Unstable (20 page)

While we work, I catch him up on everything ping-ponging off the sides of my skull, hoping for some of his wise insight. Usually Gatlin’s full of philosophical speeches…but not today.

When I tell him about my dream, he smiles and merely says, “That’s wonderful, Henley.”

Then when I fill him in on the diary, Keaton, the story of the fight, and my sister’s approval, he just hums and answers with, “What’d I tell you? Good guy.”

Not giving up, I next delve into the saga of Merrick, all his deceit and phony love, to which he responds, “Prick. Sure Keaton will be beating his ass again soon for some reason,” never taking his eyes off his task.

And when I explain how Keaton doesn’t want me to go see Merrick alone, all I get is a chin-up and a “Don’t blame him there.”

I’m so frustrated by this point, I throw my hammer on the ground and grab both my hips. “Gatlin, is something wrong? You mad at me?”

He snaps his head my way, pulling the brim of his hat up out of his eyes. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because,” I kick at the ground, my stare locked on the nervous action, “we usually
talk,
and you’re being short. I don’t think you’ve given a single reply all day that’s been more than five words long. I thought we were friends.”

Great, I’ve gone from a tight-lipped recluse to a needy clinger.
Way to slowly transition, Henley.

“Hey,” the kind concern with which he speaks has me looking at him, “I
am
your friend, and anytime you
really
need me, just say the word.”

“So what, you only wanna talk if it’s completely catastrophic news and you’re
needed
?” I squeeze my eyes shut in shame, more than aware that I’m lashing out like a spoiled child.

“Well not catastrophic, but yeah, needed. Otherwise, it’s called getting in the way.” His soft laugh draws my eyes open. “Henley, nothing you’ve said today was a question or a quest for advice. You were more thinking out loud, organizing and confirming all the answers you already know. Which makes me damn happy. I don’t think you even fully grasp how much you’ve changed, grown, since you’ve been here.”

“You really think so?” My doubt releases itself, shaky and high-pitched.

“Hell yeah. Do you believe in coincidences?”

“No, not really.”

“Neither do I. Think about it, your mother leaves you this farm, despite knowing its home to all your biggest fears
and
memories, both of which have been holding you back from living. And it just so happens to be right next door to Keaton, who hates the lawyer she hired? And a dream tells you right where to find the diary that can set you free from feeling guilty so you can pursue your destined, and deserved, happiness? None of that was coincidence. Even if I did believe in them, a string of that many in a row, all tangled within each other? Not a chance.” He shakes his head.

“Oh, thank God.” I sigh in relief and snicker. “
Finally,
two Gatlin monologues! Had to drag them out of you, but well worth it.”

He couldn’t possibly know what his profound speeches mean to me. The faith behind his words makes me want to have faith too.

“Grab your hammer, silly girl,” he laughs. “You’re figuring things out just fine all by yourself. You didn’t
need
me to tell you any of that, but you work better when you’re not pissed off or trapped in your own head, so there ya go.”

We finish the day in companionable silence, the only interruptions being the few times Bourbon comes seeking some attention from me. And when I ask Gatlin if he’d like to join me for dinner, he politely turns me down with excuses of catching up on laundry and some important phone calls.

So Bourbon and I head back to the house, and because he’s been acting so sluggish today, I let him come inside for the night. I make him a fluffy pallet on the floor and his very own plate of the pot roast I’d had in the crock pot all day, keeping a close eye on him.

When we’re done eating, I change into my pajamas and am just settling on the couch when “I'm Moving On” by Rascal Flatts starts playing from somewhere across the room.

Of course he did.

I follow the sound of the song and grab my phone. “Hello,” I answer. “Nice ring tone.”

“I thought so.” His smile is audible over the line. “Fitting, dontcha’ think?”

“I suppose it is, yes. Great song too, so you’re forgiven for once again hacking into my phone. What plays when I call you?”

“Haven’t set one. Thought I’d wait for you to not only call me, but pick it yourself.”

“Keaton, I don’t know your code.”

“Yeah you do, give it a try one day. I bet you guess it within three,” he laughs.

And then we fall into silence, each waiting for the other to say something, I guess?

Thankfully, he goes. “Bet you’re wondering why I called?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Wanted to see how your day went. And to ask about your mortgage payment. Did Dick Lick say how much it was?”

“No.” I need to find that out; God, I’m inept. “
Merrick
only said he had switched some things around and took care of it this month. Why?”

“I’m just getting all possible questions ready for when we go see him. No biggie, nothing for you to worry about.” He lightens his voice and races to change the subject. “So your day, what’d you do?”

“I worked on the fence,” I yawn, “ate some roast, and now I’m laying down for the night.”

“You sound sleepy. All raspy, very sexy,” he flirts in the tone he just described. “What are you sleeping in?”

“Pajamas.”

“Describe them to me,” his voice deepens further, decadence teasing my ear.

I almost let myself fall victim to his spell he’s quickly casting…when it hits me. “Keaton, I am
not
having phone sex with you!”

“We’re on the phone together, and I’m stroking my dick right now, so yeah, that’s exactly what you’re doing.” I hear him groan and the sound’s so feral, it causes a warm, wet reaction between my legs. I can’t stop my eyes from closing, picturing his big, strong hand wrapped around his hard cock, moving all the way up and back down his rigid length.

