Chapter 4: A False Start: Chapter 4

The woman in front of me is talking a mile a minute, hands gesturing like she’s conducting a goddamn orchestra. I wonder if this level of excitement is going to send her into labor. Would probably be fine since we’re standing outside of a veterinary clinic.

I should listen to what she’s saying. After all, she my new employer. But my brain is back in that clinic. It’s stuck on the blonde spitfire sitting at the front desk, looking at me like I’m a bug beneath her shoe.

My best friend’s little sister.

And off-limits in the most absolute way.

When I took this job, I didn’t think she was going to be here. I didn’t know what she was studying at college, but I figured she’d be gone for four years. I figured that once a girl like that got a taste of freedom, she’d be gone for good. When I agreed to take this gig, I didn’t account for having to deal with Nadia Dalca and her massive attitude.

I hold a hand up to stop Billie from talking. I don’t know the woman well, but Stefan has assured me she’s good people. I wouldn’t have taken the job otherwise. I’d have stayed up in the mountains, where I’ve found some semblance of peace.

Ruby Creek is a double-edged sword for me. Home to my highest highs and my lowest lows.

“Just tell me where to put my stuff. My horse is still in the t— . . . in my rig.”

The woman’s eyes analyze me a little too closely for comfort. “Sure thing. I’ll ride with you to the cottage and help you unload.”

I eye the full swell of her very pregnant stomach, but she points a finger at me and purses her lips. “Don’t even try to tell me what I am or am not capable of. It will end poorly for you; ask my husband.” I grunt in agreement, but she keeps going. “Let’s get one thing cleared up before you start your job here. I’m pregnant. Not injured. Not sick. Not on my deathbed. Don’t treat me like it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking back on the heels of my boots.

She nods at me before spinning and marching toward my truck and trailer, heaving herself into the passenger seat.

“Back out of the driveway and take a right. We have to go around the property, but if you’re riding or walking, you can easily cut through the hills. I’ll show you that too.”

Another grunt is what I offer in affirmation as we turn onto the back roads I know so well. The roads I grew up on.

I sold the functioning part of my farm to Stefan Dalca when I needed a fresh start—something I knew I couldn’t find if I stayed on the path I was on. I kept Cascade Acres as a home base near my parents. It was meant to be a place for me to retire. I just hadn’t banked on retiring quite so early. But when it all came crashing down, I left everything I knew, loving parents included, and holed myself up on remote acreage in the cliffs above Garnet Ridge.

And then I got to work.

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop” has never applied to another person more aptly. I went from the town golden boy to the boy in town drowning in amber liquid. But building my home from scratch in the peace of the mountains gave me the purpose I so desperately needed.

“Turn at the mailbox.” Billie’s directions snap me out of my thoughts, and I steer into the winding, well-treed driveway that opens to reveal a cedar A-frame house in the middle of the clearing. Just beyond it are a few paddocks, complete with shelters that back onto the rolling fields that must lead to the main barn.

“Just pull around the house. You can park your trailer in the back.”

Once I’ve parked, she hops out like she’s trying to prove to me she isn’t set to explode at any moment. “How many horses did you bring with you?”

I hold a finger up to her as I round the back of the trailer and pull down the ramp on the side.

“Okay, well, there are three paddocks here now. So, if you ever want to add to your harem, go ahead. If you want to take on extra horses while you’re here, there is space. I’ve got hay stocked in that shed.” She points just beyond me. “And unfortunately, there aren’t automatic waterers back here, so you’ll be hauling buckets.”

“S’fine.” I yank open the barrier and watch her step up into the trailer.

“Hey, kid. Welcome to vacation.” Her voice softens as she steps into the open space in the center of the big rig. It’s too much space for my one horse, but I love this trailer, love the layout, and refuse to trade it in for something more appropriate. Maybe I’ll have more horses one day, and then it will make perfect sense.

For now, Spot is my only constant companion.

I unload him carefully, letting him take a good long look around while Billie opens a bale and tosses a few flakes in for him. I rake out the trailer, and she chatters away at my horse like she thinks he might talk back to her.

When I make it back to where she’s standing, watching my horse chow down happily, she props her fists on her hips and blows her hair out of her face. “Cute. What’s his story?”

My general silence clearly doesn’t deter her.

I point at the deep brown Appaloosa with a spotted blanket over his haunches—a real pretty motherfucker. “Rescued ‘em from the meat auction.” Not sure how he ended up where he did, but isn’t that just the way life goes? Sometimes the best of us end up in the worst of positions.

“I love that. He’s a pretty boy.” She smiles softly at me, and I nod before she turns toward the house. I follow her up onto the deck as she pulls the keys out and swings the door open to a consistent beeping noise. “Security system,” she says over her shoulder. “The code is 6969.”

