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I can’t wait to not have to people. Yes, that’s a verb, because again, it’s simpler to say ‘people’ than ‘I don’t prefer to socialize, thank you very much’ because who needs all those useless words when one will get the same message across just fine?
Most people cross the street when they see me coming—too tall, too broad, too brooding, too asshole, with a reputation of kicking ass first and asking questions never. I’m too busy being busy to give a shit with consequences unless they affect my family.
She’s shit for customer service. I’m shit at being a customer. Match made in heaven, we are.
My flirting is rusty, like a tractor left to rot in a field for a few years’ worth of rain and snow, and comes out more threatening than complimentary.
That’s what love does to you—gives you false hope and happiness and then rips it away, absolutely ruining you.
I’ll keep my heart locked away behind my chest, take care of the physical side when I need to, and get back to doing what I do best—getting up before dawn, working my ass off all day, raising my family and crops, and keeping all the animals healthy to get to market.
I am not most women, and work-earned dirt on a sexy man is like my kryptonite, instantly flooding my basement.
“You said he was The One, and I wasn’t going to get in the way of that.” I’m still apologizing. She rolls her eyes. “I say that every week, sometimes twice on Sunday if Mr. Saturday Night had particularly good oral skills.”
“Stop it. For the love of fuck, nobody needs you to martyr yourself to make up for years-old shit. If you want your Cowboy, climb on and yee the hell outta his haw. I’ll find my own cowboy. Or lawyer. Or poet.”
We came from Mom and Dad’s heart, just like they always told us when we were kids, and you can tell by the way Mom looks on fondly while Emily flits here and there.
“You only have to scream out Brody. If you can get my whole name out, I’m not doing my job.”
“We can dab some motor oil behind your ears. It’s the only smell those guys would recognize and respect, anyway. We’ll even make it some of the special synthetic stuff so you’re fancy.”
“Motherfucker, are you dumping me at the damn car show?” I interrupt, somehow both horrified and amused. And maybe a little turned on. Girls don’t dump me, not because I’m the dumper and not the dumpee, but because it’s always been a casual thing, nothing serious since I’ve been way too busy being a family man for brothers and sisters. Failing spectacularly at it, too, but that’s not really the point of her ditching me.
“We met a fucking week ago. I’ve already tried to kill you with a wrench, almost sucked your soul out of your dick, damn near killed you with marathon sex, done the meet-the-family deals for the most part, been on two dates, and texted like teenagers who got their first phones yesterday. I think we’re good.”
Badass, fierce, racing, engine whispering, dick owning . . . goddess.
I think for a moment that I can see into his, too. Dark and lonely, good and sweet, misunderstood and honorable.
Disney just never showed the truth after the happily ever after-fade to black ending, the part where Cinderella bitches that Prince Charming left his socks on the floor, or where Beauty missed dinner again because her nose was buried in a book. Or most importantly, where Snow White dies and leaves behind her prince and a whole rag-tag group of pseudo-children who fucking need her.
“One day, when you’re all alone and wishing for someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else, I want you to remember this second. The moment you shit on the one person who truly sees all of you and wants you for you, Erica Cole. No restrictions, no expectations, no cages. You are amazing, brilliant, beautiful . . . but none of that matters if you stay in other peoples’ bubbles. The worst part is that you . . . you let them keep you there. And that is a damn tragedy. Goodbye, Erica.”
“He told me I’m a great mechanic, talented and brilliant.” “That asshole! How dare he!”
“Holding someone’s heart is a big responsibility, one you just showed him you can’t be trusted with. So yeah, apologize, but more importantly, be worthy and hope he gives you another shot.”
want more of these kisses, more days with Brody where I can tease that hard-to-get full smile to his lips, more nights making him lose his words, and more of a life making him trust me to have his back. Always, no matter what. I want him to know that I’m here for him and trust him to be there for me, because I choose him. Shit. Fuck. Damn. I do. I choose him.
I mean that. I still think relationships are a ticking time bomb, waiting to destroy you when they inevitably end, but I get why everyone risks it now. Why, even if you know it’ll gut you eventually, it’s worth it to be with the one person who can make every minute mean something. Without them, there’s no risk, but it’s merely an existence, not life.
Other people aren’t crazy for feeling like this. I’m just a dumbass who thought they were exaggerating. Now I know they weren’t.
“Salad,” I say, with no context or frame of reference at all. “Pass,” he answers as if we’re having a normal conversation. “That’s what we feed the hamburgers.”
“I love when she’s bitchy and brash, putting everyone in their place because she knows best. I love when she’s soft and sweet, but only when she feels safe. I love when she talks about cars and her eyes light up with excitement over five more horsepower. I love how she sacrifices everything for the people she loves, even if it hurts her to do it. I love her heart, her soul, and even that mouth when she’s cussing worse than I do.”
“Keep thinking that, Cowboy. But you’re not coming until I let you.” The words are soft and sweet as can be, my cock cradled against her cheek, but there’s an evil glint in her eyes when she looks up at me. Oh, fuck. My eyes shutter closed as I groan, knowing deep inside that she’s going to destroy me. I can’t fucking wait. “Do your worst.”
