Sworn Enemy: An MM Enemies-To-Lovers Book (Wild Heart Ranch 1)
Sworn Enemy: Chapter 2

Well, fuck.

My property looks like it was visited by those dragons in that Christian Bale/Matthew McConaughey movie from the early 2000s. You know the one where Christian Bale is all stern and judgmental while Matthew McConaughey is all unhinged and ride ‘em cowboy.

Perhaps that doesn’t narrow it down enough.

My point is that the buildings and wooden fencing are all scorched beyond recognition, some actual piles of ash, and all of it is still smoking. My gentle Norwegian friend, Erik, towers next to me, his cheeks and forehead smudged with streaks of gray, his usually neat brown hair falling out of its ponytail. He looks a bit like a pirate, with the little barn kitten one of the Goodnight men rescued sitting on his shoulder. Her pretty white fur is blackened by smoke and one of her ears is half-burned off.

Erik is quiet as his large somber eyes take in the scene.

Staring blankly at the remnants of my childhood home, my hands, face, and dark-blond hair equally marked with soot, I’m struck by the bone-deep certainty that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I let my father talk me into taking over the property. And I really don’t know why the fuck I came back to Central Texas.

At the very least, I think we have to agree this is a bad omen.

I shoulda stayed gone.

Until a few months ago, I was a nomad with a small room in a Bronx apartment with Erik and two other equally adventurous friends, with Mrs. Rothstein’s bagels as my only tethers.

God, I could go for a fucking bagel right now.

My parents sometimes wonder what we do in our travels, Erik and me. They thought we were together, but…no. He’s my brother in every way but blood.

My standard answer to their concerned queries is that I am a high-end, exclusive bounty hunter. It’s all quite legal, I assure them—the super-rich hire me to find people trying their hardest to stay lost.

Sometimes it’s a trust-fund baby who’s disappeared off the map or a person accused of corporate espionage. Sometimes, I’m not given a good reason. The people who hire me know I’ll never bring in a person—say, an ex-wife or girlfriend—for the purpose of victimization. They’re required to pay up-front, just in case they think I’m joking.

It’s more money than you’d guess, and with very few exceptions, makes me think we need to fast-track the whole “eat the rich” agenda. Ironic, considering my sizable portfolio, which just got set on fire. Here’s hoping insurance covers most of it.

My parents also know that Erik and I pay it forward, happy to help whenever a government agency needs canine assistance or help with a mounted search and rescue party.

They know nothing of our other volunteer work—tracing victims of kidnapping and human trafficking. They can’t because we’ll do whatever it takes, including fracturing any laws that get in the way of a safe rescue. We also work with non-profit and government agencies to help the people we find, so it’s a delicate balance.

Erik and I do this without thought of cost or reward, and we consider it our service. Our sewa, as our guru friend once explained over shots of tequila.

With a deep and self-important sigh, I bring my attention back to reality. This smoldering gift, which has been in my family for generations, was a nice idea at some point, but now it’s just a noose.

“What are you thinking?” Erik asks, finally breaking his silence.

“I’m wondering if they’ve already rented out the apartment.”

“Yes,” is his typically stoic answer. “I don’t think we should go back to New York.”

“I dunno.” Another sigh filters up from my soul.

He looks down at me, his hazel eyes gray in the drab landscape. “You have good ideas. This is the place where we start.”

“This place? You sure about that? ‘Cause all I see is a burning pile of rubble.”

He shakes his head. “Good a place as any.”

I rub my hands over my face, then curse when I remember they’re coated in dirt and the charred remains of my childhood home.

“Why the fuck did I order so many horses?”

Because I’ve still got a crush on the guy who sells them.

“Because you love horses. Because they can help people.”

Okay, that too. “We already help people.”

“Yes, and these horses will help people get better, just like they helped you.”

Sigh. Fine.

“I’m going to take it all down to the ground and start over. Brand-new everything. Fuck it.”

He nods, scanning the property. “I agree. Keep it simple.”

Turning his attention to me, he tilts his head.

“What?” I ask self-consciously.

“How did it feel, seeing him?”

Somehow, I know he’s not talking about Trip Goodnight, my unrequited teenage crush.

I shake my head. “It was fine. Meant nothing.”

Erik pointedly looks at the self-inflicted scars that snake up the inside of my forearms and raises his brow.

Jackass.

I try to be chill about it, but the fact of the matter is that Justin Jennings—of all fucking people—was here today. My sworn enemy, come to my rescue with a flatbed truck and a huge water tank. The man who made my high school years such a living hell that I tried to end everything.

He isn’t anything like the specter I’ve made him out to be. Yes, he’s a bit taller than me and still muscular, but leaner than I remembered. While his brother has stark Irish coloring and lips always playing on the edge of a smirk, Justin seems more…muted. Vulnerable. Earnest, even.

He was all jerky movements and nervous, shifty eyes, though that might just be how he is around me. Compared to his trim beard, his chocolate-brown hair was a fallen haystack, kinda wavy, kinda straight, sticking out every which way, and pushed in a slightly leftward leaning direction.

