Текст книги "Wicked Fall"
Автор книги: Sawyer Bennett
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Wicked Fall
(The Wicked Horse Series Book #1)
By Sawyer Bennett
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2015 by Sawyer Bennett
Published by Big Dog Books
ISBN: 978-1-940883-32-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
http://sawyerbennett.com/uncivilized-by-sawyer-bennett/
Prologue
Woolf
I trot up the porch steps, my boots clunking loudly as heels meet wood. It looks like I’m walking into an ordinary log cabin home—one story, knotty white pine weathered to a burnished mocha color. It is, in fact, my home office. And by home office, I mean the place where I conduct my business as I sit on top of a dynasty built upon the backs of cattle and fueled larger by oil sucked from the ground.
My office looks like a home because it used to be one. More specifically, this used to be my great-grandfather Jared Jennings’ modest log cabin. He built it upon the initial acres of the Double J ranch, which he founded upon just a measly ten-thousand acres at the base of the Teton Mountains in Wyoming.
And yes, ten thousand acres is measly when you consider that JennCo—the parent corporation that holds the cattle and oil businesses—now owns just over three hundred thousand acres between Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho.
It’s no wonder my shoulders always seem to sag under the weight of the monstrosity I manage. My father, Jake Jennings, died almost eighteen months ago and since my mother had passed a long time ago, the burden of JennCo fell to me and my brother, Tenn.
At thirty-four, Tenn is older than me by two years and should rightly be JennCo’s CEO, but he doesn’t want any part of it. He’s happy living his quiet existence clear across the country with his wife, Casey, their three-month-old daughter, Bree and his daughter by another marriage, Zoe. While Tenn spent the first year after my father’s death helping me transition into the driver’s seat, he’s been gradually backing away from the business end of it.
I can’t say I blame him. He just doesn’t have the passion that’s needed to run this empire, and he’d rather tinker with the motorcycles in his custom shop.
Not only do I not blame him, I’m actually a bit envious.
Everyone turned their eyes to me the minute Jake Jennings bit the dust after taking a fall off his horse and an errant hoof to the center of his chest. While I watched Lucky, one of my father’s longtime ranch hands, perform CPR on him, I felt the keen loss of my most influential mentor. I also immediately felt the weight of responsibility press down up on me, because Tenn had already made his break away from the family. I knew that I would be expected to take up the reins and lead JennCo forward.
And that is the last thing in the world I wanted.
People would be surprised to hear that because I never ventured forth from the ranch. Minus the four years I spent at the University of Wyoming, my life has been here at the Double J. I’ve been working cattle since I was old enough to ride a horse, and I love it. I mean, I absolutely love the work.
I just didn’t want it to be my whole life.
Like Tenn… I had other desires.
Unlike Tenn… mine are a bit darker.
A bit more lecherous.
They are altogether nasty at times.
I unlock the door and step into the converted log cabin. It’s been modernized and upgraded over the years, once serving as one of the homes offered to the foremen before becoming an office. This cabin became obsolete as a family home once my grandfather, Louis Jennings, took over the Double J. It was his vision that catapulted the modest ranch into JennCo and put us on the Forbes list. And of course, you can’t rub money elbows with other tycoons and not have a western-styled palace to show off. Said palace would be just to the west of us… the home where I was raised and now live.
Fifteen thousand feet of treated lumber, slate stone, and glass that is built on top of a large butte. It looks like a long, sprawling cabin from the front, but the house practically dribbles down the back for three stories. It’s a behemoth, but it’s also what I’ve called home for my entire life.
I flip on the lights as I walk through what used to be the living room but has now been converted into a secretarial office. I currently do not have a secretary because I can’t seem to keep one employed for longer than a few weeks at a time. I don’t think I’m a hard taskmaster even though I might wield a riding crop quite well on a woman. But I am a hard worker who has always gone balls to the wall from sunup to sundown most of my life, and while I never expect the staff to keep pace with me, I do expect them to have a work ethic. It seems like every woman, and even the one man, that I put into the position of my administrative assistant was more interested in posting selfies on Instagram than doing the fucking work I assign them. At least now, I’ve vowed to myself to use a temp agency and let them vet out the candidates because I just don’t have time for this shit.
