Fearless Page 9

  Warmth and grace spread through me, and I closed my eyes, imagining the smell of worn leather saddles, raw fields swaying in the breeze, and fresh-churned dirt muddying up your horse’s legs. I was almost home.

  When I’d had my fill of the fantasy, I scrolled through our last few exchanges, just for fun. Billy loved to send me flowers. He’d texted me a hand-picked image every day since I’d given him my number. Some of them, like the wildflowers, were real ones he’d gather and wrap like he could actually give them to me, despite the oceans constantly between us. Some were professional photos of roses, sunflowers, an orchard with a couple riding horses through it during sunset. I even got a GIF of a dancing gerber daisy one morning that had me giggling every time I thought of it.

  For a hot minute, I’d started to wonder if Billy King might actually be perfect. But no. The chip in his perfection was that dating Billy was like trying to catch a firefly: really hard to catch twice and constantly teasing you with the possibility as it sparkled just out of reach.

  For starters, he’d been heading home from Qatar right when I was hopping a plane to Thailand, and we missed each other by mere hours. Worse, once I was scheduled to get home to Memphis, I’d arrive about three seconds after he’d be heading to Argentina.

  The leapfrogging in our schedules was already making my head spin, and I’d only been on one actual date with the guy. Six weeks prior.

  Still, it was one hell of a date and a hell of a kiss, and as I scrolled past the flowers he’d sent me, the good luck texts before my races and the congratulations after, the waiting to see him again still felt worth it.

  Nary a dick pic in sight.

  I opened a new message, that fun little sparkle that lit up my veins whenever I thought of him fully shimmering as I sank deeper into my mattress.

  What are you doing, cowboy?

  It only took a few seconds for the blue checkmark to appear next to my words, then his picture to pop up with a small ellipsis, brewing his response. The last bit of anxiety from dealing with Colton eased from my stomach, my pulse almost giddy at the prospect of everything Billy.

  Wishing I was better at playing this guitar. m.y.

  I pouted at my screen, torn between admiring his humility and equally disapproving of how he always sold himself short. I’d googled him after our date—what woman wouldn’t?—and I’m ashamed that I was surprised by what I found. Because Billy “my brother is better than me” King is very aptly named. Except for the middle part.

  It had been almost strange at first, seeing a picture of him in his Yaalon Moto racing leathers. But he was wearing the same friendly smile, the same sweet baby-blue eyes and sunny blond hair, and something clicked. Like it was exactly what he was supposed to be wearing. And watching him flip down his face shield on the starting grid, taking hole-shot in the first turn and leaning so deep, he could’ve as easily been lying in my bed…I was sunk.

  He always started off so quietly, sneaking up through the pack until he’d blare past them without warning. He never looked over his shoulder, never showed a shred of hesitation. He’d launched his whole career by topping podiums before people even knew what to do with him. Until a bad wreck nearly ended it all.

  The articles I read talked about some knee surgeries and how it might be kinder to him and the sport to just retire now and let someone younger move up. But that was preposterous to me: he was too good to retire. And moto seemed to be so much of what made him who he was—like when he roped that calf and rode those bulls. Racing was the other side of the Billy coin, the balance to his sweet and gentle nature. His kindness flipped to ruthlessness, the brand nickname scrawled on the back of his leathers making all too much sense:

  FEARLESS

  I couldn’t wait to get home to him.

  I snuggled up on my pillow and flipping to my calendar, checking the date for our next “real date” for the thousandth time, but it was still so far away.

  You didn’t tell me you played guitar

  I didn’t get a text back. Billy’s grin lit up my screen, steadily vibrating and the little camera wiggling at me to accept the video call. I held it up, answering with a bright smile that barely matched the light sparkling in my veins. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey there.” He was sitting against a wooden headboard in front of a soft green wall covered with baseball and bull riding posters, hatless, shirtless, and with an acoustic guitar propped across his jeans. I took a quick screenshot. For later. “How you feeling? Any better? Still can’t believe someone glutened you. I have half a mind to suspect sabotage.”

