walk of shame complete with cowboy honor guard, I’m really fucking glad to be home. The RV isn’t much and inside it probably looks like every other RV driving around middle America, but it has wheels and I have the keys. If I really want to, I can drive off right now and I never, ever have to see Angel again. That goes right in the win column.

Rory is slouched on the couch, texting and drinking with a bottle of Grey Goose in a bucket of ice by his side. The homemade chiller would be better if the bucket hadn’t been liberated from the horse barn. God knows what it’s held before.

Rory looks like his night hasn’t gone much better than mine. His hair stands on end and he’s acquired red streaks in the dark blond. Rory may drink every day of the week, but he only colors when he’s upset. He’s apparently cultivating the mountain man look, because he hasn’t shaved recently. Stubble roughens his jaw and he’s wearing an open flannel shirt and a pair of worn jeans that hang low on his hips.

I blink hard. I won’t let Angel make me cry. “It would be so much easier if I was attracted to you.”

He extends the bottle. “Rough night? Because I’m having a pity party on our couch and you’re invited.”

I’m not usually pro-alcohol, but tonight’s an exception in every way. I swipe the bottle and swallow. Then I cough accusingly.

“That’s not Gray Goose.” The crap I just swallowed tastes like a combination of white vinegar and nail polish remover.

Rory grabs the bottle back before I can drop it. “We ran out. I refilled. Tell me what happened to you.”

It’s usually me teasing the details out of Rory. The man has more hookups than anyone I’ve ever known. He claims it helps him forget. I need him to teach me how to do that.

“Angel and I hooked up.”
Hooked up
doesn’t feel like the right set of words to describe what happened. Now that I’ve been in Angel’s arms, I can’t lie to myself. I still want more. He’s different than any man I’ve met before. He gets to me, gets under my skin and makes me think he’s special when he’s actually just a really special brand of trouble. It doesn’t matter how real—or temporarily wonderful—what we shared felt.

I drop down onto the couch next to Rory and he tugs at the hem of my borrowed shirt. “New fashion style?”

I’ve lost more clothes today than airline.

“You’ve lost your clothes before,” I point out.

“And now we match.” Rory wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in tight. God. This in one of the reasons I love him so much. He knows what I need before I do. “I’m going out a limb,” he says roughly into my hair. “And I’m declaring that men stuck. You and I should stick to women from now on. We should probably keep our clothes on, too.”

Shit. Tears prick my eyes. “Good plan. Makes for a speedier exit, too.”

“Should I go over there and commit various felonies on the person of one Angel Mendoza?”

“I knew it couldn’t last.” I just have to get over him. Surely it can’t take longer than our brief hook up? Because that wouldn’t be fair at all.

“Did he hurt you?” Rory’s voice goes soft and lethal.

“The sex was amazing.” And I really need to stop thinking about it. Wondering where it—
I
—went wrong isn’t helping. We had fantastic sex. I fell asleep. Angel left. Those facts speak for themselves.

“Congratulations on getting your O-face on. Now answer the question.”

“He left while I was asleep.”

“Fucker.” Rory toasts me with the bottle and takes another drink. I consider the possibility that I’ll have to drive him to the nearest hospital—forty minutes away—for alcohol poisoning and decide against drinking with him.

“I can have sex.” Shit. Does that sound needy or desperate?

Rory understands, though. “Nothing stopping you, girlfriend, but when’s the last time you enjoyed it? And I mean really, really enjoyed it. The kind of
enjoy
where you’re screaming his name and you don’t care who walks in on you or where you are.”

I can’t remember. Solo action is so much more satisfying. “That makes me sound broken. I plead the fifth. Tell me about your night.”

“A swing and a miss. I should probably avoid the bunkhouse for a while.” Rory smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m sober enough to drive,” I point out, tugging the bottle away from him. He’s really, really had enough to drink. “We can fire this baby up and get the hell out of here. Go find people who deserve us.”

Rory settles back on the couch, pulling me with him. I settle my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek. “Maybe you won’t strike out your second time at bat.”

“I don’t think I have much of a future with Angel.” I wish I could say that cheerfully, but instead I sound more than a little sad.

“What happened to Mr. Your-Ass-Is-Mine-If-You-Come-Back? I thought possessive was the new black in his world.”

“He runs hot—and then cold.” I guess. I mean, the whole leaving while I was asleep thing seems pretty clear. “We had this great afternoon. We drove out to check on the cattle and we danced in the rain. He made me feel good.”

Good is such a weak word when the feelings Angel arouses in me are every bit as strong as the man himself.

“And now he’s made you feel like shit,” Rory points out.

“He’s got issues,” I say, although I have no idea why I’m coming to Angel’s defense. “He’s definitely worried about the water situation on the ranch.”