In our haste to get the fire hoses connected and in place, I brushed against him. His sharp inhale and recoil hurt afresh, as though whatever he hated about me in high school was still fresh in his mind.

Who the hell knows why his opinion even matters?

But when my eyes met his, sorrow and shame were the only things in his expression.

Fuck.

I don’t follow any specific religion, but my path is distinctly spiritual. And the one element I have forever struggled with is forgiving the man who set me on this path.

I’ve had revered mentors suggest gratitude to my enemy for where I ended up, but the very thought of it tastes like bile on the back of my tongue. I’m not even mildly surprised that Justin Jennings is as gay as I am. Fucker. I wish IBS on his bottomy fucking ass.

“Meant nothing, huh? You sure about that?” Erik asks, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “Because it looks like you’re hoping to inflict an intestinal disorder on the guy who raced out here to help us.”

Fucking Erik.

Yeah, I’m not that fucking spiritual. I still remember every fucked-up thing he ever said, the way he took delight in making life hell for the skinny gay kid.

Careful with your assholes, fellas. Charlie’s looking awfully needy today.

Ooh, Charlie’s got a new haircut today, guys. I gotta know—which one of your dads did he hafta suck off to pay for it?

Why haven’t you killed yourself yet? Literally no one likes you.

Fuck, dude. I bet your parents can’t fucking stand you.

That’s to say nothing of the thousands of whispered f-slurs he threw at me every goddamn time he saw me, the early social-media campaigns to humiliate me, the spray-painted epithets on my car, or the confused looks I sometimes caught and immediately paid for.

My phone notification goes off, and…great. Trip Goodnight, more of my high school drama coming back to haunt me. I loved that tall drink of country water so damned much, with his manners and long, Wrangler-clad legs. I fell even harder because he was the only classmate who was ever kind to me.

Seeing the ring on his finger a few weeks ago was bad enough, but finding out he’s married to a man pisses me off all over again. If I’d been myself, I could’ve been there for Trip when his mom died and his girl left him. When he was figuring out his shit, I could’ve been there instead of the cute, femme-boy outsider named Sam.

Who I like very much, dammit all to hell.

Why does coming home hafta feel like crawling on broken glass?

With a grunt of annoyance, I refocus on my phone.

Trip: We just heard what happened. I’m so damn sorry.

Trip: You and Erik pack what you can and come over to Rebel Sky. Stay with us while you rebuild.

Charlie: I would hate to inconvenience you like that.

Trip: We’re not taking no for an answer.

Sigh. Fuck.

Charlie: That would really help us. Thank you.

Trip: It’s what neighbors do.

Erik looks over my shoulder, then sends me a pitying glance.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I emphasize this by coughing up and spitting out something awful from my poor, abused lungs. Erik doesn’t respond, and the quiet between us—usually so calming—manages to agitate me more.

Gritting through my teeth, I let the cursed truth fly. “Fucking Justin Jennings fucking ruined everything for me.”

“Aaaand there it is.”

I glare up at my Nordic friend. “Would you shut up?”

“It’s okay to be mad, Charlie,” he says, pulling the elastic band from his long, thick hair and shaking out the ash.

“I know that, goddammit. I’ve been to fucking therapy,” I bark out, gesturing to the scars. “I just…I coulda been Charlie Fucking Goodnight.”

Erik takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, looking me in the eyes as he reties his hair.

Yeah, he’s about to hurt my feelings.

“No. You couldn’t have.”

Even though I know it’s coming, my mouth falls open. “What the fuck, dude?”

Looking down at me, he shakes his head. “Have you seen them together? Trip and Sam?”

I kick the dirt at my feet. “Yes.”

“Twin flames if ever I saw it.”

Goddammit, he’s right.

“Shut up,” I mutter. “Let’s salvage whatever clothes we can from the house and go over to my good friend Trip’s house.”

“Okay, then,” he says, gingerly patting my back. “My cousins say the Goodnights have a pool, so bring your swim trunks.”

“Your aunt and uncle okay to watch Moose and Smokey while we figure our shit out?” I ask, referring to the kitten’s new moniker. It’s a little on the nose, but when Erik called the vet to set an appointment, they needed a name.

He nods, smiling to himself.

Moose is a young, energetic bloodhound worth every ounce of his droopy weight in gold. Erik’s been training him to track since birth, and those two on the hunt are a sight to see. The dog is practically an extension of the man, and vice versa.

Thankfully he was in town having a doggy spa day when everything decided to catch fire.

I chuckle. “Georg and Anja are gonna spoil them rotten.”

“Yep. Now, what do you say about getting cleaned up, jumping in the pool at Rebel Sky, and leaving this mess for another day?”

I let my eyes settle on the smoking remnants of the barn, breathing in the smell of burnt wood, trying to exhale peace.

Fucking Justin Jennings.

I have a few mantras that usually help, but today they all sound stupid and unhelpful, so I decide to be mad.

“Fine. I’ll grab my swim trunks.”

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