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“Yeah,” she says quietly, ignoring the phone. “It’s just a mess, Quinn, and I don’t want to deal with it. Not yet. Maybe not ever…”
Damn right it’s a mess, and she’s not diving back in just to get her heart torn up all over again.
Not if I can help it.
Snarling, I march over and grab the phone off the counter.
The screen says JEAN-PAUL (YUCK).
Turning away from Tory, I hit the answer icon.
“What?” It shoots out of my mouth like a bullet.
There’s a confused silence before the man on the other end clears his throat.
“W-who’s this?”
“Quinn Faulkner,” I snap. “Why the fuck are you calling every five minutes?”
Another long pause. “This is Tory Redson-Riddle-Coffey’s phone, is it not? I’m looking for her. We need to have a very important discussion, and I don’t appreciate this…odd reception.”
Shit, he even sounds like a colossal prick.
Big surprise.
“She’s busy being happy,” I grind out. “And I don’t think she cares to listen to you flapping your gums till you learn some goddamn manners, champ.”
“Champ?” he echoes back. “Well. Enough of this nonsense, where’s Tory? I’ve been calling all day and—”
“And you need to stop. Fair warning. Next time I see your name on her screen, I’ll fly to Chicago and make sure the only person you’re calling is your nurse, fuckboy. She doesn’t want to talk to you. You read me?”
“I—”
“And why the hell should she, you heartless, crusty fucking baguette? When—and if—she ever wants to talk, she’ll call. Don’t dial this number again. Because I’ll be the one answering, and you definitely won’t want to hear what I have to say.”
My heart slaps my ribs like a bear charging its cage.
I hit End Call, knowing if I don’t stop now, I’ll probably say something illegal, and slowly turn around.
Tory has a hand over her mouth, trembling. The look on her pale face is pure bloodless mortification.
“Tory?” I whisper, taking a step forward. “Peach?”
Shaking her head slowly, she pivots on one foot and races to the laundry room. Then, a moment later, the screen door slams shut.
Yeah.
Somebody just fucked up big-time.
One guess who.
15
We’ve Goat This (Tory)
I’m shaking so hard my teeth rattle.
One fact keeps replaying over and over in my mind, pressing my thoughts through a spinning kaleidoscope.
Quinn told Jean-Paul his name.
Crud.
No, crud!
Now Mother has all the ammo she needs to shoot down my decisions. Hell, to tell me I don’t have a hand in deciding anything because somebody has to be putting ideas in my head.
I can just hear her now.
Grow up and be responsible, Tory.
You’re acting out, Tory.
What? You’re still listening to that farm boy, Tory?
End me. It doesn’t help that she’s the only person, besides Granny, who knows how in love I was with Quinn.
The last summer I made it to Dallas, Mother had puppies over me coming here since I’d just turned eighteen—old enough to decide my own fate with the boy I’d always had eyes on. And when she found out Quinn wasn’t there and he’d enlisted in the Army, she’d been ecstatic.
Pain shoots up my leg. It’s the running making my teeth rattle, I realize.
Still favoring my undamaged knee, my gait isn’t so smooth.
It’s hurting, too, so I slow to a slight, off-kilter jog and push through the grove of trees. At the first fallen log, I sit down and rub my leg.
The hurt muscle is nothing compared to the soreness inside.
Mother always insisted Quinn Faulkner was beneath me.
Not because she singled him out, really, but because no one in Dallas was good enough.
I have three last names, after all. A pedigree that stems from her side of the family.
Oh, never mind the fact that she married a small-town farm boy who’d bootstrapped his way up the social ladder. She’ll be the first to jump up and explain how Dad was the first crab to pull himself out of his backwater bucket.
He made it to a good college. He learned real estate. He’s slayed a hundred dragons in business and investing—no thanks to a little lemon squeeze from her trust fund.
The wealth and pride behind the Redson-Riddle line goes back generations. And Mother clings to that reputation with an iron fist. It’s how she keeps Dad on a short leash, and—though I hate to admit it—it’s how she controls me.
She’s held big money, bigger pride, and fantastic dreams over my head my entire life.
If I played along, there was always a prize at the end.
A new doll, a new dress, new ballet shoes, hell, even my car. She bought me a shiny pink convertible that’s sparkling away in the garage back home when she first heard I’d started dating Jean-Paul.
I needed something fitting to impress him, in her eyes, because my personality and good looks count for diddly, I guess.
A stick snapping loudly has me glancing over my shoulder.
Owl bounds forward, tail wagging as if to say, found you!
