Page 29 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

COLORS OF FREEDOM

~RED~

" I 've got sunshine on a cloudy day..."

My voice echoes off the bathroom tiles, probably off-key, but who's here to judge? The bubbles come up to my chin, smelling like vanilla and something floral I can't identify—fancy shit that probably costs more than I made in a week at the casino.

"When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May..."

Duke looks up from where he's destroying what was once a stuffed rabbit, his ears perked at my singing.

The toy squeaks pathetically as he shakes it, and I can't help but laugh at his enthusiasm.

He's claimed the bathroom rug as his territory, apparently deciding that wherever I am is where he needs to be.

"Well, I guess you'd say, what can make me feel this way..."

The nail polish bottles are lined up on the tub's edge like soldiers awaiting inspection. Twelve different shades of red, because apparently when Corwin said "pick up some nail polish for Red," Talon interpreted that as "buy every red in the store."

I've been staring at them for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of freedom to choose something as simple as nail polish, and I'm paralyzed by the options.

At the Crimson Roulette, we didn't get choices.

Marnay had a staff of beta women who did our hair, makeup, nails—everything designed to his specifications.

Blood red for the fingernails, always. Clear or nude for the toes unless specifically requested otherwise by high-paying clients.

I'd sit there like a doll being painted, not even allowed to pick the fucking color of my own toenails.

Now I have twelve choices, and I don't know what to do with them.

There's "Crimson Tide"—too close to the casino's signature color, makes my stomach turn.

"Cherry Bomb"—Briar's nickname for me, and thinking about her still locked in that velvet prison makes my chest ache.

"Scarlet Letter"—a bit too on the nose for a former sex worker, thanks.

"Ruby Slippers"—cute, but I'm not trying to click my heels and go home. Where would I even go?

"Blood Orange"—more orange than red, doesn't feel right.

"Candy Apple"—too sweet, too innocent for someone who's been where I've been.

"Wine Not?"—the pun alone makes me consider it.

"Venetian Sunset"—pretty but pretentious.

"Stop Sign"—bold, decisive, might work.

"Matte About You"—matte finish, sophisticated.

"Glitter Bomb"—because who doesn't want sparkly toes?

"Classic Red"—safe, boring, everything I don't want to be anymore.

I pick up two bottles, holding them to the light filtering through the frosted window. Both red, but different. One's got micro-glitter that catches the light like tiny diamonds. The other's matte, sophisticated, the kind of red that means business.

"My girl, my girl, my girl...talking 'bout my girl..."

Duke apparently takes my singing as an invitation and brings his mangled rabbit over, dropping it next to the tub with a proud wag. It's soggy, missing an ear, and definitely seen better days.

"Good boy," I coo, reaching out with a bubble-covered hand to pet him. "You killed it real good, didn't you? Protected me from the vicious stuffed animal."

He huffs in agreement, then returns to his rug to continue the carnage.

The bath water is still hot, steam rising in lazy spirals that fog the mirror.

My body feels like it's melting, muscles I didn't know were tense finally releasing.

Three years of constantly being on guard, of never knowing when someone might decide the rules didn't apply to them, of sleeping with one eye open—it's all slowly dissolving in this vanilla-scented water.

I lift one leg out of the bubbles, pointing my toes like a ballerina. The movement makes water cascade down my calf, and I try to imagine what the sparkly red would look like. Flashy, attention-grabbing, the kind of thing that says 'look at me.'

Haven't I been looked at enough?

But then again, this would be different. This would be my choice, my decoration, my decision to sparkle or not to sparkle.

The matte option is classier, understated. The kind of thing a real lady would wear, not a casino attraction. But am I trying to be a lady? After everything I've done, seen, survived?

"Fuck it," I mutter, then immediately feel guilty. "Sorry, Duke. Forgot you're a baby and I shouldn't curse in front of you."

Duke doesn't seem concerned about my language, too busy with his rabbit genocide.

I smell him before I see him—that signature scent of leather and gunpowder, cherries and bourbon that makes my body respond in ways that are definitely not appropriate for bath time. Or maybe exactly appropriate, depending on your perspective.

Shiloh appears in my peripheral vision, moving with that silent grace that probably served him well in whatever military stuff he did. He doesn't announce himself, doesn't knock, just exists suddenly in my space like he belongs there.

