Page 4

Hadley

A small vibration thrums on my nightstand. And as much as it’s an asshole move, I slowly flip over my phone to read the awaiting text. I shouldn’t have looked.

Hawk’s eyes bulge wide when he sees what’s in my hand, and he moves up quickly to a kneeling position. “You’re hurting my ego a bit here, Hadley, if you’re texting someone right now,” he says, even-tempered, rubbing his hand across his bare shoulder.

I close one eye and try to ease being caught out. Giving him a flirty smile, I tell him the truth. “I’m stressed out about the weekend. It isn’t you.”

He tries to play hurt or annoyed, but a small smile quirks his lips. “This type of thing is supposed to be fun. Ease your stress, not add to it.”

He’s right. So what am I doing? I sit up, dropping my phone on the bed, pulling my legs away from him, knees toward my chest. “My mind got away from me, and then I didn’t want to fake it.”

Standing from the bed, his charming expression peeks out just as he pulls his navy-blue T-shirt back on.

When it covers his broad chest, Fiasco in bold white letters reminds me of where we are, and then the letters FD just below it.

This started as easy and fun. I never planned for much beyond that.

I didn’t want more. Still don’t. It’s one of the more mature things that happened in my thirties—recognizing sex for what it is and what it isn’t.

“Do I need to call for some backup?” he asks, caging his arms around me.

I scrunch my nose. “I don’t think that’s it, handsome.”

Having a threesome with the fire chief and the new recruit was initially a joke.

I said it out loud, and like some kind of sexual manifestation, it happened.

In no way, shape, or form am I complaining.

Sex is never anything more than fun for me—a natural need.

An exchange between two people, and in that case, three.

It’s the best kind of distraction. But like most of the things that’ve been good in my life, it’s run its course.

This time, probably for longer than it should have.

I flirt with a lot of people, and I’ve known Nicholas Hawkins for years.

He’s older, which is like catnip for me.

And he’s a bit of a hero, running into fire-filled buildings and rescuing people.

Fiasco gossips had a field day over the young fire chief when he’d been officially appointed to his role just under a decade ago.

Hawk’s brother kept being re-elected as governor, which meant he was usually invited to events and parties that my father threw over the years.

One hot afternoon, he got fed up with me pushing the bell on my roof deck that connected to the fire station, and I suggested that we fuck around and find out.

The way that stunned him felt good. I needed to shift my attention to something attainable. And then, by some miracle from the goddesses, he and another intensely attractive fireman were taking turns making me orgasm after a fire alarm malfunctioned at Midnight Proof.

And I got greedy. And a little selfish. The chaos of the past year had me barely sleeping, even with the late-night hours from Midnight Proof. Calling Hawk has been an easy distraction.

My phone buzzes again, and I glance at the name on the screen and the curt message below it. One of the reasons why a distraction was necessary.

DADDY FOXX

The best man's speech is mine.

Hawk laces up his boot and says, “How about we pick this up later tonight?”

I focus on typing back my message and mumble, “Okay.”

HADLEY

I’m the best friend. It’s mine.

DADDY FOXX

I’m not doing this with you.

HADLEY

You’re going to have to be more specific. “THIS” can mean a lot of things.

DADDY FOXX

Stop it.

HADLEY

Make me.

If anyone were to ask me, I don’t believe in the stupidity of love at first sight.

That’s a patriarchal practice that allows women to accept that attraction can be mistaken for love.

Love should take time. Learning and longing.

Maybe even a pinch of sacrifice and discovery.

Or maybe my jaded perspective only exists because of my lack of experience on the subject matter.

Lust and like are L-words I understand. Fucking and fantasy are F-words that deliver.

I believe in fantasy at first glance and lust at first sight.

And both of those, for me, come in the form of my best friend’s brother.

The six-foot-something pissed-off bourbon boy.

His pretentious suits and rugged boots. His intensely dark brown hair laced with gray and silver that seeps into his sideburns and along each temple.

