Chapter 1
Grayson
Thecrackofboneon bone is a sound I’m more than used to. It’s not the first time my brother, Tate Garrison, has decked me in the face after we’ve traded words. Our comfort with resorting to shouting matches and violence is frowned upon by almost everyone we know.
My body spins to the side, my knees and palms hitting the dirt at the same time. A heaving breath heavily pumping my chest, while my jaw throbs. The tang of metal fills my mouth, a wad of saliva mixed with my blood spat at the ground as I plant one foot, then the other.
Swiping my cream cowboy hat from the mud, I’m slow to stand to my full height. Each shuffled step to turn and face my brother filled with fury. My scowl is nasty. A match for Tate’s. Another reminder of how similar we look. Just another way I can’t escape him.
“Got something else to say?” Tate growls, his body cocking forward as if ready to hit me again.
Let him. I hate him either way.
Taking two steps toward him, the tips of our matching brown boots touch. Cocking my chin a fraction, even my brother’s extra inch in height pisses me off. No matter what we’ve done in life, he’s always been just a little bit better, a little bit bigger, a little bit more attractive to the ladies. It’s why the next words I spit in his face carry so much venom.
“Yeah, I do.” My jaw works, staring up into his whiskey-brown eyes, just a shade lighter than mine. “I don’t know why you’re always trying to be Dad. He didn’t like you either.”
Tate’s body flinches. His fist slowly curling into a ball at his side as he sneers at me. Every muscle is quivering. His fight not to hit me again is on the verge of becoming a lost battle.
I dare him.
I don’t give a fuck if I’m riding tonight.
It’s been a lifetime of Tate bitching at me for one thing or another. I’m fucking tired of it. He needs to stop acting like my father.
He’ll never be him.
Instead, he takes a step back, his fist uncoiling slowly. “Get your face checked.” With a cock of his head, Tate stomps off through the mud, leaving me standing there looking like a fucking idiot.
My frown only deepens as I watch my elder brother walk away, mumbling to himself. I’m irrationally pissed that he wouldn’t fight back. I meant what I said, but it burns me that he wouldn’t defend himself. That he wouldn’t tear me down the way he loves to.
Finally, turning away, I make my way toward the barn outfitted with the medical room. We heard our normal doc, Cecil Duncan, wouldn’t be here tonight. Some other guy, River Thompson, would be taking care of us. Yet another thing that pisses me off. The old man never argued with me when I wanted to brush my injuries under the rug. He knew to keep his mouth shut if I decided I was going to ride through it. I always do.
Entering the barn, a soft blast of cool air hits me. The place is air-conditioned almost year-round. The spring humidity hasn’t hit yet, but the chill helps tamper the heat of our altercation on contact.
“Ready for tonight?” one of the cowboys from a few towns over clasps hands with me.
A weak smile pulls at my mouth, the pain exploding through my jaw up to my temple and down my neck all over again. “You know it.”
“Ouch.” He leans to the side, pointing at my likely swollen face. “Trip and fall or something?” His laugh is nervous. It’s no secret that Tate and I fight constantly. Everyone here knows it, but they will never outright ask if that’s the cause of constant injuries.
“Or something.” I clap his shoulder, immediately turning away from him heading to the rear of the barn toward the med door.
The space is empty when I enter. Everything has its place. Each bin and storage container labeled with its contents inside the floor-to-ceiling cabinets that line the far wall. The doors are wide open, revealing someone has already been here to unlock them.
Where the hell is this guy?
Allowing my gaze to roam over the room, it is as it has always been. Sure, the equipment gets updated as needed, but very little has changed since I was a kid coming here. Despite the tables and large cabinets, there’s still ample space for a sitting area and mats where the trainers will often come in and stretch or manipulate our bodies back into working order.
Hate that, too. Hurts like a bitch.
Dropping into the closest chair, another bolt of pain shoots through me. My body launching back to my feet, my fist immediately colliding with the wall beside me. The drywall caves under the force, crumbles of dust floating to the floor.
Fuck!
Pain roars through my knuckles. One is split, the blood streaked across my skin and the wall.
“If you didn’t want to ride tonight, I’m sure you could have just faked food poisoning,” a husky voice sounds from behind me.
