Page 4 of Roped

“You know, the usual,” I say with a breezy tone.

He leans forward a little, his disgusting eyes shining. “And what’s usual for a college girl like you?”

Somehow I manage to gulp down the bile rising in my throat and reply, “Oh, just relaxing, mostly. Going to the mall with friends and stuff. Hanging out by the pool. God, I can’t wait to put on a bikini and get my tan on.”

I can’t remember the last time I just relaxed or hung out by the pool for my tan, especially during the summer. But he doesn’t need to know that. He’s here for the rich party girl that he thinks I am, and I’m giving it to him like it’s my job. Which it very well might be.

“And I can’t wait to see you in one,” he says, looking me up and down like he’s imagining me in a bikini right now.

Oh my God, please kill me now. It’s bad enough that my pervy date thinks I’m juicier than his steak, and now I’ve gone and made it worse by giving him something to jerk off to later.

Before I can respond to his pervy comment, he murmurs, “You know, you keep watching my drink like you want it for yourself.” He slides it toward me, the red liquid sloshing inside the glass. “Why don’t you take a sip?”

What? That would be a fuck no.

Somehow I’m able to keep the disgust off my face as I decline. “Oh, but I can’t. I’m only nineteen.”

He doesn’t need to know that I took my first sip of alcohol when I was ten. It was my father’s Kentucky bourbon that I stole from his liquor cabinet. As a fuck-you to him for making me go to a party with his business associates. As disgusting as it tasted, I drank a ton of it and then threw up in front of his bedroom door. As a fuck-you, part two. Of course, I hadn’t known what the repercussions would be for going against my father. Not then. Once I found out, I never stood up for myself again and always did what I was told.

I also didn’t know that all those parties and functions were his way of grooming me for the future. For dates like this, which, of course, was set up by my father because Wyatt happens to be the son of my father’s business associate. And when he saw my picture during their business meeting at the ranch and showed his interest, my father offered me up on a platter like he always does. He’s a great businessman, my father, always looking out for his partners’ interests. It’s no surprise he owns the second-biggest ranch in Montana, the Wildfire ranch.

“It’s okay. Just one sip,” he cajoles.

“I really can’t. I—”

“Go on,” he insists and then winks, tipping his cowboy hat at me. “I won’t tell your daddy. It’ll be our secret.”

I open my mouth to deny once again, even though what I really want to do is throw the wine in his face. Thankfully, I’m saved from doing anything at all because our server chooses that very moment to check on us, and I’m so thankful to him that I make a mental note to leave him a very generous tip.

When he leaves, I decide to take matters into my own hands. As in, more than I already have, given that I slipped him a very strong laxative as soon as I got an opportunity. Until the drug works its magic, I try to keep all the attention on him. It isn’t hard to do because Wyatt loves to talk about himself, his family’s land, the ranching business he’s going to inherit one day soon, all the money he has, courtesy of his dad, and what he does with it. We also touch upon the deal his father’s got in the works with mine. As always, my father is vying for more land and this time, it belongs to the Palmers. Since I’m here to nudge him in the right direction so he nudges his dad later, I show interest in him and his pursuits. I flirt the hell out of him, touch him, giggle at his lame jokes, widen my eyes when he tells me about a particularly difficult horse he broke that no one else could.

I do everything I can to convince him that if he does business with us Turners, he’ll get me as a bonus. Which isn’t going to happen. But I’m my father’s daughter. I know how to lie and cheat and fool people into thinking things I want them to.

Just as Wyatt asks for the dessert menu, my handy drug finally decides to show up. And as if making up for lost time, it doesn’t fuck around. My date goes from frowning slightly at whatever’s happening in his body to going red-faced and sweaty in only a few minutes. I even hear the loud rumbling of his stomach over the din of the restaurant, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop a smile from breaking out.

Schooling my features to show concern, I ask, “Are you okay? You look a little—”

My words are cut off when in response, he springs up from his seat and he does it so violently, his chair almost tips over and his Stetson gets knocked off his head. As he turns around and rushes to find a bathroom—I’m assuming—I finally let my smile out. Fucking asshole. As soon as he’s out of sight, I stand up. I toss some money on the table for the lovely server and write Wyatt an apology note that clearly implies I was turned off by whatever happened to him, establishing my alibi. And then I get out of there.

As I’m walking down the street, I get out my phone and shoot a text to my father, telling him how the date went and that it was cut short but it was clearly not my fault. His reply is instant.

Dad: What do you mean cut short?

Me: He had stomach issues.

Dad: Stomach issues?

Me: Yes. Maybe it was something he ate. He ran to the bathroom like his ass was on fire.

His reply comes back a couple of minutes later as I’m getting into a cab to go back to my apartment. And when I read it, my heart starts banging in my chest.

Dad: This is the third time something like this has happened.

He’s right. My last date had something similar happen to him because I spiked his drink too. And the one before that had to rush out of the restaurant because his car was getting towed; I’d paid someone to do that. I knew pulling something similar could have consequences, but I couldn’t possibly sit through another pervy date so I took a chance. Clearly, it was a bad move. My hands are shaking as I try to type out a text. But before I can, another one of his shows up right below it.

Dad: You wouldn’t be trying to lie to me, would you? Because that would be very foolish on your part.

If anything, his text makes it even harder for me to think straight, let alone type a response. Still, I somehow manage to send one off.