Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

With a dejected nod, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You’re going to the ranch?”

Not exactly.

“Sandbank.” I head to the front of the house, slowing my gait to let him catch up.

He knows my parents are dead and the family I grew up with still owns the ranch. But he doesn’t know about the ravine. Or the boyfriend who kicked me to the curb. Or the brother in prison who doesn’t want to see me. Or the dad who hit me. He doesn’t know my ugliest pieces.

It’s only an hour drive, but his over-protectiveness compels him to say, “Call me as soon as you arrive. And don’t speed. I hate the thought of you straddling that two-wheeled hearse on the interstate.”

“If it’s too fast, you’re too old.”

At age thirty, he’s eight years older than me. I never gave much thought to the age difference until now.

He leans in for a kiss, and I let him take it. But the moment his mouth parts to deepen the connection, I pull back.

“I’ll text you.” I grab the motorcycle jacket and helmet and step onto the porch.

As I cross the driveway to the bike, I glance over my shoulder.

He looks at me like he’s thinking about the future, maybe wondering if I’ll return or if he wants me to.

I turn away, thinking about the past, wondering if Jake knows about Levi Tibbs or if he even cares.

He won’t get an email from me this time, and I won’t be showing up at the ranch. But word travels fast in Sandbank.

He’ll find out soon enough that I’m back in town.

Every head in the bar turns in my direction, their eyes judging me up and down and inside out. I know what they see.

The front page of the Sandbank newspaper.

The ruined girl from Julep Ranch.

The lost cause with the dead dad and the brother in prison.

After poor little Conor Cassidy fell between the cracks, it makes sense that she would ride a dangerous motorcycle, desecrate her skin with tattoos, and sell her soul to devil. She still wears those scratched-up square toe boots, so that must mean she’s clinging to an irretrievable life. Such a shame. The Lord Jesus can’t even save her from the tragedy she’s become.

I see the pity in their eyes. And the distrust. How dare I bring my atrocities into their town?

Holding my head high, I weave around the tables at the Big Sugar.

Tossed peanut shells scatter the floor and crunch beneath my boots. Country music plays from an old jukebox in the corner. As the only bar in Sandbank, it’s stacked deep with folks winding down after a hard day with drinks and friends and maybe a line dance or two on the dance floor.

No dancing or drinking for me. I’m probably the only twenty-two-year-old in Oklahoma who has never tasted alcohol.

I’m here to get a read on the current state of affairs, eavesdrop on gossip, and maybe give them something scandalous to whisper about. And I admit, a big part of me is dying for an update on Jake Holsten.

He’s not here. I’ve already scanned every face in the place. But as I make my way through the bar, I hear his name.

“You know what I need? Another dose of vitamin Jake.”

I don’t recognize the voice, but as I turn, I know who she is, as well as the three women she shares a high-top table with. We all went to school together.

A few feet away, they swirl their colorful cocktails and avoid my stare. They’re aware I’m standing here, and they whisper loud enough to make damn sure I don’t miss a word.

“The first time Jake fucked me, I couldn’t sit for three days.”

“He ever take you doggy? Swear to God, I came seventeen times when he bent me over the tailgate of his truck.”

Giggling laughter. “He fucks like he’s fighting a war. All angry and savage. It’s so damn hot.”

Gross and Ewww and I seriously think I’m going to vomit.

But in a twisted way, their conversation brings me relief. I never let myself imagine Jake married. Knowing he’s a playboy is easier to swallow than the idea of a wife and kids.

It still hurts to digest. Every cutting word scrapes through my innards like broken glass.

They continue to giggle and whisper about all the kinky, godlike ways Jake performs in the sac. They’re baiting me, and by the time I close the distance, I’m ready to bite.

I step between two of their stools and prop a boot on a foot rail.

“Conor Cassidy!” Fake smiles all around. “It’s been ages. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.” I lean against the table, resting my tattooed arms on the surface. “Listen, I know I’ve been gone awhile and a lot of shit has gone down. I’ve encountered my share of cruelty at the hands of men, but what I’m realizing is… Women are as mean as cat meat. Instead of standing together against the cheaters and the players and the scumbag abusers, they turn on one another. They’re heartless. Downright vicious to each other. Maybe because we’re competitive? Is that what this is? A competition?”