I search through them, wondering if I’d even recognize Ky with the distorted lights. Breaks in the music reveal moans and rhythmic thumps. Someone’s having sex in one of these corners.
Deep in the back I finally find Ky. He’s by himself—or as close as you can come in this place. Somehow he’s got a two-seater couch to himself. There are track marks on his open arm. His mouth is open, as if he’s sleeping. Except he’s not. His eyes are open.
He’s dead.
For a terrible moment he seems dead—cold and clammy and unmoving. Then his eyes focus on me, and he snaps alert. “Ashleigh. Hell. Hell. I thought you were dead.”
I’m almost hysterical with worry, with the emotional seesaw of seeing him this way and wondering if he’d overdosed before I could find him. “I thought you were dead, you big dummy.”
That makes him laugh, a wild and raucous sound. He’s high as a kite. “When you didn’t come home for two nights I thought some sick fuck had driven you out to the woods and killed you.”
“So you decided to come spend all your money on a freaking needle?”
He squints at me. “Were you in the woods?”
“Close enough,” I say on a sigh. “Come on. Let’s get you home. You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow. And you won’t get any sympathy from me. I’m the one who’s gotta clean up the rats.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sutton
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, becoming aware in an instant, certain that I’m alone in the house. My heart’s made of lead while I check the bathroom, the kitchen, even the goddamn front porch, as if she might be swinging with her toes on the scarred wooden boards. Even the crickets are quiet at this hour. The world feels ungodly silent. I step out into the grass and look up, wearing jeans and nothing else. The dark sky leans down on me, as if filled with water, heavy and threatening.
When I go back inside I find my phone on the breakfast table, set neatly beside my wallet, and a note written on a Post-it. I took the money you promised. It continues on the back. Left some for Uber. I stare at the loops as if her handwriting can somehow tell me about her soul.
Why the hell do I want to know about her soul? I don’t. I wanted sex from her and I got that. Plenty of sex. A truly ridiculous amount of sex. I climaxed so hard I had a goddamn stroke.
The only reason I feel bereft now is… that I’d have given her a bonus. It’s not nearly enough money, what I promised, what she took. And I’d have given her a ride back myself. The whole thing would have felt demeaning and cheap, but hell. It’s not like waking up sad is any better.
“Why didn’t you wake me up, Ashleigh?”
The Post-it note doesn’t answer.
Because she didn’t want to say goodbye, asshole. This isn’t the standard morning after. This is a paid service. Except I know she didn’t think of it like that. I didn’t, either.
I grab the wallet and keys and shove them in my pocket. I’ll go after her. The app says she was dropped off at the Den, but I should check on her. I should make sure she’s okay. I should…
I should leave her the hell alone. Jesus.
When would it end? Never. I’d pretend I was doing it to help her, but in reality I’d just install her in my house as my personal sex slave. I’d be the laughingstock of Tanglewood, like she said, but I don’t give a shit about that. I swore I’d never be like my father. Panting after Christopher. After Harper. Now Ashleigh. Do I fall in love every six goddamn months? I always knew he fucked a lot of women. I never realized that he may have actually loved them all.
Slowly I pull the wallet and keys out of my pocket. Toss them onto the table.
I’m not goddamn Mother Teresa to help people on the street. And I’m not going to be a man who takes advantage of her. That leaves me with no rights to her whatsoever.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand over my face.
The irony is that there are only two people I could talk to about this who’d understand. Both of those people are currently on their honeymoon in Bali.
I wonder what Harper told her in the steeple. Don’t think about Ashleigh.
The sun exhales a dim light for hours before dawn. I walk the length of my fence in boots and jeans, no shirt, trying to connect with the land. I used to love every blade of grass, every grain of dirt. Every molecule of air. I still do, but it feels a little emptier somehow. As if Ashleigh gave a piece of herself to the trees and the animals and the earth. Now that she’s gone, they don’t know what to do.
High-pitched squealing tells me that it’s feeding time.
I catch my sister as she’s coming out of the pigpen. There are at least six Mayfair bastards in Tanglewood—men with that inherited anger and blue eyes. Whitney’s the only girl that we know about. She came to live on the ranch a few years ago. A straw hat sits on her head, ready to shield her freckles when the sun comes out. “She leave?” she asks.
“Did who leave?”
A snort. She heads back to the barn, and I follow at a slower pace, feeling like a lazy bum. The fact that I pay Whitney well doesn’t make it any better. “You’ve been holed up at the house with someone.”
I watch as she prepares the large bottle for the calf. “Someone underweight?”
Sometimes a calf needs to supplement nursing with the bottle. “Chess won’t tolerate it.”
“Hell. Let me talk to her.” Chess is a finicky cow, but I can get her to nurse. She’ll kick and bite, until I stroke her gently, until I coax her to let the calf drink. She’s got the milk already. It’ll make her feel better to let it go.
“You were busy with your guest, and I figured that was fine, considering the timing. Besides, it won’t hurt the calf to drink from the bottle.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll get her out of the stall and—”
“Don’t.” Those blue eyes flash, a mirror image of mine. “Not everyone wants to be a mom, Sutton. You should know that as well as anyone. So don’t bother convincing her of anything.”
I wait while Whitney fills the bottle and puts on a large nipple. There’s formula, if we needed it, but Chess has never minded humans handling her. It’s the calves she minds.
When we get to the pen I corral the calf myself. It’s my way of saying sorry for whatever the hell I did to piss off Whitney. The calf vibrates in my hold, whether from excitement or fear, I don’t know. “Shhhh,” I say, making the same sounds I’d make for Chess. I run one hand along her flank. “You’re okay.”
Whitney doesn’t meet my eyes as she bottle-feeds.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re ornery?”
That upturned nose and wide eyes make her look young, even if her hands are chapped from hard work. She looks as young as she did when we were both in grade school. She had a crush on me, back then. Until someone finally clued her in that we were most likely step-siblings. Then she got so embarrassed she didn’t speak to me for a year. We reconnected as adults, and she takes to the horses as well as me.
“I’m not jealous,” she finally says.
“Well. Okay then.”
“I’m wondering about this girl, though. If she knows that you’re… unavailable.”