Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3) (14 page)

Funny.

Am I a fool for
getting involved like this? Am I just entranced by what an amazing
fuck she is or is there something more with this woman?

“I’m
going and that’s the end of it,” I tell her firmly, but
then I try to emphasize that this truly isn’t a big deal. “And
you’re not disrupting me. I wouldn’t have offered if it
did, okay?”

“Rand…
it’s too much—”

“Cat…
I’m going so just accept it. It’ll be a fun road trip. We
can buy sugary soda and sour gummy worms to eat on the way, sing bad
80’s songs at the top of our lungs. It’ll be awesome.”

I then give her my
best and most charming smile.

The indecision and
doubt on her face melts away, and she gives me a girlish laugh with a
pat to my chest before releasing me. “Okay,
fine. You can go.”

I take her hand,
relieved that today will not be our last day together. As I lead her
out of the breakroom and through the shop, we wind our way through
racks of ski apparel, which is the most direct route to the door.
Jake’s
behind the counter and throws us a wave.

I call out, “Later,
man.”

“This
weekend,” he reminds me with a pointed look.

I just nod. I’ll
have to call him later and explain this weekend isn’t going to
work as, apparently, I’m going to Vegas with this woman and we
may or may not be breaking into a house that may or may not belong to
her. Also that I may or may not be developing some feelings for a
woman who may or may not be in my life for much longer.

Cat

Although it was a
nipple puckering forty-two degrees when we left Jackson at six this
morning, I don’t
regret my decision to wear a loose, flowered skirt for the drive.
This time of year in Jackson is amazing. The days are sunny and warm,
but the nights get downright cold. The valley floor is thick with
wildflowers just starting to fade but the alpine ones are peaking,
which paint the mountains with color.

But we’re
headed south now and when I checked last night, Las Vegas was holding
steady with temperatures in the eighties, so I know my choice of
apparel is sufficient. Besides, when I kicked off my taupe-colored
ballet flats and put my bare feet up on the dashboard of Rand’s
Suburban, I know he appreciated the way the skirt slid along my
thighs and revealed my skin. I know this because his head immediately
snapped my way for a moment. As he studied me, or rather my legs, his
lips tipped upward. He didn’t say anything, but he did place a
warm palm on my knee and slide his hand along the same path my skirt
took. He did this pushing inward slightly so the stroke of his skin
against mine was along the inside of my thigh.

Sliding his hand
slowly along, he pushed my skirt even further up legs until his hand
was resting just inches from my panty line.

My heart felt like
it was about to explode. I knew if he moved his hand just slightly,
he’d
feel the dampness of my underwear. Yes, I was horny for this man. He
fucked me well last night, but it was only once, and then he
proclaimed we needed to get to sleep because we had to get up early
for the long drive ahead of us. With a man like Rand, I’m
finding once just isn’t enough.

But he did nothing
more than squeeze my inner thigh with his large, warm hand and then
pulled it away so it could rest casually again on the steering wheel.
It took a good twenty minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal
and for me to think coherently.

The rest of the trip
is proving to be uneventful, however. We’ve
been driving for almost eight hours with short stops to refuel and
grab something to eat. I’ve offered to drive, but Rand’s
refused. Not sure if it’s a macho, alpha thing, a gentlemanly
thing, or maybe he just doesn’t trust me with his vehicle, but
I’m not averse to riding shotgun as long as he’s not too
tired.

It was my decision
to drive versus fly, which is what Rand wanted to do. He felt the ten
and a half hours it would take us to get there was a waste of time,
and he’s
right about that. But my money’s tight and it was cheaper to
drive. I netted around $3300 from pawning my jewelry, which sucks
since it was probably worth ten times that amount. But beggars can’t
be choosers, and I have to ration my money carefully. This meant I
could budget money for gas to Las Vegas, but not plane tickets. Rand
offered to buy the air fare, but I shut that conversation down
quickly. I also reminded him that I didn’t need him to go with
me and that I was driving, and it was the end of the discussion.
Except he did somehow convince me to take his Suburban rather than my
small Mercedes, which would be more comfortable for Rand, and I felt
that was a good compromise.

