Page 13 of Deviant
I shoot him a look. “Why would I be nervous?”
Dad ignores my question. “Colt starts today. Figure I should go over what I need from you.”
I take a drink of coffee, burning my tongue. “Yeah.”
“He’s here for vet tech experience—needs hands-on hours for his degree. Aria vouched for him, saying he’s a hard worker when he’s not being a pain in the ass.” Dad leans against the stall door. “I need you to show him the ropes. Keep him busy. Teach him how we do things.”
“Can’t Cash do it?”
“Cash is helping Luke with that downed fence on the north property, and Dawson’s got his hands full with the horses.” Dad’s voice gets that edge that means the conversation’s over. “You’re my right hand, Rhett. You know this place better than anyone, so you’re on Colt duty for the summer.”
Colt duty. Like I’m babysitting.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad claps me on the shoulder. “He’ll be here at six. Just … keep it professional. I know you two had words back in high school, but that was a long time ago.”
If only that was all I had to worry about.
Dad heads back to the house, and I’m left standing in the barn with fifteen minutes until Colt shows up. Fifteen minutes to get my head right. To push down the anger that’s been simmering since last night. To figure out how I’m going to look him in the eye and not immediately accuse him of sending those texts.
Because it had to be him. Who else would it be?
I go back to the bridle I don’t need to fix.
I’ve been running through it since three a.m., cycling through the same loop—he sent the texts, he didn’t send the texts, he sent the texts—and I still don’t have an answer that sits right.
If it is him, he’s doing it to fuck with me—to get into my head before he even shows up. Which means walking out there and acting normal is exactly what I should do, because I’m not giving Colton Dawson the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
If it’s not him…
I set the bridle down.
If it’s not him, then someone else knows something, and that’s a problem I don’t have the first idea how to solve.
So, it’s easier if it’s him. Itneedsto be him, because the alternative is worse.
I pick the bridle back up.
The thing I keep snagging on is the timing. I’ve never received texts like that before in my life. And Colton Dawson shows up in Cedarbrook after five years, walks into the bonfire last night like he never left, talks to me, looks at my girlfriend, and an hour later, my phone lights up with texts from a stranger who seems to know exactly what they saw.
Maybe that’s a coincidence.
Maybe it isn’t.
At exactly six a.m., I hear the rumble of a motorcycle coming up the drive.
I step out of the barn, coffee in hand.
He shakes his hair out and runs a hand through it, not bothering to fix the mess. He’s got tattoos that go from his wrists up both forearms—I can see the dark lines against his skin from here—and he’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s too tight and work boots.
He looks like someone who’s actually going to be useful, which is the last thing I wanted this morning.
“Morning,” he calls out, swinging off the bike and placing his helmet on the seat.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak yet.
He walks over, and I notice he’s got a thermos of his own. “Is your dad around? I want to check in before we get started.”
