Stripped Down Read online

  Rory comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and tucking his chin into my shoulder. Rory Olivera has been my bestie since the day we met. I lean back against him, and we stare at the not-so-busy scene. More cows filter by. Or steers. Something with horns, that’s for sure. I probably should have taken the agriculture classes the local high school offered. Bet I’d know all the cow names then. But frankly? Filling in black ink in a tattoo might be more exciting—this is the country equivalent of watching paint dry. We parked here last night because Rory wanted to tie one on at the bar and he’s vehemently anti the-drinking-and-driving after losing his sister to a drunk driver four years ago. I’d been the designated driver, and we’d planned to move the RV out to Auntie Dee’s place later this morning.

  Frankly, there’s not all that much to keep us here. I do a quick mental inventory of Lonesome’s “downtown” and my memory supplies two antique shops, one all-purpose general store, a gas station, and a mini-mart. There’s also one church, a storefront doubling as a second place of worship, and two bars, including the one Rory drank dry last night.

  My roommate might have a drinking problem. The jury’s still out. He’s a good guy, though, and my best friend. Aside from the penis and balls equipment, he’s as good as a girlfriend. Things between us are and always will be platonic, but he’s also useful for keeping other guys at bay. He’s good-looking in a rough kind of way. He claims to be Black Irish, and he’s got the dark hair and green eyes to back up his claim. Get him drunk enough and he’ll do an Irish impression, too. He and I made a deal years ago. We don’t do each other. We both needed a friend, and it’s worked for us. When I impulsively decided that Lonesome, California needed a tattoo shop stat, Rory didn’t hesitate. He threw his shit in the RV and followed my pink Bug all the way here. Like me, he’s broken on the inside. He uses sex to keep his demons at bay, to make sure he has control over his world. He’s never told me who did what to him, but we recognized each other when we met. We’re both survivors.

  You look at him and you don’t know he’s hurt on the inside. The tattoos cover up the scars he wears on the outside. That’s how we met. He came into the street shop where I was working and wanted me to ink his wrists. He said it would be a challenge, and then he gave me a fucking hour. The street shop only does flash tattoos. Our customers come in, usually on an impulse, and we give them a butterfly or a Chinese symbol, an ink quickie, and they leave happy. Rory had a one-inch band of scarring around both wrists. Scars are tricky. They hold the ink differently and the skin beneath the color isn’t uniform. It’s broken, transformed, beautiful in a different way.

  He didn’t tell me how he got those scars and I didn’t ask. I gave him a dragon breathing fire. When he puts his wrists together, the flames from the mouth on the left devours the skin and bone on the right. He liked his ink, and we’ve been friends ever since. Right now, however, he looks like he might be rethinking his commitment. Or jonesing for Starbucks.

  He nips my ear. “You promised cowboys.”

  I lean back into his comforting embrace.

  “And cowgirls.” I gesture toward a woman emerging from the mini-mart, a plastic bag in one hand and a Stetson in the other. She’s kind of pretty, and Rory is happy to bang anyone who’s up for his brand of rough sex. Better yet, he likes inking and/or piercing his newest partner and then fucking the hell out of her. Or him. Rory’s adventurous—not particular.

  I did the work on the elaborate sleeves of black-and-red tattoos covering his forearms. It’s some of my best, if I do say so myself. If I could have inked Rory on the final episode of Ink My Heart (which had to be the world’s dumbest name for a reality TV show that made tattoo artists compete for a cash grand prize), I’d have won. The chick I drew almost passed out when she saw my needle, and then she quit on me ten minutes into her two-hour tattoo.

  Rory isn’t a quitter. Most of the time, that’s a good thing. He smells like ink and metal and the horrible cologne he loves. I’d tried negotiating for a new scent, but I’d lost. And since he was the only tattoo artist I could convince to move out here to the boonies with me, I’d stopped complaining. At least he didn’t smell like cow poop.

  “I have to meet Angel Mendoza at the lawyer’s,” I confess. Rory knows all about my screwed up history with Angel—except for our last meet and greet at the swimming hole.