I smile over that
word.

Compromise.

I’ve
never been able to compromise with anyone before. It was flat out
impossible with my mother, and with Samuel… well, there was no
question I’d ever cross him.

But Rand has proven
that he’ll
listen to me and give my wishes consideration. While I could tell he
wasn’t happy at all for me to be spending any of my meager
money on this trip—and yes, he was incensed I only got $3300
for my jewelry—he also recognized it was important for me to be
in control of how this was done.

I keep a running
chatter of dialogue going so if nothing else we are semi-entertained.
While I’ve
intermittently put my feet up on the dashboard and other times curled
them up under me in the big expanse of the Suburban’s front
passenger seat, Rand has remained a gentleman the entire time. I’ve
kept the conversation light because we have some serious shit waiting
for us in Vegas, which would be taking our attention soon enough.

“What about
your family?” I ask him because we’ve been talking about
the friends he’s made over the years doing competitive skiing
and how they became like a family because he was traveling so much.

Rand smiles while
maintaining his concentration on the road. We’re
on I-15 south with nothing but flat desert valley with shadowy
mountains in the distances to look at. Sometimes, the monotony of the
landscape can almost be hypnotizing, and not in a good way.

“My parents
are still back in Vermont where I was raised in a little
unincorporated village called Quechee. My dad is a full-time
novelist—true crime stuff— and my mom teaches middle
school.”

“No siblings?”
I ask.

“Nope. Only
child, and as such, I may have been doted on,” he says with a
grin as he watches the interstate before him.

My heart squeezes in
what I think might be a very brief moment of actual jealousy. In
those few words…
in that smile he has on his face right now, you can see the genuine
love for his parents.

“Sounds nice,”
I murmur as I glance out the passenger window at the desert landscape
whizzing by.

“It was,”
he says pointedly and with no shame for having an amazing family. I
turn to look at him to find him staring at me, just briefly before
turning his head back to the road. “My parents are great. They
sacrificed a lot by sending me to Carrabassett Valley. Not only in
the money it cost, but also because it essentially took their only
son out of their lives. It was hard on them to let me pursue my
dreams. We only got to see each other occasionally, mostly on
holidays, even though my parents only lived about four hours away.
But between school and training, there was never any free time.”

“They sound
amazing.”
Go
away, jealousy.
Rand is the type of man who deserves great parents.

“The most
amazing,” he agrees. “When I started competing on a
serious level, my dad started to travel with me because his job can
really be done from anywhere. This, of course, took him away from my
mom. So it wasn’t a conventional family relationship, but it
worked for us.”

“Why live so
far away from them?” I ask with curiosity.

Rand shrugs. “I
don’t know. I love Vermont. Its beauty rivals Wyoming. Ton of
skiing, my family’s there. Maybe one day, I’ll gravitate
back that way, but for now, I have the freedom to travel and live
where I want to. I guess until I figure out what I really want to do,
I’m fine in Jackson.”

I wonder what it
would be like to have that type of freedom. And I’m
not just talking about financial freedom, as that’s clearly
part of Rand’s ability to do what he wants. But to actually
just take your time and figure out what you want in life. To have no
pressures or worries hanging over your head.

To not have to
constantly weigh pros and cons of every action you take, or to be
forced into something just because your very livelihood would depend
on it. Another flare of jealousy burns within my chest for a moment,
but I squash it. Rand’s
earned his right to have that type of life.

I haven’t.

Not yet, anyway.

“What about
you?” he asks, and it takes a moment for the question to
permeate. I turn slowly to look at him—that stunning profile of
his—and I wish desperately he didn’t have his sunglasses
on because I know that low afternoon desert sun would make his green
eyes shimmer like spun glass, and he’d become an even more
romantic hero than I was already building him up to be in my mind.

