Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3) (9 page)

“What the
fu—?”

I cut him off
because again…
time valuable and all. “Local attorney showed up at the house
in Jackson and told her she had to vacate. That the will left her
nothing and his son was demanding she leave. She was allowed to leave
with nothing but her clothes, jewelry, and a little cash. All credit
cards shut down.”

“You’re
fucking kidding me?” Bridger growls as he sits up straight in
his chair. I quickly see he’s taken as much offense to this
notion as I have. While Cat is but a member of The Silo, Bridger
takes care of his own. I also know he has a soft spot for her and
worries about her at times.

“She went and
got a copy of the will, but here’s the kicker… it’s
not signed. The attorney insists the signed copy is in Vegas. Cat’s
thinking about calling one of the sons and asking for a copy with the
supposed signatures, but she’ll probably get the run around.”

“Who’s
the attorney?” Woolf asks.

“Harlan
Grables,” I tell him. “Know him?”

“Yeah,”
Woolf says. “Small-town lawyer, does a variety of stuff. Mostly
speeding tickets and stuff. Kind of sleazy actually.”

“Which means
there’s no way in hell he drafted the legitimate will of a
billionaire hotelier from Vegas,” Bridger concludes.

“You think the
attorney’s lying?” I ask incredulously. “But why?”

“Could be the
son paid him to draft the bogus document to get her out of the
house,” Bridger says with a careless shrug to his shoulders.
“Could be Samuel’s real attorney drafted it, the signed
one
is
in Vegas, and the son had a copy here. He asked the attorney to
enforce it, and the lawyer did so moronically without seeing the
signed copy.”

“I’m
betting there’s not a signed copy,” Woolf chimes in. “The
mere fact she’s been given the run around… I bet they’re
just hoping she gets tired of waiting for an answer and will go
away.”

“Well, that’s
not happening,” I say with a growl as I lean forward in my
chair. “No fucking way.”

I don’t
miss both Bridger and Woolf’s eyebrows rising as they shoot
each other a smirking look. Ignoring them, I ask, “Any bright
ideas on what I should do? I’m letting her crash at my place
until I can get her on her feet.”

“Taking up her
cause, huh?” Bridger asks slyly.

“Something
like that,” I mutter, but then I get distracted as my phone
starts ringing to the tune of Maroon
5’s
Wake Up Call
.
I roll my eyes without bothering to look at caller ID as that song
tells me all I need to know. I press the decline button, sending
Tarryn to voice mail.

“Seems to me
you still have your hands full,” Woolf says with a sly grin,
looking down at my phone gripped in my hands.

“I’ve
got Tarryn handled,” I assure him. Because the only thing to do
with her is ignore her. She’ll eventually get bored and move
on.

Temporarily at
least.

“I’ll
give Cat a job off the books as a Fantasy Maker,” Bridger says.
“Under the table, of course.”

My head immediately
shakes back and forth in denial. “She’s
taking a break from The Silo. She needs a job far away from that
shit.”

“Come on,
dude,” Woolf says as he swings his feet off his desk and sits
up in his chair. “Catherine was born to be a Fantasy Maker.”

Maybe my personal
fantasy
,
I think for a brief moment before anger over Woolf’s
innocently callous words overtakes me.

“That shit’s
off the table,” I snap at him, and he blinks at me in surprise.
“And clearly you two don’t have any helpful advice.”

I surge up out of
the chair and mutter to Bridger, “Catch
you later.”

I storm out of the
Double J office but even as my own feet hit the dirt outside, I can
hear Bridger saying, “Wait
up.”

Turning, I see him
trotting down the steps toward me. “Cut
Woolf some slack,” he says gruffly. “He doesn’t
know.”

“Know what?”
I ask him, confused and slightly skeptical.

Bridger’s
head turns slightly, and he gazes out over the open range that
stretches for miles with the Teton Mountains standing tall on the
horizon. When he looks back at me, he scratches at his chin. “Cat…
she forced by her husband to go to The Silo?”

He worded it as a
question, but I can tell he’s
actually laying it out as a statement he wants verified.

“Yeah.”