A muscle in my pussy spasms and my belly clenches—and then he husks in my ear, shattering my images. “Do you want me to come over, baby? I’ll go slow, take such good care of you,” he promises in silky sin.

I sit up straight, turning off everything he just turned on.

“No.” I still sound seductive, so I clear my throat. “Absolutely not. Way too fast, Keaton. Too much. I’m not ready for—”

“Okay, okay,” his voice instantly deflates. “I’m sorry. I just,
damn
Hen, I feel like I’m so close to finally having you as mine, it’s driving me mad waiting. But I will, for as long as it takes.”

“You’re such a man,” I grumble. “And I swear to God, Keaton, if you send me a dick pic, I’m blocking you.”

He starts to laugh, enjoying my discomfort way too much. “I swear, no pic,” he cuts out between dissolving chuckles. “However, you should absolutely feel free to send me a pic of your hard little nipples if you want. And not through the shirt, woman. Full frontal, please.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, don’t. I'll stop. Tell me something else. Anything.”

I talk to him about my concerns over Bourbon and without hesitation, he offers to come over in the morning and help me take him to the vet.

I accept and then say goodnight.

Falling into a dream of…the phone sex that could’ve been.

BRIGHT AND EARLY, KEATON’S
at my door, looking more like he’s headed out to a “Hot Cowboys” calendar shoot than a mere trip to the veterinarian.

Jeans molded perfectly to his body, leaving no need for one to wonder as to the exact shape of his ass, the bulk and strength of his thighs or his…very generous endowment. Long-sleeved shirt complementing his thick arms, broad shoulders and impressive torso. All topped off with his signature black Stetson and a splash of cologne, that if it isn’t already, should be named “PantyMelter.”

He’s clean shaven and his crystal-clear blue eyes dance in time with his bright smile.

Okay, I confess—Keaton Fucking Cash is as good-looking as a man can be made.

And his charisma, that easy charm emitting from a strong, confident man you know could, and would, always protect you and love you in ways too sinful to even try and imagine…it’s intoxicating. Impossible not to take in, with hungry eyes.

And here’s another admittance.

I want Keaton Cash in the most primitive, carnal of ways.

Maybe not forever, maybe not even twice. But
just once
…I’d sure like a turn on that ride. To sate a curiosity that riddles my mind and sets my body to tingling every time I look at him.

And while I’m standing here, hoping to hell I’m not actually drooling or panting aloud, my dog comes limping up to say hello to us.

Keaton notices him and squats, giving his head and back a good petting. “You’re looking down on your luck, buddy. We’re gonna get ya fixed up though, don’t you worry. Tell your Mom to put her tongue back in her mouth and shake a leg.” He looks back over his shoulder and winks at me.

I roll my eyes in pathetic denial and quickly swipe at my chin. I don’t feel any drool. Must’ve been some panting that gave me away. “I’m ready. Lemme grab my keys,” I say loud and eagerly, itching in my own embarrassed skin.

He stops me short with a dismissive laugh. “I’ll drive, Hen.”

“Why? I can drive, and Bourbon knows my truck.”

“He’s a dog, truck’s a truck. And try to take this as hot and manly instead of gettin’ pissy, but I’m not
riding
while my woman drives me around. So get your pretty ass in my truck and let’s go.”

I give him
the
look, the one created and reserved for him, and my hands naturally fly to my hips. “You’re being a chauvinistic pig.”

“Oink.” He flashes a cocky grin.

“I can drive!” I insist. And once
this
part is settled, I fully intend to address the “my woman” remark with just as much fiery adamancy.

“I know you
can
, seen ya do it. But when we’re together, I’ll be the one driving. Now load up, Bourbon’s hurting. You can stew about it on the drive. You need a boost in?”

“No, I do not need a boost in,” I grumble, stomping toward his truck.
The nerve of him.
I open the back passenger door and call Bourbon to jump in. He comes over, but just stands there, giving me helpless eyes and a tiny whine. He can’t make the leap.

And in an instant, my aggravation over Keaton’s dick-swinging demands is forgotten and my heart flips to concern, tears springing to my eyes.
Don’t take my dog too. Please.

“He’ll be okay, baby. Let me lift him in,” Keaton soothes me, now at my side. He picks Bourbon up in his arms, and I watch as he gently lays my dog, my very last, faithful companion, into the back seat.

Once we’re on the road, I ask in a cracked voice. “Keaton, do you really think he’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure hoping so.” He reaches over and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “How old is he? I was figuring about thirteen.”

I think back and do the math. “Yeah, that’d be about right, thirteen or fourteen.”

Out of nowhere, a shallow laugh pops out of me and Keaton glances over, then back to the road. “Whatcha’ thinking about?”

“Do you remember the time I got stuck in that big old Oak tree? Found my way
up
, but for the life of me, couldn’t find my way back down. Bourbon sat at the bottom and never left, just kept barking and barking for help.” I shift and reach back to pet him. “Such a good boy. Stayed right with me.”

Keaton lets out a breath that sounds heavy with thought. “I remember, Hen. Not much I don’t.”

“You’d have thought my mom, or,” I pause for an inhale of contentment then say it, “Hadley, would’ve come searching for me. Guess they were used to my wandering and exploring though. But of course, you showed up.”