  Come back when you’re all grown up and I’m making you mine. The words loop through my head, over and over. I don’t know if Angel meant them as a threat, a promise, or both, but screw him. Auntie Dee left me something in her will, a something that’s going to be my third and final chance. Angel’s whispered words from months ago aren’t going to scare me off.

  Rory whistles. “Do you need a bodyguard? Do you think Mr. Dark and Surly still needs a personality transplant?”

  I may have shared a few too many stories from my checkered past with Rory.

  “Did I tell you I ran into him when I came up here to visit Auntie Dee before I started taping?”

  Rory grins down at me. “I’ve got instant and cocoa packets. You can tell me all about it over caffeine.”

  Perfect. I pull out of his hug and head back inside. The RV isn’t big—it’s been officially labeled cozy by the manufacturer—and our “kitchen” consists of a teeny-tiny Formica tabletop, a dorm-sized fridge, and a microwave. Before we road-tripped our way here, I upgraded us to include an electric teakettle. Rory hits the heat button and while we wait, I dump packets of Nescafe and powdered milk into two mugs.

  No one would know from looking at Rory that he comes from money. He spent his childhood in various wealthy family compounds, finally escaping when it came time to pick a college. Instead of choosing an Ivy where he could network his way into finance or politics (the two career paths his parents found acceptable), he’d gone for UC Santa Cruz. He’s a little vague on what happened between then and now, but it seems to have involved some kind of programming misadventure that may or may not have cost venture capitalists a cool billion and resulted in his seemingly random decision to become a tattoo artist. Since he doesn’t ask me questions about my past, I’m okay with leaving his alone. We’ve all got secrets, and he’s promised me that the FBI won’t be knocking down the door to our RV. Good enough.

  Because we pretty much have to sit in each other’s laps if we stay inside, we drag out our folding chairs (we’re classy like that) and park our butts outside. All the better to admire our cows-and-cowboys view.

  “Spill,” Rory urges when we’ve got our coffee.

  I shrug. “I went to the swimming hole. It was hot and I wanted to cool off. It’s private property, and Angel Mendoza busted me.”

  I still can’t believe he saw me naked. I’d hightailed it out of there, buck naked, and I’d driven for two miles before I pulled over and yanked my clothes back on. It had not been one of my finer moments.

  Rory toasts me with his mug. “Was he still hot?”

  It’s been more than eight years since I last Angel, but yeah, he’s hotter than ever. “It’s not fair.”

  “He’s that good?” Rory slurps his coffee, briefly closing his eyes as the first sip hits his throat.

  “And then some,” I say glumly. “He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, but he’s still kind of an asshole.”

  Rory’s green eyes take on a predatory gleam. “Give me for examples.”

  “He yelled. He gave orders. He spouted some bullshit about my ass being his if he ever saw me again.”

  “He’d probably tell you when to come, too,” Rory says cheerfully. “Depends on whether or not you like that kind of thing.”

  Did I mention that Rory has no filter?

  “I’m not into kink.”

  Rory grins, his eyes lighting up. That smile of his is reason number one why he never goes home alone when he’s looking for company. He’s wicked naughty, and he makes his new friends want to sin, too. “Not necessarily kinky, cupcake.”

  “I don’t take orders.” After my
mom and I had gotten out of the last trailer park, and had come here, I’d made myself that promise. I didn’t put myself in situations where guys could run the sex show or tell me what to do. Angel is bad for me in all sorts of ways.

  I’m done with my self-destructive phase. For a couple of years after I left Lonesome, I went wild child. Drinking, dancing, sex—I filled every minute of my day so I wouldn’t have to think. It explained a lot about my college career—hard to pass classes when your ass isn’t in the lecture hall or turning in papers—but then I’d discovered ink. First I planned to cover up everything I could on the outside, then I realized it was my chance to change shit.

  “Pity.” Rory blows me a kiss as he shoves out of his lawn chair. He’s drained his mug, which means it’s game on time.

  I grimace. “I gotta go to the lawyer’s this afternoon. You coming or staying?”

