Page 19 of Just One Look

Maverick

Thornburn is a small town, about a twenty-minute drive from the sanctuary. We found the street, found the last house on the street, and found the back paddock. The only thing still missing is the horse.

We expanded our search and have been driving in concentrated silence for over an hour, and still no sign of the creature.

“Try calling the number again,”

I suggest, swinging back onto Maple Drive for yet another drive-by.

“Fine.”

Jackson sighs.

“But if she hasn’t picked up the first four times, I doubt she will now.”

He’s probably right, but at least it feels like we’re doing something. Truth be told, I’m grateful Jackson tagged along. I was so worked up from our argument I hadn’t given any thought as to how I would capture a wild horse and haul its ass into the center’s pickup truck all by myself.

The phone rings out again. He shoots me an I told you so look before turning and squinting out the window. It’s getting dark, so it’s only going to get even harder to find this damn horse.

I drive slowly, keeping a lookout with one eye, my mind still reeling from the explosive fight. I’ve witnessed Jackson losing his shit on several occasions, but I’ve never seen him as enraged as he was before.

I get it. It’s his home. It means a lot to him.

But his reaction was way worse than any worst-case scenario I could have braced for. I’m actually a little surprised he got angry at all. Part of me had hoped he’d be happy, appreciative even, that I was giving him the option of picking out his new home. Wouldn’t most people think that’s actually a nice thing to do? Then again, since when has Jackson ever been most people?

“Try that street again,”

he says, narrowing his eyes at a dirt road up ahead.

We’ve been down it several times already, but it’s as good a shot as any, so I make the turn.

I’m stuck on something else he said. The to-do list.

I honestly thought that was his way of showing me we could put whatever silly games we’d been playing behind us and that he was going to lend me some much-needed support. But instead, I find out it was nothing more than a tactic to overwhelm me, in the hopes of what? Giving up? Relegating the sanctuary into the too-hard pile and abandoning it like every other previous owner has?

I don’t know what I have to do to get it through that thick head of his, but I. Am Not. Leaving.

I’m mad at him about that.

I’m really mad at him about that. But my anger is joined by another emotion—sadness.

Sadness for Jackson and his family for losing their land and the sanctuary.

I have nothing else to go on apart from what Candice told me. She called it the worst deal in history. Did Clancy get swindled somehow? Was there something underhanded at play? Were the Duporths involved?

So many questions are swirling in my head, and as always with Jackson, nothing is ever simple or clear-cut. Once we find this horse, take it back to the sanctuary, and make sure it’s okay, he and I need to sit down and have a proper, coolheaded, adult conversation once and for all.

“Something’s not adding up,”

Jackson mutters as I pull up to the last house on the street yet again. It’s a cozy cottage, sitting on I’d guess at least twenty acres, totally isolated with no other houses in sight.

“What do you mean?”

I kill the engine, looking around for any signs of the animal.

He waves the cell phone.

“Why isn’t she answering? Where is she? Who is she to see a horse all the way out here and then call us when there’s a rescue center in Thornburn? Why would she mention she has everything we need to secure him? And why is the front door open?”

I swing my eyes to Jackson. “Huh?”

He tips his head toward the house. He’s right, the front door has been left wide open.

“We should probably check it out,”

I say, unbuckling my seat belt.

“That would be a hard no.”

He reaches over and clasps his hand over mine. A bolt of electricity ignites my skin at the contact, but I pull my hand away sharply. I’m supposed to still be mad at him. I am still mad at him…I think.

“I’ve listened to way too many true crime podcasts. Never go into the weird house at the end of the street. It doesn’t end well.”

“So have I,”

I say, getting out of the car.

“But I’m sure the world can survive with one less rich asshole, right?”

I shove the door with more force than necessary and start pacing toward the house.

Jackson jogs to catch up to me.

“It’s not funny when you’re being richist.”

I stop walking and let a long, exhausted breath fall out of me, wishing it’d take some of the stress of today with it.

“I thought you hated me.”

His brows deepen into a V.

“I don’t…hate-you hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Come on. If I’m going to get killed, I’d like to have a witness.”

“Bullshit,”

he says as we walk in step.

“You’re hoping for a double murder.”

