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He is unhurried as his fingers caress my side.
I reach for his cock again, palming it, feeling it pulse as I do. A shudder runs through him and instinctively he presses himself into my palm. Without warning, he jerks away from me, turning to sit on the bed with his back to me.
He drops his face into his palms and groans. “Baby, you’re drunk.”
“So?”
“And it’s been a shit day.”
Understatement of the century. I can’t think about that.
I slide up to my knees, wrap my arms around his muscled shoulders, and whisper in his ear, “I need you, Eli.”
He groans, leaning further into my touch, while he runs a hand down his face and scrubs his chin with it. “I’m insane.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Trust me. I am.” He stands, kicking off his pants, but pulling up his boxer briefs. “Climb in, baby. Under the covers. Not going to fuck you when you’re drunk. Not that you aren’t tempting the fuck out of me—you so are, but I’m not taking advantage of you.”
The burn of rejection slices through me again. And, damn if I hadn’t let down my guard just enough that this hurts as much as last time. Lesson learned.
I flop over with my back to him and hug myself. I try not to think of burying my mom. Or the struggle on Pop’s face. I try not to feel the warmth at my back or hear the words the man behind me speaks.
I try not to consider a life where the ones I love leave me or reject me. I fail. But sleep is kind and takes me quickly.
SIX
THE MARSHMALLOW GELATIN THING
ELIAS
Iarrive at the ranch on Friday after sitting on the news that developers will challenge the land trust.
I have to talk to Braxton. And I need to see Brighton. I haven’t had enough time to do the research I want, but I’m not willing to let it slide because my OCD isn’t satisfied with what I’ve learned so far.
I had no time after the funeral so I spent the last two days in my office buried under mountains of data trying to sort out how the dispute would work, on what grounds the deed could be contested, and what options the Rangers might have to challenge it.
I have next to nothing of substance.
The deed restriction was reaffirmed after Texas joined the U.S., so that part is set. I’m missing something and need to figure out what that is, because no developer would spend the kind of money they are to challenge the validity if they didn’t have a legitimate expectation that it would pay off in spades.
I checked Braxton’s house first only to see him striding from the office towards his dad’s house.
I catch up with him, but before I can ask how anyone is doing, Brighton runs from the barn like her ass is on fire straight for us. Exton is hot on her heels. They both look like deer in headlights as they halt, almost comically, in front of us, just as Mr. Ranger bounds down the stairs of his home.
Surely he’s seen this scene hundreds of times, though I expect not from his adult children. This is a kid’s battle in adult bodies.
Bright passes something to Exton before dropping a Bright-bomb—“Exton is seeing someone.” She bounds away knowing exactly what’s she’s done, and the fallout she’s caused, and adds, apropos of nothing, “I need some water,” before heading up the steps to the big house.
“Happy for you, Exton.” I turn for the porch, while Brighton continues to discuss her thirst for some reason.
I take the stairs two at a time and let myself into her childhood home.
“Brighton.” I stalk toward her.
“Elias,” she returns coldly, staring out the window watching her brothers in the yard.
“You’re not even going to look at me?”
