Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

“You’re serious?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s a dream, but it can happen. Don’t you ever want to do something like that?”

“No.” I stare at her, incredulous. “I eat chickens. Breaded and fried, skewered and grilled—”

“Enough.”

I grimace with realization. “You don’t eat meat.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You realize I raise cattle to be butchered, right?”

“Yes.” She hardens her eyes.

“Don’t ever ask me to go to a chicken farm with you.”

“Fine.”

“And I’m hiding all my shotguns.”

“Geez. Now you’re just making me feel like a crazy person.”

“You’re a vegetarian. ‘Nough said.”

She looks down at her bare feet and smiles to herself.

The emotion on her angelic face isn’t easy to decipher. Mystery lurks in that smile. Something deep and contradictory. Like pain. That’s it, I think. There’s a sadness about her I’m just now noticing. A lonely, lost look in her eyes.

That’s where her soul shines the brightest, in those vast oceans of restless blue. All the beauty in the universe can’t compete with the allure in her eyes. Vivid layers of complexity burn like fire, and when she lifts that gaze to mine, I ache to be incinerated by it.

I remain still, not wanting to stir the sliver of calm between us. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I like this… Talking with you.”

“If you trusted me, you’d like that, too.” I nod at the support beam I tied her to.

She follows my gaze to the post, pulls in a deep breath, and slowly releases it. “I should go.”

“Not until I know where we stand.”

“You’re asking me to let you use me, under uncertain terms, to work out your kinks or whatever you—”

“No. I’m offering an exchange that benefits both of us. I’m attracted to you. I want to know you, in every way. And you want to learn about me and my family. Isn’t that why you’re here? To seek the truth?” I harden my tone. “Spend your evenings with me.”

I’ll open her eyes to all kinds of truths. She can write a story on my devious sexual proclivities, for all I care. My livelihood rides on the price of cattle. What I do in the bedroom has no impact on that.

On the other hand, if another one of us goes to prison for murder, it would crush our family.

She chews on her lip. “I need to see a contract.”

“That’s not how I work. No contracts or safe words or any of that crap. Maybe I won’t lay a hand on you. Or maybe we’ll explore every fantasy you’ve ever conjured. But that’s for me to decide. I lead, and you follow.”

“That sounds safe,” she deadpans.

“It’s not.” I rest a knuckle under her chin and lift her gaze to mine. “There’s a delicious sort of thrill in taking risks. I see the excitement in your eyes.”

“That might be true.” She pulls away from my touch. “Doesn’t mean I jump on every thrill that comes along.”

She heads toward the door, and I trail behind her, admiring the abundant mass of curls that hang damn-near to her waist.

“I need to sleep on it.” She steps outside, her face aglow in the moonlight. “I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”

I’m not a patient man like my brother, but I find I’m willing to wait for this woman. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

The five-acre hike to the lot passes in silence. It’s the kind of silence when I would reach for a woman and caress her soft skin. When a woman would drift closer to my side, seeking a kiss that would lead to a not-so silent night.

But none of that happens. Maybe Quinn isn’t easy. Not when it comes to sex or anything else. That only makes me want her more.

We pass the spot where I dumped her on her ass, and I change course, searching the ground.

“What are you doing?” She stands where I left her, watching me pick through the tall grass.

“You lost…” I spot her shoes and scoop them up. “These.”

“Oh, right.” She sighs. “Thanks.”

I follow her to the car and open the rear door to toss her shoes inside. The dome light flicks on, illuminating cases of canned food piled on the backseat.

I squint at the labels. “Is that…?”

“Would you like a can of oysters?”

“That’s a lot of oysters.”

“I start every day with three cans.”

“You do?”

“No.” She opens the driver’s door and bends to slide in.

“I thought you were a vegetarian.”

“I am.” She leans back up, facing me. “Oysters don’t have eyes.”

This woman is a trip.

“Let me get this straight.” I rest my hip against the car and cross my arms. “If a chicken is born without eyes, it’s okay to eat it?”

“No! That’s not…” She stares at the cans and sucks on her bottom lip. “We’re talking about oysters, not chickens.”

“Sounds discriminatory. What about equal rights? Oysters have families, feelings, reasons to live—”

“All right. You made your point.” She grips her temples. “I’m never eating another oyster again.”