I turn my head just slightly, and there he is, looking over my shoulder at the nail polish collection with the kind of confusion usually reserved for advanced calculus.

"It's the same red," he mutters, and I can hear the genuine bewilderment in his voice.

I groan, rolling my eyes hard enough that it might be audible.

Men.

"They are not the same red." I pick up two bottles, holding them up for his inspection. "This one is 'Scarlet Letter'—see how it has blue undertones? Makes it cooler, more sophisticated. And this one is 'Cherry Bomb'—warmer, with orange undertones that make it pop."

He squints at them like they might reveal their secrets if he stares hard enough.

"They're both red."

"Oh my god." I grab two more bottles, determined to educate this heathen. "Okay, look. This shade of red?" I hold up a deep, dark crimson. "This is like the fake vampire blood they use in movies. All dramatic and oozing and slightly purple because it photographs better."

I switch to a brighter, more orange-toned red. "This red is what actually comes out of a body. More orange, more alive, because real blood has iron and oxygen and?—"

"Oh." His eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning. "You're right."

"Wow." The sarcasm drips from my voice like honey. "Alert the media. Man admits woman is right about something."

"Hey," he protests, but there's amusement in it. "It's not that easy to differentiate, you know. They all just look... red."

"They all just look red," I mimic in a deep voice that sounds nothing like him. "Next you'll tell me all wine tastes the same."

"Well—"

"Shiloh Whoever-The-Fuck-You-Are, if you tell me all wine tastes the same, I'm drowning you in this bathtub."

He laughs, the sound rich and warm, transforming his whole face.

When he's not being all broody and military, he's actually...beautiful. Handsome is too simple a word. Beautiful in a rough way, like a landscape that's been carved by wind and weather into something stunning.

"Wine has... variety," he concedes.

"So does nail polish."

"But you can drink wine. Nail polish just sits there."

"Looking pretty. Which is more than you can say for wine after you drink it."

"You can't get drunk on nail polish."

"You clearly haven't met the right nail polish."

We're both grinning now, the bickering comfortable in a way that surprises me. When was the last time I just... talked to someone? Not performed, not calculated every word for maximum tip potential, but just talked?

Duke apparently decides we're boring because he picks up his rabbit corpse and trots out of the bathroom, probably to find somewhere more interesting to continue his destruction.

"Sorry," I say, suddenly aware that I'm monopolizing not just the bathroom but also his dog.

"For what?"

"Being an inconvenience." The words come out smaller than intended. "You've had to carry me twice now because my stupid legs stopped working. And now I'm stealing your dog and your bathroom and probably your hot water?—"

"Red."

The way he says my name stops me mid-ramble. Not sharp, not angry, just... firm. Grounding.

"You're not an inconvenience."

"I literally couldn't walk."

"So? You weigh nothing. I've carried heavier grocery bags."

"Did you just compare me to groceries?"

"Premium groceries. The fancy kind from that organic place Corwin likes."

I laugh despite myself, sinking lower in the bubbles until they tickle my chin.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him thinking, processing something. His eyes do this thing where they go from forest green to darker, like evening creeping through trees.

"Do you have circulation problems?"

The question catches me off guard.

"Maybe? I think it might be genetic, actually. My mom had something similar, but she never really got it checked out because..." I trail off.

Because we were poor.

Because Dad drank away the money.

Because she was too busy dying to worry about her legs going numb.

"When my legs get too cold or too hot, they basically freeze up," I continue, focusing on the easier part. "Same thing if I stay still for too long. It's like they forget they're supposed to work."

"Have you gotten it checked?"

I laugh, but it's bitter. "By who? The hack doctor Marnay kept on staff who was more interested in making sure we could work than actually healthy? Or maybe I should have used my generous salary to see a specialist?"

He frowns, and I can see he's bothered by something.

"Well," I shrug, trying to lighten the mood. "I guess now that I'm out of the Crimson Roulette, I could use some of my earnings to see a proper omega doctor. You know, one who actually went to medical school instead of getting their degree from a cereal box."

I look at him, suddenly realizing I should probably ask permission.

Old habits and all that.

"Is that okay with you?"

His eyebrow arches in confusion.

"Is what okay?"

"Me seeing a doctor. Using my money for medical stuff." I fidget with the bubbles, not meeting his eyes. "I mean, you guys own me now, so I should probably ask permission before?—"

"No."