“He’s a big boy. He’ll handle it.” Rory is not pro-Angel. “If he’s who you want, however, I’ve got your back.”

Wow. Didn’t see that one coming.

“That’s a nice speech.”

“I mean it. I just think you can do better. He’s not nice. All this talk of claiming and making you his is dangerous. You don’t need a owner. You need a partner.”

I agree, but I also see something more in Angel. And maybe I thought we were starting something, between the dancing, the kissing, and the relationship talk. Neither of us is good at expressing our feelings—and I suspect that Angel is every bit as broken on the inside as I am—but it felt like more than hot hook-up sex.

Angel, however, apparently saw an ending. What kind of guy sneaks out and leaves you asleep after an afternoon and night of hot sex? There are reasons to leave—like if he’d gone for food or his appendix had burst or the ranch had caught on fire. Pretty much anything else is a no-brainer, though.

“Maybe I imagined the sense of connection I felt.”

Rory sighs. “That’s his penis in your vagina and a really amazing orgasm.”

I elbow him. “It was more than that.”

“Then you need to decide if you’re going back in for round two—although I still recommend you kick his ass first—or if you’re walking.”

“It hurts,” I whisper. “And right now I don’t want to think about it.”

“I’ve got you,” Rory whispers back and I can’t say anything more right now. I just can’t. So I nod and we hold onto each other, and that has to be enough for what’s left of tonight.

ANGEL

I
t’s not like I’m planning on confessing.

Fuck. No.

Rose deserves so much better than me. Those men who hurt her deserve to die. Somehow, someday, I’m learning their names and then I’m going after them. They paid money to rape a girl and that’s a death sentence. You can’t put a man like that in prison and think you’re rehabilitating him. Some shit’s too broken to fix and you throw it out.

Those men are trash and someday I take them out.

Rose confessed, and I wanted to tell her that you only confess when you’ve done something wrong. Rose is the victim in her story, and it’s not her fault. There’s nothing she did that invited those fuckers to do what they did—and nothing that excuses it. And yet here I am, running from her out here in the dark. I can’t ride because it’s too fucking risky for the horse when I can’t see, and I’m not sure I should be trusted with a vehicle either right now.

So I climb instead. I hike out to the base of a cliff on the eastern edge of Blackhawk territory, trying to push the thoughts out of my head. Rose is amazing. Touching her, getting inside her—that was fan-fucking-tastic. She’s better than anyone I’ve ever had before, and I don’t plan to give her up. I have a bad feeling she’s gonna be my everything if I don’t, though, and that’s trouble.

I’m a possessive son-of-a-bitch. This isn’t news to anyone who knows me, and I did warn her. She came back to Lonesome—although I like to think of it as coming back to me—and so I claimed her. What happened in my bed was the seal on the fucking deal. She’s like the sweetest drug, and now that I’ve had a taste, I want more.

So why the fuck am I out here and instead of holding Rose?

The horizon is lighter, night easing up on its stranglehold. Kinda gray, but I’m able to see shit that’s not right in front of my face now. I don’t bother with ropes. You solo, you fall, you die. The only person holding me up out here is me. I shuck my boots, yank on my rock climbing shoes, and start pulling myself up the cliff face. Distance-wise, it’s not all that far to the top—maybe eighty feet.

And I’m gonna do it one foot at a time.

I find the first crack in the rock face with my fingers and pull myself up. It’s like scaling a four-story building from the outside. Most people would take the elevator. Fuck, even the stairs would be easier. Me? I know myself. I gotta do it this way.

Rose opened up to me every way possible.

I can’t fix what happened to her. Can’t erase it, can’t go back and kill each and every last one of those fucking bastards
before
they hurt her. I just get to do it after, which is gonna be satisfying but it’s still not going make her feel better. Killing them will be for me.

I’ve killed before, and I don’t mean the kind of killing that comes with the job as a US Navy SEAL. That’s not really personal, and it’s not something I enjoyed. I had a job to do, and I did it well. It’s what happened after that last mission in Afghanistan. I fucked that up, too. One minute of inattention and I had hostiles surrounding me. I got off a few shots, fought like a madman. I thought I was dead, but it was worse. After what happened, death would have been a blessing.

If I flashback now, with my nose inches from the cliff face, death is inevitable. I concentrate on my breathing. Rose survived. She’s strong. The sun’s more than halfway up now, lighting up my path. The rocks are spotted with lichens and tiny cracks. I pull myself up, assessing the distance between myself and the top. Another forty feet ought to do it. Unlike traditional climbing with gear, there are no bolts, no stops every ten feet. The only thing between me and empty air is my grip on the rock.