Page 25 of Roped

“You’re not a monster,” I blurt out.

He freezes, his heated body going still, pushed against mine.

I wasn’t planning on blurting it out like this. Especially something so sensitive. But I couldn’t keep it inside. I couldn’t let him call himself that horrible word. The one that, apparently, a lot of people in Black Rock use to describe him: monster. Apart from finding out his name and where he lived, I also found out about his past from Haven. About his scar and how he got it. When he was fifteen, he was in a car accident with his parents that not only killed them but also left him with severe injuries and this scar on his face. Not only that, but the reason he knows how to communicate so well with his silence is because he suffered from something called traumatic brain injury. It affected his speech and he couldn’t talk for the longest time. He had to relearn to speak, relearn something so basic as talking, and of course that only added to all the gossip about him.

My heart twists in my chest and a knot forms in my belly. I can’t even imagine the pain he must’ve gone through. To not only lose his parents in such an abrupt way but also to suffer through his own trauma. To pick himself back up amid the grief, the pain, all the fucking gossip. God, people can be so cruel, can’t they? And I realize I’m sympathizing with the enemy, with the man who hates me and has toyed with me for months. But I’m not so strong as to revel in his tragedy. I’m not so strong as to not tell him that he’s wrong.

He’s not a monster. At least not because of what happened to him.

“That’s why you live out here, don’t you?” I continue, looking up at him. “Away from everyone. Because of what people say. Because of how stupid they are. Because they are. Stupid. They’re ignorant and small-minded and fucking cruel.” Then, “Is that why you wear a mask too? Is that why you wore it? With me. Did you think I’d be scared of you? Of what you look like? Because I’m not. I’m not like other people. Your scar doesn’t scare me. Your scar doesn’t define who you are. Not in my eyes.”

In my eyes, he’s the most beautiful man there ever was. Made even more beautiful now that I know what his scar represents. Pain and tragedy. Strength and survival. If anything, his scar makes him more of an angel than any other feature about him. And if he is a monster, then it has nothing to do with his face.

“This is rich, ain’t it?”

His rough murmur breaks through my thoughts, and I realize his eyes are flashing hot. “What?”

“The Turner Princess pityin’ me herself.”

“I’m not…” I trail off when something occurs to me. Something awful, so fucking awful that my chest wants to cave in. And as I look into his furious eyes, his contemptuous glare, I know. I know I’m right. I know what I’m about to say is the horrible truth.

“It wasn’t an accident,” I whisper, my breaths strangled, my wrists throbbing painfully in his mean grip. “Your parents didn’t die in an accident. My father… He k-killed them, didn’t he. He… he killed your family.”

Oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. My father, he… How many lives has he destroyed? How many lives has he taken? Is there no end to his cruelty, his destruction? Oh God, I can’t…

“You came here to know about me, yeah?” he rumbles, his voice low and rough. “Know who I am. What my name is. Yeah, my name is Radisson. I’m not a Grayson; I’m a King. I’m the man whose life your daddy destroyed. When I close my eyes, I dream about seein’ the light go out of his while I tighten the noose around his neck and choke him to death. And then huntin’ down every last Turner and doin’ the same thing to them. I dream about taking everythin’ from your father like he took everythin’ from me. I dream about blood and spilled guts and revenge. So no, I wasn’t born to hate you.” I flinch, but he keeps going. “And I don’t hate you out of loyalty. I fuckin’ loathe you because I was born a man, but your daddy turned me into a monster when I was fifteen. You’re far safer bein’ used by the Graysons for the land and the decades-old rivalry than you are with me. ’Cause at the end of this, they’ll let you go, but if it were up to me, I’d rope the Turner Princess to my side and keep her until all my dreams of revenge come true and I can fuckin’ get a good night’s sleep.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Quiet Mustang

JOHN WALKER IS an addict. According to the police reports, he robbed a gas station on the night of January 28, 2024, with a gun he had a license for and ended up shooting the store clerk. The clerk sustained two bullet wounds and had to be rushed into surgery. John was found to be under the influence and was charged with separate counts of robbery, assault, and attempted murder, along with drug charges. He got a plea deal and was sentenced to seven years in prison. He’s done two years of it on the inside. The rest, he’s going to do here: at Rawhide ranch. Or at least, that’s the plan.