  He grins at me. “Staying. I’d just fall asleep on you.”

  Rory sleeps more than anyone I know. As soon as I leave, he’ll roll back into bed and sleep some more.

  I flick his face gently. “Guess with a face like this, you need your beauty rest.”

  ANGEL

  “Nine hundred feet. I got two, maybe three gallons per minute.” The driller looked up from the new test hole he drove yesterday, waiting for me to weigh in.

  Hearing the driller call off those numbers is like watching three cherries spin past on the slots when you’re down to your last dollar. Three gallons a minute isn’t enough to take a damned shower, and I have cattle to water. Hitting water in this spot was my Hail Mary pass. I’ve drilled everywhere else and this is the absolute last place to try. It’s also like running the wrong way up the football field and scoring a goal for the opposing team. The only person who wins is the driller, and that’s because he gets paid no matter what.

  I’ve got one last ace in my hand, however.

  When Auntie Dee pass last October, she left me half her ranch. As ranches go, the place isn’t huge—but it does sit on top of an aquifer. An untapped mother lode of water just waiting for me to hit it.

  There’s just one hitch in my plan and her name is Rose Jordan. Until she brings her sweet little ass home to Lonesome and sells me her half of Auntie Dee’s ranch, I can’t drill. Since she’s legally co-owner, I need her approval to do anything that radical. I should have gone after Rose the minute I learned about the contents of the will, but I hesitated. I never fucking hesitate, but I wanted her to come to me.

  Rose always has made me wait, but this time I hold all the cards. This time, she dances to my tune. If she’s a good girl, I’ll hand her a check. I sure as hell don’t want to drag this through the courts for six months or more to force the sale. I need that water now, and I’ll get it, but I don’t have to be a bastard about it.

  Unless she makes me.

  Truth is, Rose brings out the worst in me.

  She’s also been a wild card since the day I met her. Her momma had hooked up with my old man. He’d met her playing cards in an Indian casino, and something about her face, or the way she tossed back the comp drinks, or fuck maybe it was her balls-out betting on bad cards, but he took a liking to her.

  Honestly, though? It was probably her tits. The woman had a spectacular rack and our old man wasn’t into pity fucks or handouts. The woman had a spectacular rack, all God-given and hanging out in the low-cut shirts she favored. She came bouncing into our life, leading by her Double-Ds and bringing Rose with her. Rose was sixteen, and she’d never met a rule she didn’t want to break. In the six months she lived in my house before I got desperate enough to throw myself back on Uncle Sam’s hospitality before I crossed a line I couldn’t live with, she’d raced cars and horses and thrown weekly parties down in the hollow with my beer. Her momma hadn’t gotten around to enrolling her in the local high school, so Rose sat at our kitchen table, working through a stack of workbooks the homeschooling folks provided, and I couldn’t grab a Coke or a beer from the fridge without also getting a boner.

  Sixteen fucking years old to my twenty-three, and I wanted her something fierce. Fifty shades of wrong about it, too, and I knew it. I avoided the kitchen, I avoided Rose, and eventually I enlisted and shipped my ass out. Couldn’t forget, though, because Rose is unforgettable.

  In the short time we lived together, I never figured out what color her hair really was. It was long, and she’d curl it or straighten it, depending on her mood, but the color changed like the light on the mountains. Jet black, hot pink, fucking mermaid blue. Sometimes all three at once. No matter what the temperature, she wore short-shorts that cupped her ass, and the twitch and bounce to her step had me alternating between wanting to fuck her pink lips with my dick—or wanting to spank her butt for the filth she spewed. Rose had an attitude, knowing eyes, and a mouth worthy of any SEAL I’ve ever served with. My filthy, dirty girl pushed me, irritated me, and gave me a permanent case of the blue balls because touching her was absolutely, completely out of the question.

  Sixteen. Twenty-three. That’s simple math.

  I warned her once—I don’t give warnings twice—that if she ever came back when she was grown up, she’d be mine. She flipped me off and announced I wasn’t the boss of her. She was playing with fire and she knew it, but she also thought she was safe.

  Off-limits.

