Page 72 of Unruly

Brynne shifts in my lap and turns toward me, her hand sliding up my chest. She’s looking at my mouth now, eyes half-lidded, and I know what’s coming. I’ve done this dance so many times I could do it in my sleep.

She leans in.

I lean in too.

Right before our lips touch, a hand clamps down on my shoulder from behind.

“Cash,” Dawson says.

Fuck you, bro.

I pull back, and Brynne makes an annoyed sound.

“We gotta go,” Dawson says. “South fence is down. Cattle’s getting out.”

It’s the most obvious lie I’ve ever heard in my life.

Because Dawson doesn’t lie—he’s terrible at it. His face doesn’t even know how to hold the shape of bullshit. Which means he’s giving me an out—a clean exit.

And some pathetic, traitorous part of me is relieved.

I stand up, dumping Brynne off my lap. “Duty calls, baby,” I tell her.

She doesn’t even bother looking pissed, just grabs someone else’s drink and turns away like she already forgot I existed.

Smart girl.

I follow Dawson to the truck without another word. He doesn’t say anything until we’re already on the dirt road, the bonfire shrinking in the side mirror behind us.

“You didn’t actually want to kiss her,” Dawson says.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Jesus. You too?”

“I’m just saying.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “You looked like you were about to throw up right before you leaned in. That’s not you.”

“That is me,” I say, defensive. “That’s exactly me—loud, drunk, making bad decisions with pretty girls. That’s what I do.”

Dawson is quiet for a second. “Not with girls you don’t actually want.”

I don’t have a good answer for that, so I look out the window instead.

“You’ve been going hard every night the last couple weeks. I’m not judging, man. I’m just saying … it doesn’t look like it’s working.”

I clench my jaw. “It’s working fine.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t argue, doesn’t lecture, just lets the word sit there between us like he knows I’m full of shit and he’s not gonna waste his breath fighting me on it tonight.

We drive the rest of the way in silence.

The porch lights are on when we pull up to our parent’s house—moths are already slamming into them in a frenzy. Rhett is smoking a cigarette on the steps and stands up when he sees us.

He watches us get out of the truck, jaw tight.

“I need to sleep. I’m on the road early in the morning with Dad to meet with the accountant,” Rhett says, annoyed.

I shrug, still riding the leftover alcohol and attitude. “Didn’t ask you to stay up. Didn’t realize I had a fucking curfew either.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you.” He looks between me and Dawson, then shakes his head. “You’ve been ghosting work, showing up late, half-assing everything, and now you’re out here trying to fuck your way through half the county just to prove you’re fine?”