  He was so freaking sweet. I nodded, still a little tipsy. “Feeling much better.”

  Billy’s smile smoothed out, right back to normal. He couldn’t stay mad at anyone for any length of time, I was convinced. “Well, good. I’d hoped so. You raced real pretty today.” Aww. “Look even prettier.” Ugh.

  I rolled my eyes, wishing as a rule he wouldn’t draw attention to my looks when it was such a sore subject for me. And I’d told him that, twice already. But I was still powerless to stop the heat flooding my cheeks under the gargantuan weight of my crush on this guy. “Whatever. Wanna know what would make me feel even better?”

  “What’s that?”

  I widened my eyes seductively. “Lose the jeans, cowboy.”

  Billy snorted, his hands fidgeting with his guitar. “You specifically said no dick pics.”

  “This is video,” I countered. “It’s different. And I’m asking for it. It’s not unsolic—unsolac—unsolicissed?” What was wrong with my brain? “Unwanted.”

  Billy laughed, shaking his head at me. “Ya know, I’m flattered, honey. Truly I am. But, uh…are you drunk?”

  “No,” I sneered. Then I gave him my best sweet-yet-sultry smile I’d had down since junior miss pageants. “Now, come on. Don’t be shy. Drop the zipper.”

  “Taryn…”

  “Just a little bit?”

  Billy nodded to himself but made no movement toward removing his Wranglers. “Maybe another time. When you’re a little more…awake.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled. But it was not fine. He was so gorgeous, and I was in so much pain. Like physical fucking pain from wanting him. “Play me something, then. Let’s see how bad you really are.”

  Billy chuckled, his cheeks darkening as he scrubbed at his forehead. “Seriously? You’re gonna make me do this? I told you I wasn’t any good.”

  I didn’t respond other than trying to give him a look that promised I wouldn’t laugh or judge him but that I also wasn’t taking no for an answer. If he wouldn’t have phone sex with me, I wanted to hear him play the guitar. And if Billy said he sucked at something, he was probably brilliant at it.

  He sighed. “All right.” He shifted a bit on his bed, tilting up his guitar and placing his hands over the strings. “Shit,” he hissed to himself, moving his left hand a little farther down and double-checking his right hand.

  He let out a long breath, faintly bobbing his head to a beat only he heard, and then he began: the slow rhythm of strings being strummed, one after another but in a pattern so smooth, they all sounded like one thing. One easy scoop, low to high, the last note dancing a little here and there to create a melody that never strayed too far or too fast, before he’d go back to the basics and start building all over again.

  It was so beautiful, like something you’d hear in a movie when the characters would walk along the beach at midnight. Almost a little Spanish-inspired, and a little heartbreaking. But mostly just the complicated, gentle layers that made up Billy’s heart.

  He nearly played me to sleep, stopping even slower than he’d started before his hands stilled, and he looked up. His voice was unbelievably warm, like a weighted blanket on a cold October night. “Taryn, you still awake, honey?”

  I nodded on my pillow, my limbs lost in the mush of my sheets and down comforter, my phone propp
ed up next to me. “Barely. Thanks for the flowers, by the way.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” he rumbled. “They’re really from Gidget. He picked out all the best ones. Well, the ones he didn’t eat first.”

  My chuckle melted into a yawn, and I covered my mouth to hide it, pulling my covers higher up my shoulder. The corner of Billy’s lips turned up, then he set down his guitar, reaching toward his phone. I had to bite my lip at the dazzling view of his bare chest coming closer and closer, almost close enough to lean my head on. Then it all kinda tilted and righted, a tender feeling spreading hot from my chest and all the way to my toes when I realized he was lying down. With me. The only way he could, nearly nine thousand miles away.

  “Can I ask you something?” I whispered.

  Billy pillowed his head with his hand, his eyes searching mine through the screen. I could almost feel his hand brushing my cheek before settling on my waist. “Shoot.”

