The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (+Wicked Bond [5])

  Yes... it's come down now to blackmail.

  After I hung up the phone with my mom last night, I decided to check my texts. Acid backed up in my throat when I saw one from Brant that said, You're not working fast enough. I want an update first thing in morning, and I need something solid.

  Asshole!

  He told me he'd give me two weeks last time we talked. It's only been a week, and I was hoping that within the next few days, I'd be able to come up with a miraculous solution that would make all this go away and let me stay in Cain Bonham's bed--possibly his heart--for, oh, about forever.

  I sent Brant a furiously quick reply back that merely said, You told me I had two weeks.

  Then Cain came into the living room, and I shut my phone off.

  Next morning, there was a message from Brant and he wasn't fucking around. It simply said, Call me by 9AM or you're fired.

  For a brief moment, I thought about not calling and taking the termination. It would be so easy and my conscience would be alleviated. I could figure out what to do with my life after that. But the thought niggled at me that if I called him, and told him there just wasn't anything to be found, he'd let the matter go and put me on another story.

  So I called him as soon as Cain dropped me off at my house after we got a quick breakfast. It was 8:55am and I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't make the call with Cain around. As soon as he pulled out from the parking lot to my apartment, I hit Brant's number on speed dial.

  The conversation deteriorated rapidly, any hope of me being able to salvage my pride and perhaps Cain and Callie in the process was obliterated.

  "Brant," he answered, even though his Caller ID would have identified me.

  Asshole.

  "It's Sloane," I said in a tired voice.

  "Cutting it close," he remarked.

  I didn't respond and let the silence lay heavy.

  "I need some sign of progress right now. Apparently, investors are questioning the longevity of the magazine since sales have dipped last two quarters. We need something juicy to renew interest."

  "I don't have anything," I told him, trying not to sound too whiny. "I'm getting nowhere on the sex club, and I just met Callie Hayes. I'm hoping to start doing some volunteer work with the governor's campaign soon, but that could take a few more weeks to find anything."

  It was my hope he'd understand the futility of it all and let it go. No such luck.

  "Then get in tight with the daughter. Get her to talk to you--get her to disclose her involvement. I'm sure it's something a few bottles of wine will easily flush out."

  I sighed because I knew he was right. Callie and I hit it off amazingly well at dinner. You know how you can just tell when you have a connection with someone? Well, I felt it with Callie, and I know she felt it with me. She has the potential--if I wasn't here perpetuating a fraud upon her--to become best friend material.

  My heart squeezed so hard over the thought and I blurted out words that would eventually seal my fate. "I can't do it, Brant. These people are nice. They've done nothing wrong. We can't tie anything to the governor. This isn't right."

  "You're not paid to bring your morality into this, Preston," he barked at me over the phone. "And right now, you are entrenched and have made two good contacts with key players. You are going to stick with this and you are going to get the story, do you hear me?"

  "Or what?" I sneered at him, wishing he was standing in front of me at this very moment so I could kick him in the balls. I was so angry over his lack of integrity that was being aimed at destroying two people I had come to care about, that I didn't care if he fired me. I was bracing for it actually.

  "If you don't do as I say," Brant said in a very low voice, deadly calm and ice cold, "I'm going to run the next juiciest story I can find."

  I had no clue what he was talking about, but his tone was so threatening that I swallowed hard.

  "Want to know what the story is about, Preston?" he taunted, and then gave a deep, husky laugh as if this turned him on. "It's about a senator who couldn't keep his dick in his pants, fucked a hot, young thing while on a trip to Brazil, and fell in love. Carried on an illicit affair using taxpayer dollars to fund his travel to do so, that apparently everyone in Washington knew about except for his poor, unsuspecting wife, daughter, and son. And then, when he was outted and the story revealed to the world, the poor wife, who by the way, was addicted to prescription painkillers, tried to kill herself. Isn't that just the yummiest of political scandal?"

  My fingers clutched onto my phone so hard, I thought it might crack. My teeth gnashed so forcefully, pain shot through my lower jaw. My voice was barely controlled fury when I whispered into the phone, "That happened a long time ago. That's old news."