I walk down a hallway and back to what was the largest bedroom in the house. It was my father’s office, and it’s now mine as evidenced by the wooden plaque on the door that says Woolf Jennings. My mother was a lover of literature, a high school English teacher by trade. Even though she married into immense wealth, she loved to teach.
And she loved Lord Alfred Tennyson and Virginia Woolf the most, so goes the story of how Tenn and I were named.
Pushing the door open, I flip the light switch, taking off my Stetson and hanging it on the peg beside the door. The office is richly appointed with lustrous, reclaimed wood flooring, heavy pine furniture in a Native American design, and cowhide-covered chairs recycled from some of our own cattle. It’s masculine and still bears the faint odor of my father’s cigars in the air.
The unmistakable, heavy boot steps of Bridger echo down the hallway, and I can smell the coffee in his hands before I see him. He steps through my office door, which is almost a squeeze for him as the guy is massively built at six-foot-six inches of honed muscle and tattoos. On the quickest of glances, he looks like he belongs on a cattle ranch. Thick denim jeans, plaid western shirt, appropriate shiny belt buckle, and brown Stetson. His face is tanned from riding range on hot summer days and his hands are roughly calloused from roping cattle or mending torn fences. He’s a true cowboy in every sense.
Except he’s not.
Look closer and you see a man that, like me, entertains the thought of living another type of life.
“This is the last time I’m bringing you coffee,” Bridger mutters as he hands a tall thermos to me. “Buy a fucking coffee pot for this office. It’s not like you don’t have the money.”
I accept the container, pop the top, and take a quick sip. “True enough. But what I don’t have is an assistant to go out and buy a fucking coffee pot. You think I have time to drive the thirty miles to town to do that?”
“Pansy-assed whiner,” Bridger says affectionately as he takes his own hat off and hangs it on the peg beside mine.
Bridger is the only one that would ever get away with calling me that, and that’s because he’s closer to me than anyone. Even my brother, Tenn.
We met our freshman year in college, pledging for the same fraternity. We survived Hell Week and made it through together. We bonded first as fraternity brothers and classmates. Later, the bond grew a bit deeper when we fortuitously found out we shared some common interests of an indelicate nature.
I set the thermos down on my desk and walk over to a set of rolled building plans on one of the built-in pine shelves.
“I got the final renderings,” I say as I unroll them out on my desk, securing each of the curling corners with a stapler, my coffee, my cell phone, and my right hand at the corner that rests near my hip. Bridger steps up next to me, sipping at his brew.
We both stare down silently at the plans, our eyes roving over the blue lines with tiny descriptions and measurements etched in. In the upper right corner, in deep blue ink—The Wicked Horse. Next to it, the brand I developed. A round circle with an inner circle and eight spokes dividing the outer ring into seven sections. It’s simple and to the casual observer, it sort of looks like a wheel.
“So take me through it,” Bridger commands.
I point down at the large structure on the top sheet. “This is the main club area. I don’t have the specs on the exterior plans yet, but just envision a weathered barn.”
“Like it could be any old building on the Double J,” Bridger says with a satisfied grin.
“Exactly.” I slide my finger along the lines. “Main bar here… stage for weekly bands… dance floor. I figure this area here can hold at least thirty tables. We’ll put another bar back here, a small built-in store to sell merchandise, and this area back here will all be storage.”
“And this?” Bridger asks as he points to a large room.
“Our office.”
Bridger moves his finger to an exit door. “And this is how you get to The Silo?”
“Yup,” I say as I pull the top sheet of the plans off. I lay it on the floor, and I don’t give it another thought. Because the truth is, it’s really not that important. What I just showed Bridger is nothing but a front.
A facade.
It’s a lie called The Wicked Horse. A western-styled nightclub sitting on the very border of the Double J ranch that is closest to the town of Jackson. It’s sure to be a big hit with the tourists that flock to this area year round for the abundance of summer and winter activities.
I glide my fingertips over the next sheet of plans, because this is actually what’s really important. This is what I envisioned when I came up with the concept of The Wicked Horse and asked Bridger if he wanted to go in on it with me.
We have no interest in running a nightclub. They’re a dime a dozen. As I said… the barn-styled club is nothing but an image for people to believe that what I do is respectable.