  “All your texts, you put m.y. at the end.” I shrugged, feeling kinda silly about even having to ask. I’d researched the acronym, but it wasn’t known in Urban Dictionary or anything. “What’s that about?”

  Billy chuckled. Then his eyes darted low and to the left. “Typo?”

  I shook my head, too sleepy to play another round of twenty white lies but still smiling anyway. “Uh-uh.”

  He groaned, turning more onto his side and mumbling into his pillow, “It’s stupid.”

  “I highly doubt that, considering it’s you. Tell me…”

  He rolled back so I could see his eyes, then scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved in so long, his stubble had darkened into the start of a beard, and I bet it would feel like heaven in my hands. “All right.” He halfway shrugged, but he never blinked. “Missing you?”

  It took all my inner strength not to react other than to very calmly arch an eyebrow. My mind, however, was busy speeding over all the little m.y.s that had been punctuating his text messages. And for quite a while now.

  “That so?” I didn’t last long before my heart got the best of me, and I laughed, Billy looking so reassured I actually felt a little bad about teasing him. But that just made me melt all over again. “I miss you, too.”

  But even that wasn’t the right word for it, not when he’d invaded my world like someone turning on the lights after searching all your life in the dark for the switch. I couldn’t get enough of him, my heart aching at just the idea of the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean between us. But there was still a big part of me warning that it was too soon to feel how I did.

  I barely knew him, and it’s not like we had slept together—though God, did I want to. But we didn’t have that option with our racing schedules.

  So we just talked and texted. Every single day.

  Billy seemed to consider my answer for a minute, then kinda squinted at me. “For real?”

  I laughed again, wishing I could feel like this all the time. “Come here,” I whispered, waving at him through the phone. “Wanna tell you something.” He leaned his ear closer to his screen, and I pulled my phone closer to my lips, breathing my secret. “I like you, Billy King. Kinda a lot.”

  He pulled back, acting scandalized. “Nah!” But him playing around didn’t keep me from noticing his eyes were sparkling with mirth as he propped himself up on his elbow. “Well, isn’t that the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  “It’s ten in the morning,” I reminded him.

  “Not where you are. And that’s where I am. So my day is done.” He collapsed on his bed, his eyes to the ceiling and a huge grin stretched across his face. “Wow. Imagine that.”

  I laughed to my heart’s content, letting the feeling fill me up until I was sloshy with happiness and even more desperate to see him again. Then a huge crash echoed from somewhere on his end.

  Billy never flinched. Not even when a familiar voice started barking at him, “Hey, dumbass, you about done stringing up cats? ’Cause I think you’re getting worse. Come check out this boat dock with me, I got an id—Billy? Hey, Billy, you give yourself a stroke or something? Billy!”

  Billy blinked. Still grinning like he’d won the lottery, tax-free. “She likes me.”

  I laughed harder, my cheeks starting to ache from the sheer force it.

  Mason groaned in the background. “Well, congratu-fuckin-lations. Now, you gonna help me build this jump ramp or what?”

  Build what?

  Billy looked my way, mischief and adrenaline drugging his eyes and his wink even quicker than his words. “Gotta go, honey. Sweet dreams. Call me when you wake up.”

  And just like that, he was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Billy King—Present Day

  Mason’s been chewing on his thumbnail in the passenger seat of my truck the whole ride over, his boots kicking restlessly at the floor mat. I pull in and park a couple of spaces away from a rusty Ford Taurus sitting on two donuts and with a zebra-print steering wheel cover. Evidence of the first line of defense and Mason’s whole reason for existence over the next twenty minutes, as far as I’m concerned.

  It’s going to take a miracle to get us past June Harper. The last time she caught Adam stitching me up, she swore the next time, she’d report him to the proper authorities, and she threatened to ban me from the clinic. Talk about an overreaction. It isn’t technically illegal for a vet to treat people, just frowned upon. But Juniper’s got her “standards.” And a huge crush on Mason, if I recall. Which is why he is the perfect decoy for today’s mission.