“That
motherfucker,” Bridger snarls, aiming his cowboy booted foot at
Woolf’s front tire. It slams into the tread and bounces off as
he curses under his breath.

“Not your
fault,” I tell him just loud enough to penetrate his curses. I
know what he’s feeling right now and it’s guilt, plain
and simple. That Cat was forced to do something she didn’t want
to do. “And her experience isn’t all bad there. It’s
complicated.”

So fucking
complicated.

“She want a
job at The Wicked Horse?” Bridger asks.

I shake my head.
“Still
too close.”

“Let me think
on it,” Bridger says. “And I’ll also check into
this attorney, but I’m betting he was just paid to enforce a
document that may or may not be legit. Now, can I front Cat some
money?”

“I’ve
got her covered,” I tell him, because fuck if I’m going
to allow him to ride in and save the day for Cat. I’m not sure
why I have this overwhelming need to protect her and help her. I
mean, I feel for her. I really do. And she’s a great fuck, and
it’s been awesome to have her right there in my apartment…
but still, I can’t figure out why I have this strong of a
connection to her cause.

Bridger nods in
understanding. “Alright,
man. But I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Appreciate
it,” I tell him and turn toward my Suburban. While I might not
want Bridger being Cat’s personal champion, I’ll gladly
take any help he and Woolf can give me until we can figure out what’s
best for her future.

Cat

Opening the oven, I
take a quick peek at the meatloaf I have baking and then glance at
the timer on the microwave I had set. Another ten minutes and it
should be done.

Rand had texted me a
few hours ago letting me know he’d
be home from work by seven. We had our first minor disagreement after
I responded back to him that’d I’d cook dinner
.

His response was
almost immediate.
I’ll
pick up pizza.

I wasn’t
sure whether to be offended that he was perhaps distrustful of my
cooking or he was being an overly gracious host, but I sent him back
a firm response.
I
insist. I want to do something nice for you.

No need
,
he wrote back quite succinctly.

I wasn’t
so succinct.
I’m
cooking dinner and not arguing about it. I’ll have it on the
table and ready to go at 7PM. If you can’t let me do something
to show my gratefulness for your generosity, then I’m going to
have to make alternative plans to stay somewhere else.

His response was
still just as short, just as quick, but it made me smile.
Look
forward to your cooking
.

It’s
my hope he appreciates my efforts, although knowing Rand, that’s
sort of a given. The more I come to know him, the more I admire the
type of man—no, human—that he is. In all my dealings with
him before at The Silo, I never looked past the exterior. He’s
a glorious package and was one of my select favorites there. But
let’s be honest… he was fucking a shell of a woman then.
I closed off everything on the inside and would only let my body
feel. With all the things that make me uniquely human shut down,
there was nothing available by which I could see inside someone else.
Not that I wanted to since it never occurred to me I could have a
life outside of Samuel. That I could have someone truly care for me.
I never even hoped for such a thing because you can’t hope for
something that you don’t even understand.

That you don’t
even know exists in the world.

So without that
knowledge, there was never any need for me to look past the exterior
of any man who had me. I was nothing but a vessel to them, and they
were nothing but a few moments of physical pleasure that hopefully
outweighed the shame of what was happening to me.

After our text
exchange, I drove to the grocery store and put a dent in my meager
funds, coughing up $9.63 for some ground bison, an onion, and some
milk. The milk was for the box of macaroni and cheese I found in a
cupboard. He had butter, ketchup, eggs, and spices, so I had
everything else I needed for meatloaf and macaroni and cheese. Very
simple and basic. I considered throwing in a green vegetable too, but
I actually got sidetracked in the grocery store when I started
thinking about Rand and how perfectly he was able to play my body
last night. Which is weird. I never think about sex in general, but I
seem to be obsessed with Rand and how he makes me feel in bed. Out of
bed too, so to speak, as he got me to easily open up to him. Telling
him my secrets and shames last night was freeing. The fact that he
listened without judgment speaks volumes.

So yeah…
I got sidetracked thinking about Rand and walked out of the grocery
store without a veggie. Rand doesn’t have any vegetables among
his canned goods, which leads me to believe he probably doesn’t
like them anyway.