Because there is much more to The Wicked Horse than just meets the casual observer’s eye.
“It’s amazing,” Bridger says in a low voice as he takes in all that encompasses The Silo.
It’s a separate building that sits behind the main club. It looks like a common variety silo that would store silage for the cattle. Except it’s enormous in size, at least one-hundred and fifty feet in diameter and constructed of concrete staves. It has the classic white-domed top and even has an authentic-looking grain elevator that isn’t really an elevator. Purely aesthetical, of course.
The Silo is really what it’s all about.
It’s round… it’s a hub.
It’s the center of everything that The Wicked Horse really is.
It’s where our fantasy sex club will start.
“They’re ready to start construction next week,” I tell Bridger.
“It’s a fucking brilliant design,” he says with admiration.
And I couldn’t agree more as I look at the architectural drawings. The outer perimeter of the silo will be seven rooms. Four on one side and three on the other. Concrete walls will keep the rooms separated, with an outer hall that runs behind them around the entire perimeter. There is one large, floor-to-ceiling glass wall that is open to the interior of the round building. No curtains. No blinds. No way to hide anything that happens inside one of those rooms.
That’s because this building was designed in mind to meet the needs of those people—like Bridger and I—who enjoy the kinkier side of sex. This building will serve all of those people that like to be exhibitionists and voyeurs. The watcher and the watched.
The exact center of The Silo will be anchored by a round bar. The decor will not be western like the night club area, but I envision sleek chrome, black leather, and red velvet. It has to be upscale, because frankly… only the wealthiest of people, and those they choose to bring with them, will ever see the interior of this building.
“These three rooms will be the bondage rooms,” I tell him as I point to the drawing. “That’s your area of expertise, so I’ll need you to start thinking about how you want to outfit them.”
“I’m thinking lots of leather,” Bridger says in a low voice, which weirdly causes a shiver to run up my spine. Fear? Excitement? Maybe both.
Bridger really got into the BDSM scene while we were in college. I personally don’t like it, although I’ll play around with a riding crop. I don’t like doling out that type of pain, and I like my women to look me in the eye while they’re sucking my cock. I do, however, like to watch Bridger work a submissive hard before he fucks her—or him. Bridger doesn’t discriminate.
Before we start drooling over the plans, I pull that sheet off and set it on the ground. The final elements to our fantasy sex club are the private buildings. Ten log cabins intimately appointed and designed to fulfill any number of fantasies that someone could imagine. We’ll spare no expense in decking them out, because I can afford to. Besides, the types of clientele that will seek memberships are going to expect only the best.
We study the cabin design, which is fairly simple in comparison but no less thrilling to add into the business plan.
Turning my head to look at Bridger, I say with a grin, “And that, my friend, is The Wicked Horse on paper.”
“Fucking fantastic,” he says with a return grin.
Our dream is coming to life. This time next year, we’ll be deep in the business of fulfilling sexual fantasies for all kinds of people from sweetly seductive to downright depraved.
Want to have a romantic seduction by a stranger? I’ll make it happen.
Want to get fucked by three well-hung cowboys? I’ll make that happen too.
Want to do it all while being watched? Easy as fucking pie.
Almost any fantasy imaginable—except forced sex or bestiality—and I’ll make it come to life. I know enough people just like me to staff this place well. And while I won’t be handing out the fantasies, because after all… I am the proprietor and only have so much time available… it doesn’t mean I won’t indulge.
Call it a perk.
Why in the world would I ever want to open up a sex fantasy club, you might ask? Especially when I’m sitting on a massive fortune?
Well, let’s just say that I’m a lot like my brother. I have my own dreams and goals, and I was raised by parents that taught Tenn and me that we could accomplish anything we set our minds too. And while I love everything that my father created with JennCo, it isn’t my passion. It’s more of an obligation.
No, I don’t want to nibble at life. I want to take a big fucking bite, suck down its juiciness, and swallow it hard with a moan. And in my experience, the best way to do that is through sex. There is nothing more gratifying… nothing that feels as good. It’s intimate, carnal, and liberating. It’s the ultimate high.
Add in some kink.
Let people explore their fantasies.
