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“How can you be so irresponsible?” It’s pretty obvious to me what has happened. I don’t need a full explanation. Jessa’s wording about leaving before morning without saying goodbye makes it pretty obvious. But the fact that she called Clay “Xander” makes the whole thing cringe-worthy.
“I have needs, like any other red-blooded man,” Clay says bluntly.
“Maybe you should suppress them a little better,” I snap without thinking.
Clay bursts out laughing, eyes dancing with amusement. “I’m not a robot.”
The insinuation is clear, and his words sting, because they’re true. I don’t date. I don’t have casual sex. But despite what my brothers must think, I’m no robot either. Hell, even Joshua dates—though rarely. I glance at my other brother for help, but he merely shrugs.
“Why the fake name?” I ask. That’s the part that really bugs the shit out of me.
“Because we’re Hollisters,” Clay says, all amusement leaving his voice. “And while some of the media attention we’ve been getting is good, it brings out predators, too. The people who are just after money. I prefer to fly under the radar.”
Fuck. We’re going to need some beers for this. I walk to the small fridge we keep in the billiards room for that purpose and grab three bottles. I hand them out to my brothers and open my own. I take a long drink and try to gather my thoughts.
I’m irritated as fuck. But I’m not sure if it’s just Clay’s actions, or the fact that the pretty reporter is already under my skin. And hell, maybe I’m a little jealous. I haven’t been with anyone since Claire, so maybe it’s just that. But maybe it’s Jessa, too. She’s beautiful and obviously intelligent, with a keen sense of humor if the way she tortured Clay is any indication. I like her, and I don’t feel that way often.
“Changing your first name is pretty fucking weird,” Joshua says, finally with a little input. He closes his book and then opens his beer.
Clay shrugs. “Yeah well, it just came out. I wasn’t exactly hunting for a date that night. But...” Clay closes his eyes and rocks back on his heels, balancing by using his pool cue like a cane with his unopened beer in the other hand.
Silence falls over the room for a moment. And I can’t find an argument for what my brother doesn’t say. I can’t blame him for going after Jessa. Hell, I don’t think I’d have been able to blame him if he’d brought her home with him, announcing they were engaged or some such nonsense. But the whole thing is creating a fucking mess.
“I’ll take the lead with her, try to do most of the interviewing, showing her around. It’ll avoid some awkwardness,” I say, finally. Then I take another long drink of my beer. The idea of spending the next few days with Jessa isn’t an unpleasant one. But it is a dangerous one. I don’t have room in my life, in my heart, for another woman. Especially not one who’d already hooked up with my brother and because of it was mad enough to eat iron and spit nails.
Clay’s brows furrow and he frowns. Finally, he says, “You probably should.”
I set my beer on one of the tables and pick up a pool cue. Clay gathers the balls. I break, and for a few minutes, we play in silence. Both of us play like shit, while Joshua watches from the sidelines.
After far too many misses, Joshua downs his beer then shakes his head. “You guys suck.”
I can’t argue that, so I take the next shot and try to stop thinking about the sexy journalist upstairs.
“What you say to a draw?” Clay eventually says, amused at our terrible level of play.
“One more game,” I say, just because I can’t leave it like this. All of the Hollister boys can hold their own at the pool, even Joshua, who rarely steps up to a game. Hell, Tyler, our younger brother who been avoiding coming home lately as much as Joshua avoids playing pool, is practically a pool shark. Hell, given Tyler’s predilection for bending the law in the past, he might very well be one.
“It’s your funeral,” Clay says.
Joshua glances up from his book and snorts.
Our heads are clearly not in the game. Instead, they’re on the woman upstairs. Even Joshua seems distracted from his book. I don’t know what’s going through Clay and Joshua’s heads, but I’m trying to focus on getting through the next few days with a minimal amount of drama. That her smile feels like sunshine and her curvy ass would fit perfectly into my palms is not what I’m thinking about.
I’m about ready to throw in the towel at pool, when one of the ranch hands walks into the billiards room. The hand is one of the new ones, s
o it takes me a second to remember his name. Caleb. That’s it.
Caleb’s eyes are wide and his voice tight. “Hi guys. Do y’all know if Griz is supposed to be working on one of the trucks?”
The kid is nervous, and he wipes his hands on his jeans repeatedly. He knows damn well Griz, our foreman for the last couple years, isn’t a mechanic. Anyone who has talked to Griz about trucks for longer than five minutes would know it. He’s the type who likes to talk bigger and longer than he should, especially about shit he doesn’t really understand. I don’t know Caleb well, yet. But I do remember part of his application for work included a year-long stint of working at his uncle’s shop.
Clay walks over and claps him on the shoulder. “Everything all right, man?”
“Griz isn’t a mechanic,” I say. Griz probably knows a little less than I do about fixing trucks. And I know just enough to be dangerous. Sure, I could probably get myself home if something broke down on the side of the road, but I sure as hell wouldn’t trust me on any of the newer trucks. The damn things are run by computers.
Caleb shrugs and looks down, suddenly unsure. “It’s probably nothing. Can’t believe I ran in here.” He crosses his arms. “Hell, the man’s my boss.”
“Sure, but we’re his bosses,” Joshua says, in his quiet yet steady voice. “Tell us what you came to say. You’re not gonna get in trouble over it.”
