Sworn Enemy: An MM Enemies-To-Lovers Book (Wild Heart Ranch 1)
Sworn Enemy: Chapter 6

The metal steps protest under my weight as I walk down from the trailer. My boots hit the ground and sink a little into the soft, dry dirt. Hoisting my overnight bag on my shoulder, I survey the property. Everything is gone. Every single stick, tree, everything. Mom and Dad joined me yesterday when the bulldozers took it all down.

I’m grateful to have inherited my dry-eyed determination from those two. This terrible thing happened, but now we turn the page.

After spending the last two months living with the burned-out remains of my family home, I’ve forgotten how pretty this property is. Especially the wooded area at the back. Several frontline trees retain scars from the fire, but new growth is slowly overtaking the charred bits.

And now the pad of land where generations of Wills grew up and learned how to be Texans is a blank page.

“You sure you don’t need backup on this one?” Erik asks, appearing at the door.

I shake my head. “I could use some space to clear my head. Besides, this is pretty straightforward. My target’s the son of a rich asshole who ran out after getting some heiress pregnant. Conveniently, he has a warrant for tax evasion. It’ll be an easy in and out.”

“Okay, but if the recon tells you it’s more complex, call me in.”

I nod. “I will.”

“And you don’t have to be all Crouching Tiger, Hidden Zen Master with this guy. Feel free to bang him up a little.”

I grin as a familiar flatbed makes its way onto the property. “Duly noted.”

Justin Jennings, loaded down with what I assume is the temporary fencing, pulls up alongside me.

“Hey, Charlie,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Going somewhere?”

It irritates me, this wounded expression he always gets around me. I’ve mostly avoided him the last couple of months, but every damn time we run into one another, he gives me those big puppy dog eyes, which makes me feel sorry for him.

One of my early mentors drilled into my head the need to imagine our fellow humans complexly, going beyond the stereotypes that our brains automatically assign. It’s helped me when dealing with the people that I do. No one is ever just a human trafficker or murderer. Or bully. Their histories can’t justify their actions, but they can be used to connect with people and find a way to resolve an issue before involving violence.

And it means I can’t be a dick to Justin Jennings on fucking principle. Because he’s a three-dimensional person, and he’s sorry.

Just this once, I’d like to haul off and pop him in the mouth without my brain going all he did terrible things in the past, but he’s making an honest effort to do better now.

Yes, I know.

I shake my head to clear out the cobwebs and approach the truck, leaning my forearm on the windowsill. It’s weird being this close to him, but watching his Adam’s apple nervously bob up and down as his fingers grip the steering wheel is deeply satisfying. I’ve decided that I can imagine him complexly, but only if it makes him really uncomfortable.

Eh, call it my version of a compromise.

Realizing I haven’t answered him yet, I respond, “Yeah. I’ve got a quick job over in Galveston. Should only be gone one night, if that.”

He swallows again, looking out over the land, anywhere but at me. “Cool. By the time you get back, we’ll have the temporary fencing up.”

Clearing his throat, he grabs for something from Nacho, the guy Erik’s been fucking.

“Um, I didn’t know if you already had a lock in mind for the gate, but I went ahead and got the one we like to use. It’s a good lock. You can put a bullet through it, and it’ll still hold.”

The dense plastic creeks under the weight of the metal, letting me know he’s telling the truth. I ignore the veins running up his corded forearms and how his free hand tremors slightly as it runs through his sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair.

Seriously, does the guy not own a brush?

Anyway, his nerves and his desire for me to accept this gift from him are not my responsibility. That’s on him.

But it is a thoughtful gift.

There’s something endearing about the slightly sunburnt freckling across his nose. Or maybe it’s the way the morning sun catches his irises, highlighting the green and gold tones and his wide-eyed sincerity.

Ugh, I hate it.

No, I don’t.

Stop arguing with yourself, Wills.

Fine.

“That’s perfect. I hadn’t even considered a lock. I appreciate it,” I say, stepping back from the vehicle.

Another hard swallow. “Oh. Good. I’m glad it’ll work for you,” he says, nodding.

“Well then. Uh…thank you, Justin. I’ve got to get on the road,” I say, tilting my head toward my truck.

“Happy travels,” he tosses out, slowly pulling past me.

I store my bag in the back and hop into my extended cab ranch truck, still ambivalent about owning such a stereotypical Texas vehicle. It’s just…the land out here is a little rough, the rebuild means I’ll need to haul lots of things, and besides, I got a good deal on it. Mrs. Lohman’s husband died earlier this year, and even though the truck is six years old, it barely has ten thousand miles on it.

I get this itchy feeling like the truck means something. Like I’ve added a new dimension to my personality, and I can’t tell if it fits yet.

I hit the ignition button and the engine roars to life, humming perfectly underneath me. I make a few adjustments, pushing the seat back a little farther to give some room for my legs and fixing the mirror.

There. That makes it all feel a little more settled.