Indulge in your nastiest desire.
Yeah, that’s the shit that turns the ultimate high into infinite euphoria.
And I’m going to give people the ability to achieve that.
Bridger whistles low as he looks at the beauty laying before us. “So we’re really going to do this?”
“We’re really going to do this,” I murmur.
I get a fucking hard-on just thinking about it.
Chapter 1
Woolf
One year later…
The minute I open my office door, the sounds and smells assault me.
Luke Bryan’s Country Girl is blaring, and dozens of boots hitting the wooden floor in a line dance reverberate.
Drunken laughs and voices rise from those trying to talk above the loud music. I smell spilled beer and sawdust on the floor with a tinge of cheap cologne in the air. Ahhhh. It’s exactly as I imagined The Wicked Horse would be.
Pulling my office door shut behind me, I turn around and set the alarm panel in the wall beside it. Only Bridger and I know the password to get in. Walking up to the main bar, I lift the pass-through bridge and step past several bartenders trying to appease the clamoring crowd. I sidestep past my female bartenders, who are wearing tight black t-shirts with The Wicked Horse brand on the front and denim shorts that show the rounded curve of their ass just peeking out at the bottom. I’ve actually seen a lot more than just the hint of some of these girls’ asses. The male bartenders also wear tight black t-shirts and yes, most of them are hired for their bodies rather than their brains. This is because I know women appreciate ogling as much as men do, so I aim to please. Everyone behind the bar wears a pair of custom-made black cowboy boots with the signature neon-blue reflective spurs on the back. When they all get up on the bar to dance—and yes, I got that from Coyote Ugly—it makes quite the spectacle.
I walk up to Ted, my senior bartender, and hand him the stapled sheaf of documents in my hand. “Here’s the new price list from our beer distributor. Toss out the old one. You’ll see there’s a price drop once we order more than ten cases of any brand, so go ahead and make sure we order at least ten for every inventory restock.”
“But we don’t have the room here to hold that much beer,” he says as he takes the documents.
“I know,” I respond as I pull my Stetson off and sift my fingers through my hair briefly before putting it back on. “Use The Silo’s storage room for the excess.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Ted says, and I give him a nod before turning to leave. Ted is one of the few employees in the main nightclub area that knows about the fantasy sex club portion of The Wicked Horse. That’s because he’s one of my “fantasy makers”. In addition to pouring a mean drink, he has an eight-inch cock that the women just love. He’s the star of the fantasy I’ve entitled, “My husband’s penis is too small and I want to know what it feels like to be with a real man”.
I always have to withhold my eye roll when I get these requests because any man worth his fucking salt in the bedroom can make a woman come long and hard, regardless of how big his dick is. While I happen to be blessed with a long, thick cock that makes most women scream upon entry, I do some of my best work with my mouth.
My eyes stray out to the dance floor, which is packed with partiers. Most of the crowd leans young, mid-to-late twenties, and that’s more a by-product of tourism. It’s early summer and probably fifty percent of the people here tonight are either tourists or part-time residents that migrate here to accommodate the tourists like fishing guides, white-water rafting instructors, and the like. The other half are locals, although local in Wyoming means living within at least an hour’s drive to this place. This part of the ranch doesn’t sit far off the main highway that heads east out of Jackson, but it’s a good forty-minute drive from my house that sits in the middle of Double J property.
“That’s right,” I hear Angel’s sexy, husky voice come over the sound system. I hired our resident DJ over a year ago because of that voice. I swear it has the ability to make men come. “Step right up and get a front-row seat, fellas. Because our nightly wet t-shirt contest is getting ready to start. But let’s meet our contestants first.”
My eyes give a brief flick at the bar on the back wall of the club. Seven women are standing on top, all wearing tight, white t-shirts that I know from personal experience are super thin because I bought them. Nothing like a wet t-shirt contest to get people in the mood.
As I step back out from behind the bar, a pair of delicate, warm hands grab onto my hips from behind. I angle my head over my shoulder and my lips curve up.
Carlie Payton grins back up at me with full, red lips, long, golden-blonde hair, and a shirt cut so low I’m in danger of falling in and drowning in her cleavage. She steps around my side and comes to my front, keeping one hand on my hip and the other tugging playfully on my belt buckle. Her thumb grazes over the top of the engraved, pewter design, which is unique but not uncommonly so.