  "But it's new news that your mom just had another breakdown and landed back in the psych unit. We're coming up on the five-year anniversary of your dad's marriage to his hot, young Brazilian wife. It would be an interesting piece to do a profile on a disgraced senator who now prefers to live on a beach in Rio with his new wife and twin girls, while his ex-wife jumps in and out of psych hospitals."

  My blood pressure spiked so high, I got momentarily dizzy. My hand went out to the counter where I steadied myself, and the first thought that ran through my mind was one of murder. I considered hopping a plane, flying to Washington, and stalking Brant home from the office where I'd unload an entire magazine of bullets into his black heart.

  My plan fizzled quickly though when he said in a calm, businesslike voice, "You've got a week to get her to disclose something to you or I'm going to be splashing poor Delilah Preston's pretty but fucked-up head all over the front of the magazine. You hear me?"

  "I hear you," I rasped out, tears filling my eyes and then flowing down my cheeks. I hung up the phone without saying another word, and then I tried to figure out how I was going to get Callie Hayes comfortable enough with me in just a week to admit to me that she attended an orgy at a sex club with her boyfriend, who is a secret owner.

  The waitress comes back and sets two frosty glasses filled with pale green, margarita heaven rimmed with salt. Callie looks up to the waitress with a smile to thank her, and I lean forward and place my lips around the straw, sucking hard on the alcoholic beverage for fortitude.

  "Whoa," Callie says with a laugh. "Thought it was too early to drink?"

  "Apparently not," I say with a slight cough after I release the straw. The drink is potent and my eyes water.

  "Hey," Callie says, her brow furrowing with a concerned look. "Are you okay?"

  I start to shake my head in the negative, because I couldn't begin to tell her all the ways in which I'm actually very sad right now, but then I'm struck with horrible, calculating, and dirty inspiration.

  I let my lips slide into a frown and raise my eyes to her, filled with conundrum and worry. "I don't know," I say vaguely, cutting my eyes around to make sure no one is nearby who can hear. "It's just... I'm not sure..."

  Callie takes my cue and leans across the table, whispering herself, "Tell me what's wrong, Sloane. Sometimes it helps to talk about things."

  So I put the bait out there.

  I cut my eyes around again, and then focus them back on Callie. In a low voice, I say, "God... I'm not sure I should even say anything... but, well... it's about my relationship with Cain..."

  "He's crazy about you," she says with a confident nod of her head and a satisfied smile on her face.

  "And I'm crazy about him too," I assure her with a soft smile, but then drop my eyes to the table. "But..." My voice filters away to indecision of whether to share, and Callie pulls on the bait harder.

  "But what?" she asks softly, and my duplicitous eyes rise up to hers.

  Totally clear and earnest eyes of fern green stare at me in solidarity and support. She's saying, I've got your back.

  Whereas I'm trying to stab her in hers.

  I almost bolt out of the restaurant as that thought crosses my mind, but the image of my mom lyin
g in a hospital bed, drugged to capacity so she doesn't harm herself, flashes vividly, and I press forward, setting the trap.

  "Well... Cain is in to some really kinky stuff," I say, my face flushing red with embarrassment, and that's not an act. I've never been very good at sharing stuff like this, and what Cain and I did almost can't be described.

  Callie doesn't say anything, but there's no judgment there. On the contrary, there's a bit of a knowing gleam, and that makes it a bit easier to lay it all out there.

  "He... had asked me what my fantasy was, and I thought we were just... you know... talking out our ass or something. And I told him it was to have sex with multiple guys."

  Callie's eyebrows rise slightly, but she nods in understanding. "Women have fantasies just like men. Nothing wrong with that."

  "Well, he provided me with the opportunity to fulfill mine," I tell her bluntly. "And I took it."

  "Oh," Callie says as her eyes go round with surprise and then understanding. "Oh, wow. That must have been intense."

  "You have no idea," I say, an absolute truth amidst all the lies I've told recently. "It was life altering in some ways."