As I turn the truck toward the main road, I look in the rearview mirror. Justin and Nacho have hopped out of their truck, donned leather work gloves, and are pulling materials off the flatbed.

Justin’s still got a slightly gangly look about him—Sam told me he was severely underweight at some point, having been taken down by his addictions. I’m relieved he’s seen his way clear of that.

Plus, the nice tan, the wiry muscles, and the competent way he’s setting things up let me know he’s working hard to get things right.

As if sensing my eyes on him, he glances up and catches me looking. He sends a little wave in my direction, and I send one right back. Not sure why.

It’s nearly eight o’clock the next evening by the time I roll in past the temporary fencing and freshly poured concrete pads. Erik appears at the door, clearly having waited for me.

“You were supposed to check in.”

My tightlipped friend doesn’t say it like an accusation, more like a gentle reminder.

I jump out of the truck and grab my bag from the back, hoisting it over my shoulder. By the time I make my way up the protesting metal steps, he’s thinned his lips, a silent request for an explanation.

Gesturing at the busted lip and black eye, I attempt an oversimplification. “It got a little hairy, but I handled it.”

“Handled it as in the guy is in Galveston County lockup, holding an ice pack to his face? Or handled it as in he’s taken up residence at the bottom of Galveston Bay?”

“He’s been arrested.”

“And?”

I sigh, then admit, “It wasn’t just him. There were two other guys. Put a bullet in one, managed to wrangle the other, but not before he got off a shot. They had a girl in the back bedroom, and the bullet went through the wall and hit her in the thigh. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen,” I say, shaking my head, ignoring the moisture in my eyes.

She’d looked so damn afraid.

I don’t say this out loud because Erik knows. We’ve seen that look far too many times. I rub my forehead, thirsty.

“I need to wash this day off me.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

I take a quick shower in my bathroom, then dry myself while staring in the mirror. The shiner isn’t too bad, and the swelling from the busted lip has nearly gone down. I look a little roguish but not really that worse for wear. More than the physical damage, I see an increasingly familiar look in my eye. Frustrated and irritated, unsettled. Annoyed.

I walk into the tiny living room, and Erik has two steaming bowls of pasta set out on the counter.

“I figure some comfort carbs and the Great British Baking Show are in order.”

“I don’t want to watch a bunch of jackasses baking in the fucking English countryside,” I say, a curl of disdain on my lips.

Erik raises his brow.

Frustrated, I snap out a curt, “What?”

Now both brows are in on the action.

“Can’t a guy have a fucking preference without the fucking brow inquisition?”

“Sure. But you’ve been off since yesterday morning. Also, you love baking shows. What’s going on?”

I sigh.

“Sorry, friend-o. This rebuild is an entire pain in my ass, I miss our old apartment, and I fucking hate Texas politics. I don’t know why the fuck I’m here.”

“So…existential crisis?”

“No. I’m just in a shit mood.” I grab the bowl of pasta, not even excited by my favorite food. “You know what? I’m going to take this into my room and keep my bad company to myself.”

Erik pulls up his phone and rubs his chin. “Hm.”

“Hm, what?”

“Charlie, what day is it?”

I check my watch and…well, goddammit. The tension I’ve been carrying around like an ill-fitting backpack bleeds out and is replaced by a nearly overwhelming sadness.

Erik must see something in my expression because he walks right up to me and wraps me in a big hug. Neither of us is the super demonstrative type, so I must really need it.

“Thanks, Bash,” I say, calling him by his last name to diffuse some of the emotion as I wipe a few stray tears from my cheeks. “I’d completely forgotten. Been feeling like shit all week.”

“Hey, the anniversary of the day you almost killed yourself is pretty big. By the way, I’m glad you suck at it,” Erik says, his eyes sincere.

“Me too. Because I meant it,” I say, immediately wishing I could take it back.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re allowed a painful truth, Charlie.”

I shrug and try to explain. “Some people who’ve survived their suicide attempt talk about feeling regret in the final moments, but all I felt was peace. I wanted the oblivion so badly. Like, I’m not allowed to say this…but I sometimes wonder if it would comfort the grieving to know how much relief I felt when I thought I was going to die.”

“Yeah…probably not. Definitely keep that one to yourself.”

I chuckle. “I’d never say anything like that to my parents.”

Which reminds me…I look at my phone, puzzled. “Speaking of which, I wonder why they haven’t called me today?”

“Didn’t you ask them to stop making a big deal of this day?”

Er…huh. “True.”

I unlock my phone and start typing.

Charlie: I’m glad I’m here today. Thank you.

Mom: Me too. <heart emoji>

Dad: A cartoonist was found dead in his home.

Goddammit, I grin to myself before typing out a response.

Charlie: Dad. I beg of you.

Mom: Charles, stop it.

Dad: The details were sketchy.

Charlie: …

Charlie: …

Charlie: I deserved that.

Dad: I’m glad you’re here too, son. I’m so fucking proud of you.