Round circle with another circle in the middle. Eight spokes. Seven compartments.
The Silo.
Where all your fantasies will come true.
All members of the sex club part of The Wicked Horse bear this design in some way. It may be a belt buckle, a piece of jewelry, or some of our more devoted members even have the brand tattooed on their bodies. It’s a way that members of the club can identify themselves to each other when socializing out here in the nightclub area. It makes for easier hookups if a naughty couple wants to venture back to The Silo or one of the private cabins. Carlie has on a pair of silver earrings with The Silo brand dangling from each ear and she’s a very active member, getting fucked or doing some sucking most nights. I first met her over at a sex club I used to visit over in Driggs, Idaho and well… she followed me over to the Wyoming side of the Tetons and has been here ever since. She’s a favorite of mine for sure.
“Hey, sugar,” she drawls, and then dips the tips of her fingers underneath the edge of my belt. “Want to play?”
Hmmmm. Let’s see. My work is done for the night, I haven’t been laid in four days because I’ve been busy as shit between my duties at JennCo and The Wicked Horse, and Carlie sucks cock like a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I start to get hard just thinking about it.
I vaguely hear Angel asking each woman to introduce themselves to the crowd, which is now pressing in on the back bar to get a gander of wet breasts and puckered nipples. My hand comes up to circle Carlie’s slender throat, and I press my thumb just under her chin. Her eyes go cloudy with lust because she’s into choking. That isn’t my cup of tea, but I know someone who can fulfill that fantasy for her.
I nod over her head at Bridger, who is leaning casually up against the far wall. He’s so tall I have no problem spotting him even with a crowded dance floor in between us. He’s only got about two inches on me but fuck… he still looks like a goddamn giant.
“Want Bridger to play with us?” I ask her, giving a slight squeeze to her neck.
She moans in response, but I can’t hear it over the music. Rather, I feel it rumble through her against my palm circling her throat. I take that as assent.
Bridger just seems to know he’s being talked about because his eyes slide over to mine. His gaze flicks briefly to Carlie standing in front of me, and his smile curves wickedly. I knew he’d be all in.
As Bridger pushes off the wall and starts to wind his way through the throng of dancers, I lean down to place my lips near Carlie’s ear. “Bridger had it last time. I’m getting your ass tonight.”
She fucking shudders over the thought. Carlie loves her some DP, but then again… so do I.
I’m wicked that way.
When Bridger reaches us, he walks right up behind Carlie and presses into her. I know my friend well enough to know that he’s already getting hard thinking about us taking her at the same time. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times since college we’ve done that with a woman and I can honestly say, it never gets old.
Carlie is much shorter so Bridger and I can stare eye to eye as we iron out the details.
“Silo?” he asks.
“Nah. Let’s just go to our office,” I say simply.
Because that’s closer and besides… a few weeks ago, Bridger and I tag teamed the new waitress, Stephanie, in there. Bridger just sat his naked ass on the edge of our desk, his long, powerful legs easily supporting himself. I did nothing more than place Stephanie in a straddle on his lap and stepped in behind. It was the perfect fucking angle.
No pun intended.
Bridger nods and grabs Carlie’s hand, pulling her from me and toward the short hall that leads to our office. Carlie, in turn, takes my hand and I start to follow the train back.
“And how about you, honey?” Angel’s smoky voice reverberates over the speakers, and I can just imagine her standing up on the bar with her fiery red hair that comes down to her ass, microphone pressed under the contestant’s mouth. I’ve often thought about fucking Angel, but she’s a dominatrix and I’m sorry… but I have to be the one in control. I don’t submit to anyone, so it’s never happened. I’ve sure enjoyed watching her play over at The Silo though.
Just as Bridger enters the hallway, the hair rises up on the back of my head when I hear the sweetest voice I’ve never been able to forget and that still intermittently haunts my dreams.
“Hi. My name’s Callie. I just turned twenty-nine and oh, gosh… I’m nervous as hell, but I’m drunk enough to overcome it. Let’s do this!”
I hear the resounding chorus of a hundred drunken men shout in agreement.