Keeping up with Jackson’s moods is near impossible. Over the past few weeks, he’s gone from avoiding me completely to being overly nice to me, making coffee, leaving notes, scheduling meetings with suggestions to improve the place which I know now were nothing more than some perverse ruse designed to stress me out to the point where I pack it in, to rage quitting not less than two hours ago, to joking around with me right now like we’re pals.

It’s enough to give a guy whiplash.

Not to mention, he hasn’t said a word about his family once owning the rescue center. Not that he owes me an explanation, but why hasn’t he brought it up?

Maybe Ollie is right. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. If it’s this hard now, how would it get any easier if we were in a relationship? Maybe I should just let Jackson quit and find another head handler. Someone who doesn’t annoy the living shit out of me and monopolize my thoughts the way he does. Someone I can establish a productive, respectful working relationship with.

But then Sibella’s words pop into my head, reminding me that Jackson isn’t easy, but that he’s worth it.

And I’m torn all over again.

Did something—or someone—hurt him so bad that he uses rage as a defense mechanism to protect himself?

He could very well be worth it, but I may need to come to terms with the fact that whatever spark we have doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to convert into something more. Sometimes a spark is just a thing that starts a fire and razes a house to the ground.

We reach the front door.

“Hello,”

I holler into the opening.

I glance over my shoulder at Jackson, standing a few feet away. He shrugs.

I call out a few more times.

Not a peep.

“I’m going in.”

He lets out an annoyed sigh.

“That means I have to go in, too.”

“No, no. You can stay out here…like a wimp.”

“Fuck you.”

I smirk and push open the weathered door and cautiously enter the cottage. My eyes are immediately drawn to the lit candles on the dining table.

“Hello?”

I say pointlessly since it’s clear there’s no one here.

“What the fuck?”

Jackson plucks a note from the dining table, brings it right up to his face, and reads it.

“You two need to sort your shit out. While you’re reading this note, your car is being taken away?—”

“What the fuck?”

I race outside.

Sure enough, some bastard with a black hoodie and face mask is pulling away in the sanctuary’s pickup truck, tires screeching against the gravel, pebbles flying in every direction.

“This is unbelievable. Read the rest of this.”

Jackson hands me the note.

I continue reading, whispering under my breath.

“While you’re reading this note, your car is being taken away. There’s enough food to last the weekend. See you Sunday around midday! PS: There’s no cell reception, and snipers have been placed around the perimeter should you decide to escape.”

“Pretty sure that last part is a joke,”

Jackson says.

“Why do you think that?”

“Look who signed the note.”

“Hugs and kisses, Clancy, Wag-Wag, and Sammy.”

I slap the note against my palm in frustration.

“Motherfuckers.”

“We could walk?”

Jackson suggests.

I shake my head.

“It’s getting late. There’s nothing around for miles. And look up.”

Jackson groans when he sees the dark clouds overhead.

“What are we going to do, then?”

“Go inside and pray they’ve supplied us with enough good food to survive this ordeal.”

“Ugh.”

He sags and walks back into the house with me.

“I hate that that’s our best option.”

“It’s not going to work,”

I yell out through the open kitchen window, glancing at the ever-darkening sky.

Jackson is spinning in circles in the yard, his phone raised high above his head.

“Unless you have something positive to say, zip it.”

“Okay. I’m positive it’s not going to work.”

He grunts but doesn’t give me the finger, so I take that as a good sign. He’s already done two laps of the house, stumbling around in an attempt to get a signal with no luck. He really is one stubborn fucker.

Or he really doesn’t want to spend the weekend with me. Yeah. It’s probably that.

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about our predicament either.

Part of me is already scheming up ways to get back at Wagner since my initial suspicion is that this was his idea.

Then again, I shouldn’t be fooled by Clancy’s charm. Lurking underneath those boyish features of his could be an evil, crazed mastermind because only someone seriously deranged could ever think trapping Jackson and me together like this was a good idea.

The only truly innocent party here is Sammy. As soon as we get released, I’m going to work on convincing Wagner to get him a cell phone. I’m sure the little dude would have warned his favorite uncle about an attempted hostage situation if he had the means.

There is another way of looking at this predicament, though, and that other part of me secretly welcomes the chance to spend some uninterrupted time with Jackson. Just under forty-eight uninterrupted hours, to be exact.

We’re either going to finally hash our shit out, or this sweet little cottage at the end of the street is going to be the scene of a double homicide. Too early to say which way it’ll go.