He needs to survive me first.

John sits tied to a wooden chair, the yellow overhanging light illuminating his injuries. His face is swollen from day-old bruises, his nose bleeding, his mouth bleeding too. There are a few teeth scattered on the floor around his feet, along with puddles of blood and piss. Makes sense; he’s been tied to this chair for over eight hours and we didn’t give him a bucket. I stand in front of him as I wrap gauze around my hands, my feet wide. His bloodshot eyes follow my slow movements as he begs, “Jesus, fuck, h-how long do I-I—”

I rear back and punch him in the face, shutting him up. The first punch is always the sweetest. I like to savor it, let it loosen my muscles, warm up my blood as I crack my neck and get in position again. He’s still cursing from the first punch and already begging me to stop. He knows I’m not going to, so I don’t know why he keeps wasting his words. But then again, I’m not an expert when it comes to words, so what do I know.

All I know is that this feels good. Letting my arms fly and beating him with my fists. Letting my body talk instead of my mouth. There’s something calming about that. It at least calms the words inside of me. The ones that are stuck in my head. I can see them but can’t really say them unless I put in a fuck ton of effort. All day, they bang inside of me and I try to quiet them down. They make me angry. They frustrate me. They remind me that I’m not normal. Or whole. Not anymore. Not for the last sixteen years. On the outside, I may look like just another man, barring the scar on my face, but on the inside, I’ve got huge pieces missing.

Beating up a low-life criminal like John Walker every now and then helps keep me sane.

Anyway, the more I beat him up, the more he screams. It would be annoying, but I’m used to it. He’s no different than the others that come here to live out the rest of their prison sentence. He wants to know how long I’m going to beat him up; how long he will stay tied up in this cabin, on rationed food and water, without even a bucket to piss and shit in. And then, he says, he’s done. He wants to leave. He wants to go back to prison.

Again, I don’t know why because he already knows that’s not an option. He knew that when he volunteered to apply for our program: Rawhide Redemption. He also knew if an inmate is chosen to join the reformation program at Rawhide, their prison sentence will be curtailed and they’ll receive a check for fifty thousand dollars at signing. Along with a lifelong job at Rawhide if they survive. In exchange, they swear their loyalty to the Graysons and do whatever we tell them to. Most people like the fact they don’t have to do time; others like the job security. Some also like that when we induct someone into our fold, we protect them with our lives too. Them and their families.

But first, they go through an initiation period. To repent for their crimes and to see whether we made the right decision in accepting them. As in whether or not they’re Rawhide material. The initiation period can last anywhere from a week to a month, depending on how much work is needed to “reform” the convict. No, it doesn’t say what the initiation entails, but the terms are clear: When you agree to join the Rawhide Redemption program, there’s no going back.

In the midst of the beatdown, I think I hear my name being called, but I can’t be sure. Then it gets louder and before I know it, I’m being yanked away from my target. I come back to the moment and realize that John is slumped to the side, unconscious, his face completely unrecognizable due to more injuries and the blood. A bone sticks out the side of his face and the man who pulled me back, Marsden, is bent over and inspecting.

Panting, I ask, “He breathin’?”

Marsden straightens and turns to me, his face stern. Nine years older than me, Mars is my cousin and very much the patriarch of the Grayson family. He wears his Stetson and his authority well. Nothing happens at Rawhide without his say-so and I respect him for that. I respect him for the way he took over the ranch and the upbringing of his two younger brothers, Arsenal and Axton, when their parents died. He also kept me around, helped me through my parents’ deaths and all the bullshit that came after it. He had no reason to. Yes, I was family, and Arsen and I were thick as thieves growing up. But I’m not a Grayson, and the Graysons like to keep their business to themselves. For good reason. What with century-old land feuds and a prison reformation program that isn’t exactly on the books. More than my cousin, Mars is the man I owe everything to. Making him unhappy isn’t something I like to do and something Arsen likes to give me shit about. So he’d be proud to know that for once, Mars’s anger doesn’t bother me.

“Barely,” Mars replies with a grunt.