  Problem is, his big mouth has a tendency to get wider the more his nerves get to him, and I can’t risk him telling anyone back at the circuit, anyone, what we’re doing today. But I also can’t do this without him, so having a loose-lipped wingman is a risk I’ll have to take.

  “We’re gonna get busted, man!” Mason whips around to check through the back glass like the cops are gonna pull in behind us any second.

  “Hey!” I reach over to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. It’s fine.”

  He shakes his head, looking at his lap. “It’s not, though.” He chews on his bottom lip a second, then hurls some pocket lint at the floorboard. “This is all my fault, isn’t it?”

  If he’d asked me that two weeks ago, I’d probably be giving a different answer. “Yeah, it is.”

  Mason’s eyes grow huge with shame he doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with.

  Aw, hell. I crack an easy grin and clap him on the back. “Nah, it isn’t your fault, man. It’s mine.” I blow out a breath, looking out the windshield. “My head’s just…messed up right now.”

  Even worse, I don’t have my bike to help me clear it. I have my home one, but it isn’t as fast, and it isn’t the same. I haven’t even ridden it since I’ve been back, because it’s just gonna make me miss my Yaalon even more.

  Mason sinks a little lower in his seat. “But I—”

  “Look, you trust me or not?”

  He makes a face like he’s considering it.

  “Fine. Um…” I rack my brain for evidence. Got plenty, so it’s just about choosing the right payoff. “Okay. Remember that Labor Day weekend when we snuck the Winkley twins out to the swimming hole after the VFW picnic?”

  Mason cracks a hint of a smile. “Yeah.”

  “And wasn’t it worth it, seeing Tammy Fae in that pink bikini?”

  “Purple,” Mason corrects. “Mari Lynn was in the pink one.”

  “That’s right,” I remember, chuckling.

  He had the biggest crush ever on Tammy Fae Winkley, and if I’m not mistaken, she rocked his world that night behind the water tower. He was smiling way too bright the whole time my mama was reading us the riot act the next morning.

  I reach over and knock his chest. “And still, you were sweating bullets the whole time we were out there.”

  “And for good reason.
Their daddy called the sheriff on us!”

  Yeah, he did. “Okay, but did you get arrested?”

  Mason slumps in his seat, his elbow on the door and pressing his fist to his mouth. “No.”

  Damn right, because I’m a smooth-talking sombitch.

  I’d pulled the cop aside and made a plea on behalf of Mason’s future football scholarships—he was our star running back, and we were destined for the state finals—and I promised to mow the yard in front of the police station every weekend for the rest of the year. And the whole damn next spring.

  “So you gonna help me out here or not?” I cock my head at my kid brother. “Or can you not do it?”

  He glares at me. “Please. Just remember you’re paying me back for whatever this ends up costing.”

  Sure I am.

  Mason gets out first, slamming the passenger door on my truck. “Sorry,” he says before I can even start scowling at him, holding up his hands before he starts tucking in his shirt, fixing his hat, and checking his breath. He grimaces. “You got something? I haven’t been drinking nothing but Dr Pepper all day.”

  “Check the glove compartment.” I jerk my chin that way and keep an eye on the highway behind us while he goes back for the mint. I wasn’t really worried about it, but Mason’s got me kinda twitchy. “Hurry up!”

  “All right, all right.” He shuts the passenger door softly, then screws up his face at me through the windows.

  Showtime.

  It’s only a few steps to the entrance, but every single one is agony the more I try to act like it isn’t. I pull open the door to the blast of a heater, the odd relief of antiseptic, and a whole bunch of empty waiting room chairs. Something about it feels like the dark hospital from the morning of my knee surgery all over again.

  I paste on a smile as I tip up my hat. “Hey, June.”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Billy King.” She purses her lips in the sunny office just like she did in Algebra II before she’d formally protest homework as a violation of her rights. “I see you’re not bleeding at least. Maybe you do learn.”