I think I’m
a decent cook, and it’s something I enjoy doing. Granted, I
haven’t had a lot of opportunity to experiment, but I can hold
my own with the basics. Growing up, I had to fend for myself so I
could get pretty damn creative. Once I left home, I took whatever
food I could get, and it was often just a stolen candy bar or
something. With Samuel, we had a chef when we were in Vegas. In
Jackson, I did get to cook for us, although he’d never hand
down a compliment to me even if he thought it was the best food ever.
Not going to say I didn’t think about poisoning him a time or
two, especially when he’d farm me out to others, but I just
don’t have that in me, I guess. Samuel’s food remained
healthy and poison free, even though I hated him enough that I hoped
his advanced age would get him sooner rather than later.

Or that he’d
choke on a chicken bone, it being fortuitous that I did
not
know how to do the Heimlich maneuver.

The macaroni is done
boiling, so I go about fixing the cheap box of Kraft, adding in extra
butter because that makes everything taste better. By the time the
meatloaf is done and I’m
pulling it out of the oven, I hear the door to the apartment open. My
entire body goes on hyper-alert, and a rush of giddy excitement runs
through me.

Rand’s
here.

The sensation is so
startling that it takes a moment to realize the heat from the glass
dish of meatloaf is starting to sting through the towel I’d
grabbed it out with. I hurriedly set it on the stovetop.

“Smells
amazing,” Rand says from behind me. I turn to him, feeling my
cheeks get warm from the praise and the anticipation of seeing him.

God…
I’ve never felt this before. It’s how I imagine children
feel on Christmas morning when they wake up and are beside themselves
with excitement to know what Santa left them. I’ve never had
that experience, but I had friends at school who did, so I could
easily envision it.

I’ve
most definitely never felt it for another man because I never really
had a serious relationship before. I’ve made attempts, but I
always picked poorly. When you’re sometimes homeless and
occasionally stripping to pay rent, the choices for “good guys”
are relatively lacking. I guess that’s why Samuel seemed like
such a godsend at first when he showed interest in me.

Rand’s
eyes flick from the meatloaf to me. His gaze lingers in a long, slow
slide up and down my body. The giddiness ramps up as I feel a rush of
dampness between my legs. Normally, when I feel the signs of lust
coming on, my body and persona tend to take on a life of its own. I
know how to work my assets and incite the same lust in someone else
with either a particular look or a sway of my hips.

But right now, I’m
not feeling the need to do that with Rand. In fact, I feel a little
off kilter. Rather than give him a sensual look of invitation,
because let’s face it—I would not say no if he wanted to
have sex right now—I blush even deeper if the heat in my face
is any indication.

Rand notices this
because I don’t
miss the quick flash of amusement on his face but rather than make me
feel uncomfortable about it, he merely gives me a boyish smile and
asks, “Do I have time for a quick shower before we eat?”

“Sure,”
I say, because the food isn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll
only be about five minutes,” he says as he turns toward the
bathroom. I figure I could use the time to set the table, but then I
see him peel his shirt over his head as he walks away from me and all
thoughts of plates, utensils and napkins evaporate.

And this time, the
dampening of my panties is enhanced by a cramping need of want low in
my gut. Just looking at his naked back roped with lean muscle and
colored with tattoos incites me to near madness with desire for him.
I look back to the meatloaf, and figure it’s
safe enough where it is. I look back to the bathroom, where Rand has
shut the door. Noticing it is not quite shut all the way, I wonder if
it’s an invitation.

I look back to the
meatloaf and consider my options.

Rand originally made
it clear that there were no expectations of sex in exchange for his
generosity in letting me stay here. But that didn’t
mean there wasn’t sex, as evidenced last night by the
repetitive and stellar sex we did have. I’ve had that beautiful
man in my body before at The Silo, but last night was different. Last
night, it was personal and moving. It was in the sanctity of his
home. It was within a caring embrace. He saw me as more than just a
vessel, and I literally felt the difference in the very marrow of my
bones.