  "You sound conflicted," Callie observes. That's exactly how I tried to sound, so that's good.

  My eyes drop to my margarita glass, and I fiddle with the straw. "It's just... it felt so good and right, and Cain's made me feel all kinds of confident about it, but I can't help but continue to worry that it was wrong. Being with other men when Cain and I promised to be monogamous with each other. I mean... no way would I let him do that, so talk about double standard. I should have said no, right? I should have never indulged in that. And what if that ultimately ends up disgusting him? Makes me like a cheap whore or something in his eyes?"

  I end by drawing in a long breath, because that was a mouthful, and I realize that much of what I just said is actually true. Every one of those doubts and conflicted thoughts have plagued me since that wild and amazing night.

  Callie takes a quick look around, then back to me with sympathetic eyes. Her arm comes out and she covers my hand with her own, giving me a squeeze. "You didn't do anything wrong, Sloane. If Cain said he was good with it, then I'm sure he was. And if something like that happens and everyone is consenting and understanding of the ramifications... if you go into it with your eyes wide open... then there is nothing wrong with engaging in something that's out of the norm like that."

  "Easy for you to say," I say with a snort and give a laugh of nervousness that is totally manufactured by this point. "You're so sweet and normal. I'm the one sitting here feeling like I should be branded the town whore."

  Callie narrows her eyes at me and slaps me lightly on my hand before grabbing and squeezing again. "Now you listen here, Sloane. You are not a whore. You are a consenting adult, as was everyone else who participated that night. If it felt good and everyone had a clear conscience about it, then what's the problem?"

  She's still not giving me what I need. She's giving me enough innuendo about her personal experience, which I suspect is true now as I wasn't going to accept Colton Stokes' word alone. But she's not giving me the details I need to give to Brant so he'll leave my mother alone.

  So I prompt just a bit further, "You sound like you know something about this type of thing."

  Callie's cheeks go red, but she holds my eyes and tilts her chin up almost in defiance. "I do. Know something about it. I did a three-way with Woolf and his best friend. And it was the most erotic experience of my life, and God help me... I'd do it again if the opportunity presents. I was totally wigged out about it though, like you. But Woolf helped me to understand that what I did with the other guy was nothing but a sexual act, and one that he enjoyed watching very much. It changed nothing about our feelings for each other, except perhaps cemented our bond and trust."

  Holy shit!

  Callie's been with Bridger? That has to be who she means when she says Woolf's best friend. I mean, according to Stokes, they own The Wicked Horse together.

  And suddenly, I actually have a new and different type of respect for Callie. That she was brave enough to try something out of her comfort zone, particularly with someone as intimidating as Bridger. If this stupid fucking story wasn't so necessary to protect my family, I'd relish sitting down with this woman and sharing all kinds of secrets with her. It would be nice to have another female who understands the conflicts that come when fantasy meets reality.

  "Now," Callie says dramatically as she picks her menu back up. "Let's figure out what we're going to eat. I'm starved."

  And just like that, our conversation is over and I'm still left with nothing but an admission that she had a three-way. Far less than what I need to appease Brant.

  Chapter 21

  Cain

  Outside of Rachel, and only because we were together for a few years, I've never fucked one woman as many times as I have Sloane. While we've known each other a little less than two weeks, the amount of times we've gone at it together has astounded even my inner horn-dog nature. And each time gets better.

  Each orgasm stronger.

  The connection deeper.

  It means I'm fucking screwed.

  And now... having her on the back of my bike as I take advantage of a warm early August day... I can't imagine anything feeling more right in my life.

  The Harley rumbles gruffly as I slow down to turn into Mom and Walt's driveway. They live just outside of Jackson on the opposite side of the Elk Refuge, about twenty minutes from my house. But it was the perfect day for a ride, and I wanted Sloane pressed up against me. I wanted to take every advantage of feeling her because time was running out for us.

  Five more days is all I had, and I wasn't going to waste a second of it. If I couldn't be balls deep inside of her, I at least wanted her touching me. If she couldn't be touching me, I at least wanted to see her. Which is why I asked her to hang at The Wicked Horse last night while I worked. I actually breached my own rule about not mixing business with pleasure.