My head wants to have a conversation with Jackson and get everything out in the open so that we can stop playing these silly games, deal with what needs to be dealt with, and move the fuck on.

My heart is hoping that I can convince him to lower his walls and be willing to see if maybe this crazy thing between us could lead somewhere.

And my dick?

My dick wants to teach him a lesson in fucking manners, put that dirty mouth of his to good use, and spank his ass so hard he’ll be admiring my handprint days later.

He barges in through the back door.

“No luck?”

I ask with a grin.

He bear-growls at me, then starts manically opening and closing every single cabinet door in the kitchen, getting his face in nice and close, like he’s searching for a needle.

“Goddamn it,”

he snarls, slamming the final door with full force.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for booze. If we’re going to survive a weekend together, we’re going to need lots of it. I’m officially adding it to the list of things to be mad at Clancy about. Why oh why would they leave us stranded together without alcohol?”

I swing around to face him. I was hoping this wouldn’t come up until later, but a big part of recovery is radical honesty and owning your shit.

“That’d be because of me.”

“You?”

“Yeah. I’m in recovery.”

“Oh. I had no idea.”

“My fault for not opening all staff emails with that.”

“Forget it. We don’t need alcohol.”

He smiles awkwardly.

“We’ve got plenty of food, right?”

I nod.

“Yep. Fridge and pantry are stacked. I have a hunch Sammy helped with the shopping, though.”

Jackson frowns, so I open the pantry door.

“Welcome to diabetes central.”

He squints as he takes in the shelves filled with every type of junk food imaginable, from Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to Sour Patch Kids, Oreos, three different flavors of Doritos, Pop-Tarts, and every variety of candy bar known to man. He makes a quiet humming sound as he snags a packet of Jalape?o & Cheddar Doritos, opens the bag, and plops one into his mouth.

“Sammy is officially my favorite Benson,”

he says, crunching loudly.

“Mine, too.”

I grab as much junk food as I can take in my arms and head into the living room.

“Come on. We need to talk.”

I dump my haul onto the coffee table and settle on the armchair. So of course, he has to perch himself on the end of the sofa, physically as far away from me as he can possibly get. I can’t help but sigh, all our bench progress washed away.

“Let’s start with our fight,” I say.

He drops the bag of chips into his lap and sinks back into the couch.

“I guess I owe you an apology.”

“You guess?”

His head snaps, green eyes landing on me.

“Don’t be a dick. I’m trying to be nice. You have this unique talent of being able to infuriate me like no one else.”

“That your idea of being nice?”

He closes his eyes and rubs his temple a few times. His eyes flutter open, and with genuine sincerity, he says.

“I’m sorry for how I reacted to the news about my home getting destroyed. I was shocked and upset, and I took it out on you. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology.”

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re just going to accept my apology without making me suffer?”

“Correct.”

Well, partly correct. I pick up the M&Ms, rip open the packet, and pop a handful into my mouth.

“What was the game plan with the to-do list?”

He winces like I struck a nerve.

Good. I have no intention of letting him off that lightly. I’m a pretty forgiving guy and can overlook a lot of things, but that one stung.

“I guess I wanted to freak you out. Overwhelm you with everything that needs to be done in the hopes…”

“I’d fuck off?”

His head bobs up and down, left and right, like it can’t make up its mind whether to indicate yes or no. He settles on, “Maybe.”

“Do you still want me to go?”

He averts his gaze. “Maybe.”

“Do you still want to quit?”

“Maybe.”

I heave a long, weary breath. It’s like trying to get blood from a turnip. I need to switch tactics. So I stand and extend my hand toward him.

His eyes flick up to meet mine.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling a truce. Whether we like it or not, we’re stuck here together for the weekend. We’re not going to miraculously resolve all of our problems with conversation, but we do have a choice. We can make the most of this predicament, or we can be completely miserable. I know which option I prefer.”

His eyes bounce between my hand and my face as he weighs up his response, taking more time than is necessary—I mean, really—before eventually getting up and cautiously sliding his calloused hand into my palm.

“Okay. Truce.”

Just as I’m about to let go of his hand, he adds.

“And for what it’s worth, I am genuinely sorry for how I acted before.”

Maybe I’m an idiot.

Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.

Maybe I still haven’t learned my lesson after getting burned by my ex and former friends.

Whatever the reason, as I hold his calloused hand firmly in my grip and lose myself in those dark-green eyes, I believe him.