She types the numbers in, and sure enough, the beeping stops, and she spins around to say something, but must catch the expression on my face. “What? Are you going to tell me there’s an easier number to remember?”

I already miss the solitude of the mountains.

Ruby Creek is small as fuck—one main street and one town bar. I push through the heavy front door at Neighbor’s Pub. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I keep coming back. Like a glutton for punishment, I do this every damn time.

It doesn’t matter if I’m coming to see my mom and dad, visiting Stefan—my only friend—or getting something done at the vet clinic. I always force myself through the front door of this establishment. No matter how it turns my stomach.

Sliding onto a stool with a quiet sigh, my eyes catch on the wall full of liquor behind the bar. All the shapes of the bottles, the colors on the labels, all the dark memories, or complete lack thereof, at the bottom.

“What can I get ya?” A coaster slides across the bar and lands in front of me as I glimpse up into the slightly upturned blue eyes of the bartender. Her dyed black hair lays poker straight over her shoulders, framing her huge tits that sit like she’s trying to push them up to her chin over the neckline of her tank top. I almost want to ask her if it hurts because I’m genuinely curious.

“Bourbon. Neat.”

“A man after my own taste.” She throws a wink over her shoulder and arches her back unnecessarily as she reaches up to the top shelf and pulls down something expensive rather than the Wild Turkey sitting in the well. “Upgrade is on me, doll. Not every day we get a future Hall of Famer in here.”

She pours the amber liquid into a single shot glass before dumping it into a tumbler, licking her lips as she places it on the coaster.

There was a time where I’d have slammed the drink back and offered to take her out back. I got off on people swooning over Griffin Sinclaire, quarterback extraordinaire, the small-town boy who made it to the big show. I’d say something rude, like and she’d giggle as if she just won the lottery And so long as I hadn’t had too many drinks, I’d usually follow through on that promise. Never had any complaints in that department except that I never stuck around. Plenty of complaints about that. But I always moved on. To the next city. The next game. The next Superbowl. Because I wanted more than the two that I already had. I was greedy, and keen, and lived to win big, fuck hard, and party wild.

But these days I feel I feel a little used up. I suppose that’s what becoming a functioning alcoholic in your twenties does to you.

I raise the glass with a silent nod as a way of thanking her. And hopefully dismissing her. I really don’t need to fuck the twenty-something bartender on my first night in town. I haven’t spent the past six years living on my remote property, trying to find some sort of purity among the filth in my brain, to give in just because she’s got a great rack.

She smiles curiously and strolls away, swinging her hips like a pendulum. But I barely notice. I’m too busy staring down into the glass. Rolling it between my hands and watching the way the syrupy liquid splashes against the sides before slowly dripping back down.

I can still taste it if I close my eyes and let myself go. The malty flavor, the texture of it in my mouth, the pleasant warm burn as it slides down my throat. Sometimes I wonder if I liked the act of drinking more than the taste. But when it’s close enough to smell like it is right now, I know that’s not true.

For me, alcohol is addictive. The taste, the smell, the act, the way it made me feel like a fucking king.

I used to miss it. But I don’t anymore.

“You moving back into town?”

The bartender is back, pulling my attention from the alcohol in my hand.

“Sorta.” I don’t even look up. I hate when people recognize me now. I used to love it. Used to take pride in locals patting me on the back and telling me they cheer me on every Sunday.

It only made my downfall that much more humiliating.

“Where are you staying?” She picks up a rag, polishing an already perfectly clean spot on the bar just so that she can lean over in front of me. There’s nothing subtle about this girl. And I remember being an age where I thought that was sexy.

I don’t think I’m that age anymore.

“Gold Rush,” is all I say. Because everyone is going to find out, and everyone here knows what that is, and I hate the way two R words in a row twist my tongue up.

“Fancy,” she says, smiling. And I admit to myself that she’s quite lovely while also acknowledging that it makes no difference to me. That’s not why I’m here tonight.

I’m here to torture myself, not enjoy myself.

So, I offer her a wry twist of my lips before ducking my head and hiding behind the brim of my hat again.

I do this every time I’m in town. I walk into my old stomping grounds, Neighbor’s Pub, order a bourbon, and sit at the bar. Staring at it like it’s a living, breathing nemesis. I let myself remember what it tasted like as I run my tongue across my teeth like it’s actually in my mouth.

And then I throw ten bucks down on the worn bar top and leave, just to prove to myself that I can.

It’s what I do tonight. Reach into my back pocket and pull a bill from my wallet, tossing it down beside the glass while the bartender converses with someone else.

And then I walk right back out that door. Feeling like the victor. Knowing that in my years away, I’ve grown stronger. Even if I haven’t been able to heal completely, I make better decisions now. Except for the night I kissed Nadia, that night I headed back to take a leak before I left.

That night I felt just vulnerable enough to do something stupid, like kiss a girl who was barely old enough to drink.