I drop Carlie’s hand and whirl around, my gaze lasering onto the woman standing next to Angel on the bar.
Tall and willowy with chocolate-brown hair that appears to be braided down her back. It used to be really long, but I can’t tell much about it right now. Even in the darkened atmosphere of the bar, I can still see the radiance of her light green eyes as she looks out over the crowd with her hands tucked nervously in the pockets of a tiny, denim skirt. I can’t see them, but I can imagine the dusting of freckles I know graces that perfectly shaped nose and her high cheekbones.
It’s been forever since I’ve seen her and I didn’t think it would be possible, but fuck… she’s even more gorgeous than I remembered.
I don’t even think. Instead, I start barreling toward Callie, cutting straight across the dance floor toward the back bar. It’s easy enough to make my way through the dancers, but I have to get a little rougher as I push my way past the thick wall of men all staring up expectantly.
And that exact minute, Callie nervously looks out over the crowd… her eyes passing over me and then slamming back in shock. Those full lips part in surprise, and my anger boils.
When I hit the edge of the bar, I hold my hand up, glaring at her… demanding she get down. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I’m surprised when her hand comes out of her pocket and tentatively reaches toward me. But then she reconsiders, a hard glint in her eye. Instead, she reaches up and takes the bottom of the t-shirt in her hands, pulling it up in between her breasts, looping it into the collar, and then reaching underneath to pull it down, effectively creating a halter-like top. It plumps up her breasts and showcases a breathtakingly gorgeous view of her flat stomach and gently curved hips to where the denim of her skirt hangs dangerously low.
My fury rages at the same time the blood in my groin does, causing me to get shockingly hard. Christ… I don’t think I’ve reacted that way to a woman since I was in my teens. She smirks down at me at the same time I hear Angel say, “Alright, men. Let those girls have it.”
Champagne and beer starts spraying up at the girls, and given my position at the edge of the bar, I get a hefty dosing too. My fucking hat is going to be ruined, but I never take my eyes off Callie as she gets sprayed right in the chest. Instantly it seems like the thin, white fabric disappears, and all I can focus on is her perfectly rounded breasts with pebbled nipples. I tear my eyes off her chest and look up to see her looking out over the crowd and grinning. She looks to her right at the other girls, who are now dancing to Miranda Lambert’s Somethin’ Bad, and she fucking starts to do the same. Those amazing tits are now bouncing around, and I swear a thin, red film of rage filters over my sight.
When a man—clearly a tourist—next to me reaches up to grasp Callie’s cowgirl boot, I give him a rough shove away. He looks like he wants to come barreling back at me, but one look at the thunderous look of murder on my face and he holds his hands up in supplication.
I slide my eyes up to see Callie staring down at me. For just a moment, she looks at me the same exact way she did all those years ago when she offered up her innocence to me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, and my hands go up to clasp her behind her knees. I give a hard pull, and her body flies forward. My hand goes up, steadying her fall with a grip to her ass, and I have her resting in a fireman’s hold over my shoulder. I turn fast and I think her boots catch someone in the head, but I don’t give a shit.
I march right back through the dance floor, people scurrying to get out of my way. Callie makes feeble attempts to hammer her fists against my back, so I answer her with a resounding slap to her ass. That gets her to calm down, and by the time I reach my office door and I’m punching in the password, she’s gone still over my shoulder.
Pushing the door open, I step in and immediately see Bridger getting his cock sucked by Carlie. He shoots me a surprised look when he sees I’m carrying a woman, but I’m already backing out and pulling the door closed.
Fuck. What a mess.
I bend over and gently lower Callie to the floor. When her boots hit the wood, she tips her face up at me, her eyes blazing with anger. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Woolf Jennings?”
Grabbing her hand, I don’t respond. I merely pull her behind me through the club toward the front doors. She makes the mistake of trying to pull free of my grasp, but I just clamp down on her harder.
When we hit the gravel parking lot, I turn to the right and head toward my Range Rover that’s parked in one of two reserved spots on the side of the building. The other one is reserved for Bridger and his shiny, red Corvette. My strides are long, and Callie is running to keep up with me.
“Let. Me. Go,” Callie all but screams and she pulls on her hand so hard, she rips free of my hold.