  And it was a pleasure to be able to look at her whenever I wanted while I also let my gaze roam around the club, checking for trouble. I didn't pull any time over at The Silo, of course. Asked one of my other crew to handle sweeps through there, and I didn't miss it for a second. Normally, I got a thrill walking through while on duty, listening to the passion permeate the air, watching bodies undulating against each other, knowing that I couldn't partake just then, but when I got off duty, I would more than make up for the lust I let build inside of me. Delayed gratification has its benefits and all, but I couldn't have cared less last night. I was completely happy letting my lust build just by watching Sloane dance, and while my intention was to wait until we got to my house to have her, I couldn't control myself when we got out to my truck. Sloane didn't even put up a fight, letting me lower my tailgate, bend her over, and hike her skirt up so I could fuck her in the shadows.

  As if she could sense my trip down memory lane, Sloane presses in tighter to me, giving a squeeze to my waist with her arms. I pull the bike up beside J.C.'s truck, engage the kickstand, and kill the engine.

  "That was so much fun," Sloane says as she jauntily stands and swings her leg up and over the back of the bike to dismount. She does so with her hands pressed into my shoulders for leverage, and I hate the thickness of my leather jacket dulling the feeling.

  Sloane and I take our helmets off, place them on the seat, and head up to the house. Her hand slips into mine, and I like that feeling too. I never much cared for PDA. Never held hands with Rachel, but again... this just feels right.

  We trot up the steps and I open the front door, pulling Sloane inside, through the living room and straight back to the kitchen where we always hang out. The aroma of roasted chicken fills the air, and my stomach grumbles. My mom is a hell of a cook, and I try to make most Sunday dinners she holds after they all go to church. Mom, Walt, Claudia, J.C., Carrie, and Tucker all attend Sunday services at the Methodist church. I don't, usually because I work late
and I'm too tired to get up that early, but mainly because I've just never felt the connection.

  However, for a brief moment as I walk in and see everyone in their Sunday finest, I have a fleeting wonder of what it would be like if Sloane and I had gone together. We'd sit with my family, taking up one long pew. Probably hold hands the entire time as we listened to the minister and sang songs. I can't believe I'm even fucking thinking about something like this and I push the thought away because that smacks of something deeper and more infinite than I could have ever hoped to have with someone, and it can't be Sloane.

  Not at this point in my life.

  "Cain... Sloane," my mom says in a happy voice as she sees us. "Come in... we're about ready to eat."

  My sister is already at the table with Carrie on one side, Tucker on the other. She moves her hands in quick fashion, communicating to Tucker to put his napkin on his lap. Carrie watches, gets the message, and does the same.

  J.C. is carving the roast chicken at the counter, and Walt is pulling a beer out of the fridge. They all turn around and levy warm smiles as we walk in.

  I make quick introductions. "Everyone... this is Sloane. Sloane, you know my mom, but that's J.C. on chicken duty, my stepdad, Walt, and that's Claudia sitting in between the rugrats, Carrie and Tucker."

  Sloane sweeps her gaze across everyone, nodding with a smile. Then she walks over to the table, and sits down opposite of Claudia. Beaming at Carrie, she says, "Hey cutie... I love that dress you're wearing."

  Carrie gives her a toothless grin, but she lowers her eyes in shyness.

  Sloane turns to Tucker, and I jump in to explain. "Tucker's dea--"

  But I'm stunned silent when Sloane's hands start moving quickly, using sign language to say, Hi Tucker... I'm Sloane. It's nice to meet you.

  Tucker gives the quick sign back for, Hello.

  "You know sign language?" I ask, and her head turns slowly to me.

  She answers me but signs directly toward Tucker to explain her knowledge. My brother Kent is deaf so I know sign language, although I'm a little rusty.

  Turning to me, she says, "He got a cochlear implant when he was about twelve, so we didn't really use it that much afterward unless it was around his other friends."