“Yeah?”
“We’re definitely going to hell for this, aren’t we?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. I hear they have better music down there anyway.”
“And no Mrs. Delaney.”
“Sold. Let’s go make some bad decisions.”
And despite everything—the gossip, the family drama, the complete insanity of the situation—I squeeze her hand and follow her toward whatever disaster Jesse and Boone have planned.
Because sometimes the best things in life are also the worst ideas.
And Callie Thompson is definitely both.
9
Callie
I’m lyingin bed at 5:43 a.m., staring at my ceiling where a water stain vaguely resembles the United States if you squint. Dad’s been saying he’ll fix that leak for three years now, right after he gets around to winning his feud with the McCoys. So basically never.
My phone’s buzzing on the nightstand like an angry wasp. The Cedar Ridge Facebook page operates on meth-head hours, posting hot takes about my sex life at 3 a.m. like they don’t have jobs or sheep to count. Sixty-seven notifications since midnight. Mrs. Delaney must’ve discovered the schedule post feature.
Jesse at 5:31 a.m.: Can’t stop thinking about you.
Wyatt at 5:35 a.m.: You awake?
Boone at 5:37 a.m.: Jesse’s pacing like a caged animal. Please come save us from his poetry phase.
Poetry phase? That’s concerning.
I sit up, decision made before my brain fully engages. The smart move would be staying in bed, maybe taking up a wholesome hobby like quilting or gossiping about other people’s scandals instead of creating my own. But smart moves are for people who don’t have three devastatingly handsome cowboys sending them texts in the middle of the night, who also happen to be your family’s sworn enemies.
“Fuck it,” I announce to my empty room, throwing off the blanket.
I grab yesterday’s jean shorts from the floor, the ones Dad says are too short but I wear anyway because his opinions on my hemlines stopped mattering when I started paying my own bills. My boots are mud-caked, and my T-shirt does not hide the collection of hickeys decorating my collarbone.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and laugh. I look like exactly what I am, a woman who spent last night getting thoroughly fucked and is about to make the same mistake again.
The house is silent as I creep downstairs, avoiding the squeaky third step but not and the floorboard near the kitchen that groans like it’s dying. Rita’s passed out in her pen outside, snoring.
The morning air hits me as I step outside, cool and sharp enough to wake me. The sky is a pre-dawn graythat makes everything look like a low-budget horror movie. Perfect atmosphere for sneaking across property lines to get railed by three brothers. So. Romantic.
Whatever.
The walk across the pasture takes eight minutes on a good day, six if I’m motivated. Today I make it in five.
“Worst idea ever,” I mutter as I approach, but my feet keep moving. “Absolutely terrible. Ten out of ten, would not recommend to friends.”
But here’s the thing about terrible ideas. Sometimes they come with excellent benefits. Like orgasms. Multiple orgasms. The kind that make you forget your own name and consider taking up religion just so you have someone to thank.
I knock on the door, soft enough not to wake the dead but loud enough to be heard over whatever Jesse’s doing in there. Probably writing sonnets about my ass. The door swings open immediately, like he was standing there waiting.
He’s shirtless because of course he is, gray sweatpants hanging low enough to count as a public service. His hair’s sticking up in all directions and he’s grinning like Christmas came early.
“Knew you’d come,” he says, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.