“What about
me?” I ask hesitantly, although I know deep in my gut what he’s
inquiring about.

“Your family.
What’s your story?”

My gaze slides back
out to the desert as we fly down the interstate. I’ve
never felt a special affinity to Nevada, even though I was born and
raised here. Right now, the shades of brown from the hard-packed dirt
to the creosote brush feels a lot like my life. Dull, cruddy, and
depressing.

I contrast those
colors to the palette of Rand’s
life and where he lives. Vivid greens, cool blues, and sparkling
whites.

“I have no
clue about my father,” I say as I bring my hands to my lap
where I twirl my fingers together. “My mom wouldn’t tell
me anything about him other than he was an asshole. She didn’t
even put his name on the birth certificate.”

“What?”
Rand says in astonishment. “She didn’t think you’d
have the right to judge that yourself?”

“Guess not,”
I say glumly. I never knew what to think of the man who gave his
sperm to my mom.

“Do you
believe her?” he asks. It surprises me he would question my
mother’s character without knowing anything about her. But I
suspect Rand is making some preconceived judgments based on what
little he knows about me, and let’s face it… he wouldn’t
be wrong to question her motives. I question them all the time.

“Probably
not,” I admit softly, still staring at my hands. “My
mother wasn’t a very motherly figure. It’s hard to trust
what she says.”

“More,”
Rand orders, not in an autocrat type of way, but rather in a way that
says he’s not going to let me chintz on the gory details of my
life. He’s demanding to know my demons, because as he said, how
can he slay them if he doesn’t know what they are? “I
promise I won’t judge.”

My head snaps up and
swings to stare at him with my mouth slightly open. “I
know you’d never judge me,” I say vehemently. Not once in
the entire time I’ve known Rand—whether it was while he
was watching me get fucked by other men or while he was absorbing the
wretched details of my relationship with Samuel—has he ever
looked upon me with anything other than intrigue, lust, curiosity,
respect, and most recently, with care.

“Then lay it
on me,” he urges softly as he takes a moment to turn his
attention from the road to give me an encouraging smile.

I take a deep
breath, pull my bare feet up from the floorboard, and put them on the
dash again. I notice briefly it’s
time for a pedicure as the polish is starting to chip, then just as
quickly remember I can’t afford those anymore. I actually pull
my skirt to my knees and hold the edges there with my hands.

“I’ll
give you a classic example of my childhood,” I say after
exhaling. “One night, I woke up really hungry—I was
eight, I think. I was hungry because Mom sent me to bed without
dinner. She said it was because I was a pain in her ass, but I think
it was because she hadn’t bothered to go grocery shopping. But
I knew there was probably something I could get out of the cupboards,
so I got out of bed and made my way down the narrow hall of our
little desert trailer to the kitchen. The kitchen actually stood
between the hallway and the living room, and I saw my mom in there
with a guy—just some random dude, which was par for the course.
They were sitting on the couch, smoking a joint together. There was a
pizza on the coffee table. Mostly eaten, but there were two slices
left. She saw me and asked what I wanted. I told her I was hungry and
asked for some of the pizza. She told me tough shit and to get back
to bed. She said it was hers, and she’d need it for the
munchies that were sure to come on after they finished smoking their
joint. Then they both started laughing hysterically.”

“Unbelievable,”
Rand growls from low in his throat.

“My mother is
irresponsible and selfish. She had absolutely no business having a
kid. She didn’t even care when I left home at seventeen. I know
this because I came back after a few days to get more of my stuff and
she was there. Didn’t even ask where I’d been. Only
wanted to know if I had any money, because I’d been working
since I was fifteen, to make sure I at least had food.”

“Was she on
hard drugs or something?” Rand asks in wonder, because that
would be a good explanation for her lack of care.

“Nope. I mean,
yeah, she smoked some pot every once in a while, but she held a
steady job. Worked as a secretary at an auto body shop. She had
friends. She’d see a lot of different men, but she didn’t
really parade them in front of me. I think she was embarrassed she
had a kid.”