Oh man. These two. They live in a retirement village in San Antonio now, and I’m not supposed to know they’re hosting wine keggers at their house every weekend or that my father and mother are more fully exploring their sexualities with other well-heeled retirees.

I just quietly adjusted which pictures would display on their Apple TV and didn’t say anything about it.

Huh. That’s where I’d seen the Bash’s Tasting Room before.

Eh. My therapist and I were running out of shit to talk about anyway.

“I love that your dad loves dad jokes,” Erik says, looking over my shoulder. “And I’m glad you’ve decided not to tell them what a relief your suicide would have been.”

I grimace. “You shoulda seen the fit I pitched when I woke up in the hospital. Fuck, it was so embarrassing. Trip was there with his parents.”

“Oh yes. Your big unrequited love.”

“Shut up,” I grumble under my breath.

“Whatever. You adore Sam.”

I gesture my hands upward, a surrender of sorts. “Of course I do. Sam’s amazing, and they’re so perfect together that I can’t even be mad about it. Which straight up pisses me off.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “Fuck, this day…I feel it under my skin. So much has changed, but so much is still unsettled. I don’t even know what I’m doing here, not really. I can’t believe I ordered all those damn horses from Trip, then paid all that extra cash to have Sparrow train them.”

“Hey now. As soon as we get everything in place, it’ll all make sense,” Erik reminds me. Again. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Charlie.”

I take a deep breath, knowing he’s telling the truth.

Erik starts pinching his lower lip, looking at me funny.

“What?”

“I know you’ve got shit under control, but…when was the last time you went to a support meeting? In person?”

His question brings me up short. After years of recovery, it’s easy to get complacent. I’ve tried not to fall into that trap, but I haven’t yet found a local queer support group. I had one in the Bronx, and knowing I had resources did make a difference.

“You know, it’s been a minute.”

Erik pulls out his phone, tapping the screen. “There’s a group in Johnson City. Meeting’s in about twenty minutes. Maybe you should go,” he says, holding up his phone.

“Raincheck on the baking show?”

He nods, and I shovel a few forkfuls of pasta before making my way to my truck.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up to a little cluster of offices down the way from the Broken Oak. While technically a queer group, most people who need queer support are also sober or hoping to be. Is putting this crowd three doors down from a bar a little poetic and horrifying? Sure.

But at least it’s not in the basement of some horrible church, I mutter as I roll through the parking lot.

Oy. I hate this fucking prickly, negative attitude I’ve had ever since moving back here. Even with the shit Erik and I have to confront with these rescue operations, I’m usually happier than this.

As much as I want to blame it on this town—and a certain person—I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m the problem. Guess I should be grateful that Erik found this group for me.

The parking lot is a little crowded, likely spillover from the Broken Oak up the way, but I’m able to find a space under a sprawling oak, right next to another truck that looks almost identical to mine.

The sun is setting fast as I make my way to the office strip. I walk past the closed businesses—including the Jennings’ store—to the door with the rainbow flag. I let myself in quietly because the group’s already started.

The gal at the front is reciting a familiar queer prayer. I dip my head as she reads it, feeling more peaceful. When she’s finished, she asks if anyone has anything to talk about.

While a cute, androgynous person walks up to the podium, I spy the refreshment counter, and my stomach growls. Probably should’ve had something more than a few hastily consumed bites of buttered noodles. Tossing a fiver in the coffee tin, I shove a cookie in my mouth, grab an apple and a water, then turn to find a seat in the back.

I’m still arranging my loot when the speaker steps aside, and the woman chairing the meeting returns to the dais and asks if anyone else would like to come up before discussing the night’s topic.

I start devouring the cookie when a familiar voice fills the space.

“Hello, my name is Justin, and today I want to acknowledge two anniversaries. One, I’ve been sober for exactly one year.”

My head snaps up, the cookie still hanging out of my mouth.

Justin Fucking Jennings.

Just standing there, all tall and forlorn with that messy nest of hair making him look especially vulnerable.

“And that’s because it’s also the one-year anniversary of surviving my suicide attempt,” he says, pushing aside his hair to reveal a scar. “Thankfully, I never could shoot straight.”

What. The. Fuck?

Nope, nope, nope.

I get up and nearly drop the water bottle and apple.

“I’ll be honest,” he continues, finally looking up to view the participants. “It’s hard to think of myself as—”

He stops. His strangled inhale sounds like a rusty screen door, his eyes wide as he takes me in.

Fuck.

I put the apple and bottle of water back on the tray and toss the cookie in the trash before turning toward the exit, deciding to look for an online group. Hell, I bet my old group won’t mind me attending remotely.

“Charlie?” Justin’s voice crackles over the microphone with pain and regret.

The room fills with the rustling sound of every attendee turning to look back at me. I freeze in place, feeling like I’ve been caught doing something bad.

Look. I know Justin regrets what happened between us in school. Anyone can see that. I also know I intimidate him, though I hope he knows I’d never intentionally cause him harm.

Still, I cannot carry his guilt for him.

“No,” is all I manage before letting the door swing shut behind me.

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