  Taboo.

  She hasn’t figured out that the only rules I played by were my own. We Mendozas have owned this particular part of California for centuries, and the ranch is feudal at heart. As the head of the family, my word is law. I have the money—and the land—to back it up. She got her warning way back in June when she dragged me into the swimming hole and I got to see her naked.

  She’s gonna be mine now.

  Guess finally seeing her naked did me in. Or maybe it’s the nonstop plans spinning in my head, plans that involve Rose naked and spread. There’s no fucking question but she gets to me, but drilling this test hole here is a weakness. All I have to do is take what’s mine—but I’m letting Rose stop me. I keep seeing her face, hearing her laughter, and I want more. I wasn’t kidding when I told her that if she came back, she’d be mine.

  Didn’t realize I wanted her happy, too.

  That makes shit more difficult. I mentally try rearranging my plans, but no dice. My brothers give the bad news after a few seconds of respectful silence. The driller just waits. The man gets paid by the foot, so he doesn’t care what happens now.

  One option. I have one fucking option.

  I take Rose and I take her half of the ranch.

  “We’re empty.” Axel hasn’t stopped moving since we rode out to the drill site an hour ago. He’s never been good at staying still, and it’s only gotten worse over the years. He shoves a hand through his hair, yanking the thick mane free of its tie. He looks more than half-wild, his muscles bunching as he fists the tie and shoves it in his pocket. He’s inked both arms and his piercings flash in the sunlight. He came home from the Army claiming he wanted the outside to match the inside since he wasn’t explaining himself to anybody. He reads bad boy, trouble, and stay off my fucking lawn, so he got his wish.

  “Party’s not over yet.” J.J. leans back on his ATV, one booted foot propped on the bumper. He’s the civilized brother, the one people like. It’s good to have someone in the family like that. I need to learn why there are shadows beneath my brother’s eyes. It’s possible that, like my foreman, he doesn’t appreciate the driller’s numbers, but I suspect it’s something more. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. “You want to drill deeper, Angel?”

  Although I’m head of the family, the ranch belongs to all three of us. Always has and always will, as far as I’m concerned. J.J. and Axel may leave, but my brothers both know the door is never shut. Whatever they need, I do my damnedest to provide. And, so far, they’ve always come back.

  Protecting the ranch means everything. I carved out an empire for our family through sheer sweat and determination and raw, brute force. Before I took the reins, Mendozas ha
d run cattle for decades, scraping out a living until the beef market dried up once and for all and forced us to diversify or throw in our cards. I diversified into orchards, horses and oil. Whatever it took to add to the ranch’s holdings and put by an ever-growing rainy day nest egg in the bank. I threw myself into the day in, day out battle to force the land to yield a living. Drilling dry holes to nowhere, however, isn’t a strategy that wins a man battles.

  The driller looks over, still waiting for the go-ahead. The man would drill straight through to China as long as the checks clear. Unfortunately, all the money in the world can’t find water where there’s none.

  “Day’s getting on,” J.J. suggests. His boot taps impatiently. “I’ve got work back at the barn. I’m thinking we’re done here.”

  My brother’s more than a pretty face. He rides and trains every day for his next rodeo. He’s won a dozen buckles, but it’s not enough. We’re alike, him and I, always wanting more.

  “Someone’s not enjoying the party yet.” Axel shakes his head, still watching me like I’ve got magic answers written somewhere on my face, but he tugs his fingers through his tangled hair. My brother’s eyes make him look like a big cat, downright predatory as he stretches, but I read the question there clearly enough. How far do I want to take this?

  “We’re out of here. Plug the test drill up.” I won’t waste good money on this. Turning away from the driller, I make for his own ride. “Let’s head back to the house.”

  Straddling my ATV, I consider my next move. The answer is as obvious as the solid presence of the sun-warmed leather seat beneath my ass. Auntie Dee’s place has deep water tables.

  “Sure.” Axel gives his usual one-word response and shrugs. The fabric of his black T-shirt sticks to his back, because the day’s another mother-fucking scorcher. I’m not looking any prettier myself.