A strong brow and gray-blue eyes that never look wistful or light, only stoic and layered with too much responsibility, strategy, and perhaps a bit of danger.

Broad shoulders, an arrogant nature, and all the vibes of a man who does whatever the fuck he wants.

Atticus Foxx, the ultimate fantasy. And because some days I think that karma must really have it out for me, he just keeps getting better with age.

In the background of texting said fantasy, Hawk cuts in, “You know what? I forgot I’m on an overnight shift tonight.”

I bite at my thumb and smile at the reality in front of me. “How convenient. That’s just across the street.”

It was annoying at first, the fire station directly across from my townhouse.

This old three-level building that has been home for a while now.

At first, the station bell and the engines were a bit of a nightmare, considering I worked late hours.

But when I discovered the bell that connected my roof deck to the fire station, it became a perk.

He clears his throat and kneels back onto the bed, moving closer. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but...I’m good enough for some night games, but not to go with you to the wedding?”

Oomph. I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Night games are more fun than a wedding.”

Nodding, he shoots me a look of understanding, but I can sense some hurt there.

I let out a breath and overthink why I wouldn’t just bring him to my best friend’s wedding. It’s easy to picture him in a tux, but a part of me doesn’t want to make this more than what it was meant to be. “Can we just keep things where they are right now?” Biting my lip, I look around the room.

“And what happens when I want more?” he asks as he buckles his belt.

“Then we call it.” There’s no sense in beating around the bush. Maybe it’s time to call it. That isn’t the kind of question I expected from someone wanting simply to fuck around.

He crooks his finger for me to come closer, and I scoot myself toward the end of the bed.

As I look at him, he tilts my chin up. He has a crooked smile and a little scar cutting through where his lip bows; it’s something I’ve always found attractive.

Mysterious and a charming imperfection. “You’re too much fun to say no to. ..”

“Then don’t.” I smile, but then I force myself to add, “But Hawk, if this is more for you, then we should stop. No sad feelings or bad blood, just a high five and some good memories, yeah?”

He gives me a tight smile and checks his phone.

He’s one of the good guys—even-tempered and never pushy.

He’s easy to be around. Maybe that’s the appeal, especially lately.

He leans into having fun despite being in charge of a full station of guys and is responsible for multiple towns across Montgomery County.

And even though he’s folded into similar circles that I had been born into, he never kisses my father’s ass or looks for handouts from his brother. That’s his brother’s play, not his.

My phone buzzes in my hand again, only this time, it keeps buzzing. There aren't more texts from my best friend’s older brother. Instead, a new UNKNOWN number displays across my screen. My throat dries and my heart rate kicks up enough that I feel slightly lightheaded. The anxiety is instant.

I rub along my wrist and pinch my eyes closed for a second.

I’ve been blocking new numbers regularly.

It started with media outlets wanting statements about my father’s arrest. It’s since graduated to people looking for what my father owes.

Angry people who, in some way, have been slighted or mistreated and feel it’s okay to come after me in the most passive-aggressive way possible—social media, emails, and then texts.

Avoiding it is annoying, but rather simple.

No more online social platforms, email could be easily changed, and my phone number too.

Until it’s somehow found again. And the messages are becoming more specific.

I breathe in through my nose, purse my lips, and push the air back out. Doing that again, I slowly count to ten.

The name Wheeler Finch is no longer associated with triple-crown winners, unmatched training, and wealth.

Instead, it’s tied to headlines that read: Kentucky Horse Murderer , The Largest Con in Horse Racing History , and my favorite, The Devil of The Derby .

He made millions of dollars for himself and his partners by fixing races, threatening and blackmailing trainers and jockeys, drugging horses with performance enhancers and snake venom.

I couldn’t even wrap my head around some of those when I’d heard them.

Then, as the sweetest cherry on top, the whole disaster of Finch I know he did it all.

And I hate him for it. I can’t understand the fact that he’s on house arrest pending trial.

His waiting feels too much like a luxury—police guarding entrances on an expansive estate with an ankle monitor and constant approval for outside communication.

His assets, however, are under my control.